The Amish Midwife (20 page)

“We close in five minutes,” the barista called out to me. I was the only customer in the shop.

I ignored him and clicked into my account. A second later a posting box was in front of me. I’d skimmed my previous posting with my birth date and location. Now I wrote: “Birth mother’s name is Giselle Lantz.” I hesitated. Should I add that Giselle was Amish?

“We’re closing,” the barista said, standing at the counter with a bar towel in his hand.

I added,
Birth mother’s family is Amish and from Lancaster County, PA
, hit “publish,” backtracked to the Google home page, and then typed in
whitepages.com
. I quickly typed in
Lantz, Giselle, PA
. There was one match, located in the town of Emmaus. No address was listed, but I jotted down the phone number.

“We’re officially closed.”

“Thanks.” I slipped my computer into my case and grabbed my tea.

Downtown Lancaster wasn’t exactly hopping on a Friday night, and I found a parking place without any trouble. Sean met me at my car and gallantly opened the door for me. He must have showered at the hospital because his short hair was still damp and he smelled of cologne. He wore a blue dress shirt that complemented his eyes, a tailored jacket, nice jeans, and leather shoes. I slung my Coach bag over my shoulder, and as I stepped from the car, he placed his hand on my elbow and kept it there as we walked. I liked that.

Over spring rolls, red curry, pad Thai, and hot tea, I told him about my day. He listened attentively, nodding in sympathy. I ended by saying I had no idea what I should do, if I should flee to Philadelphia or go back home.

“I hope you don’t go back to Oregon. Not when we’re just getting to know each other.”

“You probably say that to all the midwives who stumble into your hospital.”

“Probably.” His eyes danced playfully.

He asked me about Marta, and I said as far as I knew the autopsy report hadn’t come back yet, and that it seemed to be what was holding up the grand jury.

His eyes brightened even more. “Ooh, an autopsy.”

I understood his interest. It would sound absolutely morbid to the average person, but just as James obsessed about the motivations of the mind and psyche, we medical people couldn’t get enough about why a body would do what it did.

“Have you ever seen an autopsy?” Sean leaned back in his chair, his blue eyes sparkling.

I shook my head.

“They’re fascinating. I remember the first one I ever saw, back in med school.” He went on to say that the corpse was a twenty-eight-year-old male whom his buddies had found dead after a weekend of partying. “So it was assumed he’d overdosed.”

The autopsy itself had taken more than four hours, and preparing all of the samples took another few days, but the toxicology testing of the blood and urine didn’t come back for weeks.

“That’s probably what’s holding things up now,” Sean said. He took a drink of tea and then went back to his story. “Because the coroner suspected an overdose, he took specimens of the liver and brain too.” He paused. “I wonder if they would do that with an Amish mother.”

I had no idea, unless they thought Marta had given her some sort of drug, illegally.

“The really cool thing was when he opened up the body. He made this big Y-shaped incision.”

I was beginning to wonder if Sean should have been a surgeon.

“And then pulled all the organs out.”

I smiled.

“It was obvious as soon as he was opened up that he’d had a massive bleed. It was his heart. A ruptured aorta.”

“What did the toxicology show?” I asked.

“Nothing. He’d had a few beers. That was it.”

I shivered. “What happened next?”

“The coroner put everything back in. The family had an open casket. No one could tell the difference. But at least they had their answer.”

Obviously Lydia hadn’t had a ruptured aorta or the investigation would be complete. I hadn’t thought of her funeral. Would they have had an open casket? I thought of Melanie and Matty and their sister, Christy. Would the children have gone to the funeral? I thought of Will telling his wife goodbye.

“What do you know about the case?” Sean asked.

“Not much. Sounds as though Lydia had high blood pressure. And at some time during labor Marta said they should go to the hospital, but Lydia refused. I know Marta called 911, but it was too late.”

“Did she do CPR?”

“I’m assuming so.” I couldn’t explain to Sean how hard it was to talk to Marta.

“And how about the baby?”

“It sounds as if it asphyxiated. They did a C-section at the hospital…” I looked into his eyes.

“I was off that night.”

I nodded. I assumed he was. “But the baby was already dead.”

He leaned back in his chair. “What a nightmare. It’s these rare cases that really make me balk at home births.” He smiled. “No offense.”

“None taken,” I said. I had malpractice insurance, but the risk of losing a baby weighed heavily on me no matter what. It did in a hospital setting too. I was always aware of the possibility. But it was worse at a home birth without suction devices and a C-section suite down the hall. During a home birth, it all seemed so natural, so right, but before and after and in the middle of a sleepless night, I scared myself with thoughts of dead mothers and babies.

We chatted a little bit more about Lancaster County. Sean agreed that the Amish horses that pulled the buggies were beautiful. I told him they reminded me of racehorses.

“Some of them are,” he said. “Retired race horses.” He told me about his neighbors in Vermont who had horses and how he grew up riding and doing a little bit of jumping. “I would love to have a horse someday,” he said. “Maybe when I settle down.” His eyes danced again. He asked me
about growing up in Oregon, and I told him about the hazelnut orchard and the creek along our property and the view of Mount Hood from the top of the hill. I didn’t tell him about Mama dying or Dad’s recent passing. Those details would have to wait until we were closer—something that, as we sat across from each other, seemed imminent.

He ordered dessert—mango custard that tasted as if it’d come straight from heaven. Later, I sat back as he signed the bill, thinking how nice it was to go on a date with a man who didn’t have to worry about money.

He walked me to my car and took my hand as he said, “Could we do this again sometime soon?”

I hesitated, fighting back a twinge of guilt even as I reminded myself that James and I were officially on a break. I was allowed to see Sean, given my current status.

