The Amish Midwife (40 page)

“You think this is significant?” Her eyes clouded over.

“Yes!” Over the past month, there had been many times I had wanted to give Marta a shake, but never as badly as right now. I was still trying to find the right words to spur Marta into action when Zed clomped up the outside steps and burst inside. His mother was still just standing there, frozen, so I told him the good news and together we finally got her to move. I think she had become so resigned to the situation that she simply didn’t know how to respond now that it had been turned on its ear.

Together, she and I called the lawyer and explained everything we’d just learned. The woman sounded pleased but said we’d need Christy’s medical records and an affidavit from an ob-gyn indicating that the condition could have caused Lydia’s death during labor.

“No problem,” I told her, certain that Will would give permission for the release of the files. I handed the phone back to Marta, pulled out my cell, and sent Sean a text saying I needed to talk with him ASAP. Waiting to hear back from him, I listened to Marta’s end of her conversation, thrilled to know that she might be exonerated. I wasn’t sure if the DA would pursue charging her with practicing without a license, even though the state didn’t grant them, but at least it looked as if she wouldn’t end up in prison.

I drove out to check on Hannah and Alice Elizabeth, the name she and Jonas, with Rachael’s help, had decided on. All was well with them. Hannah was happy, a state I hadn’t seen her in since I met her. Rachael was still overjoyed and followed me around like a puppy.

After that I took the long way home, slowing as I passed Klara’s. A van
was out front, and I assumed they had hired a driver to bring Ada home. For a moment I considered stopping, but then I decided to keep going. As I drove I called Sean, putting him on speakerphone once he answered. I explained to him what was going on, and we talked through the details of what might have happened the night Lydia died, if she did have an arrhythmia.

“It’s very plausible,” he said. “I had a patient last year with arrhythmia. Of course it was diagnosed, so we knew she was high risk. She ended up with a C-section.” He offered to put me in touch with a buddy of his, a specialist who would probably be happy to sign an affidavit on the subject.

“This means you can finally get out of there, right?” he added.

I wasn’t sure. “I don’t have all my answers yet.”

“Lex,” he said. It was the first time he’d shortened my name, and it caught me off guard. “You’re never going to get all of your answers. It’s time for a new start. Think positively. You’ll love Baltimore, I promise. We’ll have a blast.”

I kept busy over the next few days with pre- and postnatal visits, including one to Paradise to see Susan Eicher, who was doing much better. Her kids were healthy and the ladies from her district had been helping her with housework and her garden. As I left Paradise, I passed right by Lavonne Bauer’s house but couldn’t work up the nerve to stop.

Instead I drove into town to Esther and David’s to check on little Caroline. Simon was the happy little boy I remembered from before he became a big brother, and Esther and David, although they still looked exhausted, seemed much more relaxed than they had for a while.

There were several boxes by the bookcase. “We go to Ethiopia in two weeks,” David said. “Right after graduation.”

I held the baby, settling into the rocker with her, and after a while she closed her eyes. Simon patted her head and then ran off. I closed my eyes too, for just a moment.

My next concern was Ada. I texted her several times but didn’t hear back from her. I’d done some research on hereditary spherocytosis. I knew I didn’t have it, but there was the possibility that I was a carrier. My children, depending on who their father was, could inherit the disease. Normal red blood cells lived for four months, but the cells of a person with
HS only lasted three to six weeks. The spleen of a person with it was also frequently enlarged and was sometimes removed—not the case with Ada, as far as I knew. It wasn’t uncommon for the disease to go undiagnosed for years and for the patient to suffer fatigue without knowing what it was from. It sounded as if that was what happened here.

At least the disease wasn’t life threatening. Folic acid and ascorbic acid, which I assumed Ada took, helped. Transfusions were given when needed. Ada could live a mostly normal life, minus too much exertion and contact sports. Another interesting fact was that it was more common in those of northern European descent. That certainly fit Ada—and me, whatever the particulars of our story were.

I contemplated driving over to see Ada on Tuesday, five days after she’d been discharged, but I didn’t feel comfortable with that. Maybe she didn’t want to see me. I could handle being rejected by Klara, but I couldn’t bear being rejected by Ada too.

It turned out that Marta’s lawyer was much more efficient than I expected because Thursday morning she called, saying another pretrial hearing was scheduled for the next day.

Marta seemed to assume I would go with her. Connie Stanton met us outside the second-floor courtroom, looking as disheveled as ever.

“I have more good news,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I had a long talk with the DA.” Her eyes sparkled. “He may still charge you with practicing without a license, but it looks as though he’s probably not going to challenge our request for dismissal. The man’s leaving to take a corporate job soon, so it’s a good time for this to come up. I had the impression that he’d like to close up as many cases as he can before his time here is up.”

We followed Connie through the double doors and down the aisle. I stopped at the first row and slid onto the wooden bench while Marta and her lawyer continued on to the table on the right. The DA sat at the table to the left. Because the hearing had only been posted the day before, word hadn’t gotten out and no supporters were present. The four of us rose at the bailiff’s command and the judge entered. A moment later we all sat again. The bailiff stated the reason for the hearing and Connie stepped forward to present the new evidence. The judge held up his hand,
stopping her. “I’ve already reviewed the documents you submitted, Ms. Stanton.” The judge turned his attention to the DA and asked if he’d had a chance to consider the new information.

“Yes, your honor,” the man answered.

“And how do you respond to Ms. Stanton’s request that Lancaster County drop the charges of negligent homicide against Mrs. Bayer?”

The DA dropped his head a moment, referring to the legal pad in front of him. Finally he looked up. “Due to the new evidence, I accept the request.”

