The Amish Midwife (21 page)

The man turned his face toward me as I snapped another photo. I hadn’t meant to get his front but I had. He was still in my viewfinder and looking straight at me. Maybe he could see the car, but there was no way he could see my face. I clicked the view button, enlarged the image, and looked at the photo I’d just taken. He had a dark, full beard with streaks of gray. I couldn’t tell the color of his eyes. He wore a straw hat, black pants with suspenders, and a blue shirt. He looked similar to every other Amish man I’d seen. I raised the camera again, gasping when I realized he was walking across the field toward me.

I panicked. Suddenly, I felt like a little kid in trouble. Shamed, I climbed back to the driver’s side, started the car, and pulled onto the highway, glancing behind me a moment later. The man was jogging toward the fence line, watching me go with a questioning look on his face.

I spent the rest of the morning in downtown Lancaster, taking photos of old buildings.

Sunday morning, Ella asked if I would give her and Zed a ride to church. I rolled toward her in my little bed. “What about your mom?” I asked sleepily.

“She’s fasting and praying today in her office.”

I yawned. “Are you sure you want to go?”

Ella’s voice sounded hurt. “Yes.”

“Zed too?” I focused on her. She was already dressed.

“Yes.” She stepped back onto the landing. “We need to leave in half an hour.”

I propped my head up on my elbow. “Can I wear jeans?”

“Wear whatever you want.” For a split second she sounded like Marta.

Their church was in Lancaster, a few blocks from Esther and David’s house. The parking lot was full, so I drove around the block and squeezed into a space in front of a row house.

“Hurry,” Ella said, scrambling out of the car. “We’re going to be late.” I followed her and Zed followed me, lagging behind. The church was made of bricks with a white steeple and was fairly small. We entered through a basement side door into a fellowship hall, where a few people lingered, drinking coffee and chatting.

“This way.” Ella hurried up a staircase that came out into a foyer. Esther was across the way, and Simon rode on her hip. When he saw Ella, he reached for her. Music was playing in the sanctuary, and soon we were inside. It took me a moment to realize that the men sat on one side and the women on the other. I settled into a pew in the middle of the room with Esther, Ella, and Simon. Zed found a seat closer to the front with some friends.

“David leads the singing,” Ella whispered. Sure enough, the man we had seen in front of the courthouse two days before stood up front. There was a screen behind him with an image of a waterfall.

Many of the women wore head coverings, but not all. Several other Africans were in the congregation, plus quite a few Hispanics. A group of teenage girls sat in the row in front of us wearing short skirts. A few, even in the cool spring weather, wore tank tops. One of the girls turned and said hello to Ella.

David’s voice was deep and loud. I didn’t recognize most of the songs until a few hymns at the end, including “How Great Thou Art.” Simon couldn’t settle on sitting with his mom or Ella. Finally he scurried across Ella’s lap to me, and I gave him my cell phone to play with. He liked that and leaned against me, his compact little body melting against mine.

A woman who worked for six months in an orphanage in Honduras spoke about her work, using a PowerPoint presentation of the facility and the children. Many had lived on the streets and were tough and wily, but their hearts softened when shown care and kindness. She also had photos of a merry-go-round and swing set the church had paid for. She said the children had to be taught how to play and use their imaginations. They hadn’t been encouraged to do that before.

The next image was of a group of little boys playing soccer.

“Futball!” Simon said, dropping my phone and clapping his hands together.

Ella giggled as she retrieved my cell from under the pew in front of us. By the time the presentation was over, Simon was fussy and Esther took him back, holding him securely against her big belly. He rested his head on her shoulder. After a few minutes his eyes grew drowsy and he slept. It wasn’t until the pastor started his sermon and Ella nudged me that I realized I’d had my attention fixed on Simon.

I tried to listen to the teaching, which was on forgiving seventy times seventy, but my mind kept wandering. Could I forgive Marta for being so cold and stingy? She was spending the day fasting and praying, but she was totally without empathy for me. The best thing I could do was get out of her home and her life. I had no business letting myself be mistreated by her. She had the ability to give me all the information I needed in ten minutes, information I was sure she had. The fact that she didn’t was just more evidence that I needed to take care of myself, that I couldn’t trust anyone else to take care of me.

“We forgive because God forgave us,” the pastor said.

I wanted to raise my hand to say that in order to accept God’s forgiveness, we had to admit that we had done something wrong. He didn’t just give forgiveness freely. I wasn’t so sure God expected us to forgive people who didn’t admit they had done anything wrong—people who went on their merry ways, living in denial and oblivious to what had been done to us. People like Marta and whoever else was keeping secrets from me.

At the end of the service, David led the benediction and then dismissed the congregants. Simon stirred on Esther’s shoulder, and Ella tried to take him so his mother could stand, but the little boy began to cry.

“’Tis fine,” Esther said. “David will get him in a minute.”

Soon Zed and David were beside us, and Esther introduced her husband to me.

“Will you deliver our child?” he asked as he took his son into his arms.

I shook my head. “Not unless Esther has the baby in the next couple of days, which we don’t want.” I smiled. “I’m headed to Harrisburg on Tuesday and then on to Philadelphia.” That was my new plan.

Ella crossed her arms. “Who’s going to help Mom?”

“I’m sure she has some ideas,” I answered.

David shook my hand. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I hope our paths will cross again someday.”

I nodded, but I knew they wouldn’t be in the States much longer and I didn’t foresee myself ever going to Ethiopia. I hugged Esther and patted Simon’s back. He gave me a half smile and then hid his face against his father’s neck.