“Yes,” I answered as he opened the door to my Taurus. “I’d like that.” As I pulled away from the curb, I whispered, “Tomorrow couldn’t be soon enough.” For at least half of the dinner, I hadn’t given my birth mother—or James—a thought.

But on my way home, I parked my car directly in front of the now dark and closed coffee shop, located their wireless signal, and logged on again to do a quick check of my email. It could happen, right? She could have responded already. Maybe she felt my angst, felt my need. But there was nothing.

I could call the number in Emmaus, but it was late, already past ten thirty. I would call first thing in the morning.

A
fter a restless night’s sleep, I sat in my car and dialed the phone number of Lantz, Giselle. A man with a shaky voice answered. I asked to speak to Giselle.

“Oh, I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “You didn’t hear? She passed on a few months ago.”

“Passed on?” I gasped.

“That’s right, sweetie.”

The man sounded ancient. Thinking about that for a moment, hope fluttered in my chest, and I asked how old she had been when she died, if he didn’t mind me asking.

“She was ninety-two. Why?”

Ninety-two. It wasn’t her! Though I felt bad for this poor old man, I was deeply relieved for my own sake. I told him I had the wrong Giselle Lantz, offered him my condolences, and then hung up, crumpling the piece of paper in my hand.

I pulled out of Marta’s driveway a minute later and drove through Lancaster County, wishing someone else was at the wheel, wishing I could snap photos indiscriminately of the farms I passed. Maybe Sean would join me sometime soon for a day in the country.

I’d asked Ella and Zed to come with me, but Marta said they had chores and then homework. It turned out the family was doing spring cleaning—scrubbing the little cottage from top to bottom. I had offered to help, but Marta said I would just be in the way and should have a day to myself.

There were a few other tourists’ cars parked at the quilt shop where I stopped, across the road from a country school. I was hoping the place sold maps. I had my GPS, but I couldn’t get a handle on the geography, where the city was in regards to the farms I’d been visited, where Klara’s place was in regards to where the quilt shop was. The young woman standing behind the counter directed me to a rack of maps. I chose one and then headed to the back room where the quilts were on display. They were gorgeous. I recognized many of the patterns from my childhood when Mama used to be part of the quilting circle at church: spinning star, country love, log cabin, autumn splendor. The poetry of the shapes and stitching matched the names. If Dad were still alive, I’d buy him one, even at over a thousand dollars. There was a baby quilt with Noah’s Ark on it, and in the far corner was a quilt that resembled mine with large blocks of mauve, blue, green, and black. It was priced at three hundred dollars.

If Dad were still alive, I’d ask him why they kept the name Alexandra. If he were still alive, I’d ask him to fly out here and talk some sense into Marta.

I headed back to the main room and looked at the trinkets. For living a simple lifestyle, the Amish sold a lot of knickknacks—refrigerator magnets, Christmas ornaments, and other souvenirs. I moved on to a table of handmade soap. The goat’s milk smelled the best. I picked up a couple of bars.

As I paid for the soap and map, I realized the young woman was pregnant. I asked when she was due. “Three months,” she answered, quietly. She didn’t seem shy—just hesitant.

“Who is your midwife?”

She said she hadn’t chosen one yet.

I told her I was working with Marta.

“
Ya
,” she said. “My cousin told me about you. Marta is her midwife.”

It turned out I’d seen her cousin the day before for a prenatal visit.

“How many midwives are there for the Amish?” I asked.

She said she had no idea.

“But more than two?” I was half joking.

She laughed. “There are more than fifty thousand Amish in Pennsylvania,” she said.

I had no idea. That was as many people as in the city of Lancaster.

“And,” she said, giggling a little, “we keep multiplying.”

I nodded. I’d read somewhere that the Amish population had doubled in the last sixteen years. As other groups of people had fewer and fewer children, the Amish kept their average of seven per family steady. That was a lot of babies. I’d also read that fewer Amish kids today than ever before in their history left the church. I thought of Ezra Gundy and wondered if he was on track to join the Amish church as well. If so, judging by his non-Amish haircut and flirtatious behavior, I had a feeling it wouldn’t happen anytime soon, that he was more concerned with sowing some wild oats right now.

The young woman handed me my bag, and I thanked her.

“Best wishes,” I said as I headed to the door.

“
Ya
,” she answered. “And to you.”

From there I turned onto the highway toward Strasburg, thinking I would take the route I was most familiar with back to Marta’s, but when I realized I’d missed my turn, I kept on driving, heading toward Klara’s. I stopped alongside the road, hoping the blackberry bushes along the fence line would hide my car, even though they were just brambles at this time of year. I scooted over to the passenger seat and aimed my camera out the window and through a hole in the vines. I snapped a series of the house, first wide-angle shots, and then close-ups of the balcony, the molding along the roofline, and the porch. I took photos of the section of the
daadi haus
that I could see, and then I zoomed in on the rounded shape of the bare branches of an oak tree in the front yard.

Off to the side were a few fruit trees, probably apple. As I photographed those, I was startled when a man appeared in my viewfinder. He was middle aged, most likely Alexander.

If he wasn’t my father, why else would Giselle have named me after him? Maybe he had been helpful to her before I was born. Maybe he and Klara had even taken her in and that was why she’d named me Alexandra, as a thanks to them, and then it was
Mammi
who insisted on giving me up. I shivered.

If he was my father, I realized that with this recent information he would also be my uncle. I nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. My speculations sounded like a country western song. Clearly Giselle had become pregnant outside of marriage, and that was no doubt frowned upon by the Amish, but there was no indication of any scandal. She’d probably had a wild
rumschpringe
, that period of life when Amish teens were given more freedom and allowed to explore the outside world prior to joining the church. Though pregnancy wasn’t the norm during
rumschpringe
, it certainly couldn’t be unheard of, either.