I put the palms of my hands together in a silent clap. Ella and Zed wouldn’t be losing their mother.

“Counsel members, do we have any other issues to address?”

Connie Stanton replied with a firm, “No, your honor.”

I held my breath as the DA consulted his legal pad again, hoping the man was more concerned about his upcoming career change than some old midwife. If he was, Marta might be able to practice again soon, very soon. I would no longer be needed. But I didn’t have my answers. I still didn’t know the truth. And I, undeniably, felt a connection of kinship with my biological relatives, although some more than others. I was going to miss Ella and Zed and, honestly, Marta too, as annoying as she was.

The DA raised his head. “No, sir,” he finally said. “There’s nothing more that needs addressing.”

The palms of my hands came together again as I exhaled.

“You are cleared of all charges, Mrs. Bayer,” the judge said. “The legal forms will be mailed to you within two weeks.”

Maybe Marta was in shock or maybe she expected it all along, but as we walked out the door she barely talked to Connie. And she didn’t say a word to me until I pulled out of the parking lot onto the street.

Then she whispered, “Thank you.” Her voice hinted that she was close to tears. “You can go now and get on with your life. Leave all of us behind.”

Now I was close to tears. Was that what she wanted? For me to simply disappear and leave her and her family alone? How could I explain to her I didn’t want to depart without my story, the one I’d already asked her for so many times? Not yet. Not until I had the whole truth.

She exhaled and then said, “I can’t wait to get back to work.”

“The afternoon appointments are all yours.”

“Since my first birth, I knew this is what I wanted to do,” she said.

I told her it was the same for me and gave a brief description of that first experience assisting Sophie. Then I asked how old she was at her first delivery.

“Fourteen,” she answered.

“Who was it?”

“The mother? Or baby?”

Before I could say anything, she said, “Ada was the baby.” Before the words sank in, she added, “And Giselle the mother.”

I took a ragged breath.

“And, Lexie, you’re mistaken. You didn’t see your first birth when you were sixteen. You were only two. You assisted me.”

A
ssisted you? In Ada’s birth?”

Truly, I didn’t understand what she was saying. When I was two, I was living on the other side of the country. How could I possibly have been here when my baby sister was being born? I said as much to Marta now, but she didn’t reply at first. Instead, she just watched me as I thought it through. Finally, the truth hit me like a slam of ice water against my chest, knocking me breathless.

“I wasn’t given away as an infant,” I whispered. “I lived here longer than that.”

Marta nodded. “You lived here until you were two and a half. Then you went away.”

I was dumbfounded. This knowledge generated a flood of new questions, which I began throwing out to Marta now. She shook her head, pursed her lips, and looked out the side window, refusing to answer a single one. Wanting to throttle her, to scream, to pound my fists, instead I gripped the steering wheel and kept my eyes on the road, not responding to Marta or speaking all the way back to the cottage.

As we turned into the driveway, I could feel my anger slowly melting into something else entirely, a deep and overwhelming grief. By the time
I parked the car, tears were coursing down my cheeks. Once inside, upstairs in the alcove, I buried myself under the covers and sobbed, not caring who heard me or what they might be thinking.

The lie in Marta’s words pierced my very soul:
Then you went away
. How wrong she was. I hadn’t merely gone away. I had been
sent
away. Banished. Ripped from the only home and family I had ever known, not as a relatively unknowing infant but as a little girl. A little two-year-old girl. The more I thought about it, the more I cried.

At one point, Sean called and asked if I wanted to go to Baltimore with him the next day, but I squeaked out a quick, “No, thank you,” and gave no other explanation. He sounded annoyed as he said goodbye.

Finally, I dozed a little, but then I was woken by my Realtor, who called to say she’d had an offer on the house and orchard. I took a deep breath and asked how long I had to make a decision. “Customarily a day,” she answered.

“I need three.” She acquiesced but sounded annoyed too. I began to sob again as I closed my cell phone.

An hour later James called. I could barely speak, I was crying so hard. I babbled out what Marta had told me. “I wasn’t adopted until I was two. Why didn’t Mama and Dad ever tell me?” I felt so betrayed. All along I’d imagined myself as a newborn in their arms. Not a toddler. No wonder they had kept my name.

Instead of being the size of Elizabeth Alice, I’d been the size of Melanie and Matty. I’d been with Giselle until then. I must have felt as if
Mammi
had given me away—or as if Mama and Dad had kidnapped me. I fell into another round of sobs.

“I’m coming out,” James said.

“No. You can’t. You have school.” I took a deep breath. I didn’t want him ruining his education because of me. “I’m all right. Just talk to me. Tell me what you’ve been learning.”

“Well,” he spoke slowly. “I’ve been praying about things a lot, and I know what I need to do.” He laughed a little. “I don’t know what
you
should do. And I don’t know what
we
should do. I just know what
I
need to do.”

I heard the clicking of a keyboard in the background. No doubt he was writing a paper as we talked. That was something James could actually do. “What do you need to do?” I asked.

“Pray every day. And trust God.”

That brought on a fresh round of tears, and then I told him how, when Caroline was so sick, I felt God tuck me in at night, how I felt Him close after so many years of not. But now He felt far away again.

“Know He’s close,” James said. “Right beside you. And He has been all this time.” The clicking stopped. “I’ll pray He tucks you in again tonight.”

I didn’t feel God’s presence that night, nor the next day when the tears kept coming. James must have told Sophie what was going on, though, because I had a text from her asking how I was. I sent a message back, asking why she’d never told me I was two when I was adopted.
It wasn’t my place
, she texted back.