As I drove home, Ella asked me what I thought of the sermon.

Zed groaned. “You sound like Mom.”

Ella ignored him.

I told her I’d heard many variations of that same sermon and not one of the preachers addressed what we should do when the person we needed to forgive wouldn’t acknowledge they had done anything wrong.

“Forgive.” Ella spoke with force. “Matthew 6:14 and 15 says, ‘If you forgive men when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if you do not forgive men their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.’ It doesn’t say anything about the offender acknowledging their sins.”

I blew air up my forehead.

Ella didn’t seem to notice. “That’s what
demut
is all about.”

“De…what?”

“
Demut
. It means to let things be, to not try to control everything and everyone.” She had that know-it-all way of a teenager. Or maybe of a firstborn who was so used to being right that she could make anything sound like fact. “It means, with humility, to trust God and leave justice to Him.” Ella sighed. “I’m really trying to do that with this case against Mom right now.”

I didn’t answer.

“I mean, I wish I could control this, but I can’t. I know she’s innocent. She would never do anything to harm a mother or a baby, but I don’t have any control over what happens with the court system. I have to let it be. To trust God. To forgive those who are trying to bring harm to us.”

We rode in silence for a few minutes as we left the city limits. I mulled over the concept of Marta as a victim. I was so used to thinking of her as someone who was harming me.

“I don’t get
demut
,” Zed finally said. “I mean, I know the Amish are really into it, right? That’s where Mom got it. But how about that one
Amish family that lives on the other side of the bridge? Remember when they had a whole bunch of tools stolen and they knew who did it, but they never pressed charges?”

Ella looked at me. “It was their
Englisch
neighbor’s nephew who did it.”

“And then he broke into some other houses and hurt an old lady,” Zed continued. “If the Amish would have pressed charges in the first place, it would have been a whole lot better for everyone involved. Even the criminal.”

I nodded in agreement. “That’s how justice works,” I said. “It brings closure for the victim and protects others.”

Ella stared straight ahead, not speaking. I decided not to push it and asked Zed if I could get on his computer for a few minutes when we got home.

“Sure,” he said, but he didn’t sound very convincing.

“How are you at Internet searches?” I asked.

He perked up a little. “I’m good.”

“I’m trying to locate information on an Abraham Sommers who lived in Switzerland in the 1870s that would link him to Amielbach. And I tried to get information on Giselle, but none of the leads panned out.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “My German is pretty good. Maybe that will help me with the Switzerland connection.”

“Cool,” I said and meant it.

Ella was still staring out the window. I liked how loyal she was to her mother, even though the woman didn’t deserve it. I liked both of my cousins. A lot.

T
he Monday appointments passed quickly. Between patients I thought about the man in the field I’d seen Saturday morning and the questioning look on his face. Surely word was out about a midwife from Oregon helping Marta. Would Klara and Alexander have known that’s where I ended up? Or did
Mammi
keep that to herself? Would Giselle have known?

I had to go back to Klara’s. I would pack my things tonight, go by the house in the morning, and then head to Harrisburg. By tomorrow I’d be back in Philly.

Giselle
. The mystery mother. There hadn’t been anything posted on the registry when I checked the day before.

My thoughts bounced around as I listened to the heartbeats of the babies and took the blood pressures of their mothers, recording each detail in their charts. Most of the women asked about Marta. I told them she needed to take some time off. That was all. Now that I had examined close to fifteen clients, I began to try to figure out the connections between the women, guessing at who might be sisters or sisters-in-law. But the women would lower their eyes and not respond. Finally the last patient of the afternoon, a woman in her late thirties named Peggy, told me, gently, that Amish women didn’t talk much about pregnancy.

I was dumbfounded.

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “It might be a little bit superstition. Also, we don’t draw attention to ourselves.”

“But how can women who live so close to each other not talk about the most important thing in their lives?” I draped my stethoscope over my shoulder.

“Well, we have our husbands and our other children and our work to keep us busy. We have plenty to talk about.”

That was true.

She checked the position of her bonnet with her hands. “It’s just the way we Plain folk do things,” she said. “That’s all.”

I nodded, even though I could barely comprehend what she was saying.

I glanced at the clock on the desk. It was four thirty. “Will you still have to fix dinner when you get home?”

“Oh, no,” she answered. “My oldest daughters are doing that.” She slung her black cape over her shoulders. She’d just told me her oldest child was twenty and her youngest was four. She had seven in between. “I’m going to stop by the big box store.”

“The what?” My voice cracked as I tried to imagine the woman at a Costco or Sam’s or BJ’s.

“
Ya
, it’s not too far out of the way.” She spoke in a lighthearted, carefree manner.

She was eight and a half months pregnant. I imagined her lifting cases of cans into her buggy. But cans of what? Wouldn’t she put up fruits and vegetables herself? Maybe she bought toilet paper and laundry detergent.

Or maybe she just browsed. Soon she would have baby number ten, and it might be a while until she got out of the house by herself.

“We’re having services at our house come Sunday,” she explained. “And I’m also stocking up for when the baby comes.” She fastened the top hook and eye of her cape.

I couldn’t help myself. “What do you buy there?”

“Everything. Frozen pizzas. Lasagna. Canned goods. Soups.” She smiled. “Paper products. Socks. Towels. Whatever it is I need. The prices are good.”

She tied her black bonnet under her chin as I walked with her to the door. Dark clouds had blown in during the afternoon. “Drive safely,” I
said as she climbed into her buggy, trying to shake off another misconception I had of the Amish.

“
Ya
,” she said. “I always drive carefully.”