The Amish Midwife Read online

  The Amish Midwife

  The Women of Lancaster County [1]

  Mindy Starns Clark

  Harvest House Publishers (2011)

  Tags: Christian Fiction, Amish, Christian, Family Secrets, Lancaster County (Pa.), Fiction, Romance, Midwives, Family Relationships, Adopted Children, General, Religious, Adopted Children - Family Relationships

  Christian Fictionttt Amishttt Christianttt Family Secretsttt Lancaster County (Pa.)ttt Fictionttt Romancettt Midwivesttt Family Relationshipsttt Adopted Childrenttt Generalttt Religiousttt Adopted Children - Family Relationshipsttt

  * * *

  Product Description

  A dusty carved box containing two locks of hair and a century-old letter regarding property in Switzerland, and a burning desire to learn about her biological family lead nurse-midwife Lexie Jaeger from her home in Oregon to the heart of Pennsylvania Amish country. There she meets Marta Bayer, a mysterious lay-midwife who desperately needs help after an Amish client and her baby die.

  Lexie steps in to assume Marta’s patient load even as she continues the search for her birth family, and from her patients she learns the true meaning of the Pennsylvania Dutch word demut, which means “to let be” as she changes from a woman who wants to control everything to a woman who depends on God.

  A compelling story about a search for identity and the ability to trust that God securely holds our whole life—past, present, and future.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide; and from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Cover by Garborg Design Works, Savage, Minnesota

  Cover photos © Chris Garborg; Bigstock

  The authors are represented by MacGregor Literary.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  THE AMISH MIDWIFE

  Copyright © 2011 by Mindy Starns Clark and Leslie Gould

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Clark, Mindy Starns.

  The Amish midwife / Mindy Starns Clark and Leslie Gould.

  p. cm.—(The women of Lancaster County; bk. 1)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-3798-6 (pbk.)

  1. Midwives—Fiction. 2. Adopted children—Family relationships—Fiction. 3. Family secrets—Fiction. 4. Amish—Fiction. 5. Lancaster County (Pa.)—Fiction. I. Gould, Leslie, 1962- II. Title.

  PS3603.L366A83 2011

  813'.6—dc22

  2010032983

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America

  11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 / LB-NI / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Mindy’s brother, Joseph Starns,

  and Leslie’s daughter, Lily Thao Gould.

  When God wrote your stories, we are so thankful

  that in His grace He included us.

  All the days ordained for me

  were written in your book

  before one of them came to be.

  PSALM 139:16

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  OTHER BOOKS BY HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  AMISHREADER.COM

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Mindy thanks

  John, Emily, and Lauren Clark, for input, inspiration, and never-ending teamwork. I am so blessed!

  Vanessa Thompson and Al Cummings, for working so hard behind the scenes even when I’m on a deadline.

  The members of my FVCN Small Group: the Akamines, Halls, Peases, and Smiths, for prayers, support, and patience.

  Leslie thanks

  Peter Gould for his endless encouragement and research assistance, Hana and Thao for joining in on the journey, and Kaleb and Taylor for their help along the way.

  Melanie Dobson, Kim Felton, Kelly Chang, Emily King, Dori Clark, and Ellen Poole for their ideas and input early in the story; Mary Hake for sharing information about Conservative Mennonites; Libby Salter for her ongoing support as both a reader and a friend; and Laurie Snyder for sharing a new take on Psalm 139:16 with me.

  Patty Deacon, RN, and Holly Frakes, RN, both who specialize in obstetrics, and Peter Gould, RN, for his input on both cardiac and general medical issues. (Any inaccuracies are mine.)

  And all of the babies and children, both by birth and adoption, I have witnessed being welcomed into their families. I will always treasure the joy of those moments.

  Mindy and Leslie thank

  Chip MacGregor for bringing us together on this project, Kim Moore for making it all work, and the wonderful crew at Harvest House Publishers for their dedication to this book.

  Dave Siegrist for his expertise; Jamie and Steve Shane of the Apple Bin Inn in Willow Street, Pennsylvania, for the perfect landing spot and appreciated insights; the Mennonite Information Center in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, for their invaluable resources; and Erik Wesner, author of http://amishamerica.com, for answering questions and providing clarification.

  PROLOGUE

  Baby number 244 was an easy one—three hours of labor, twenty minutes of pushing, and one healthy seven-pound-three-ounce baby boy. To put it in the vernacular of the parents, the infant slid into my hands like a football dropping into the palms of a wide receiver waiting in the end zone.

  “It’s a boy,” I announced as I looked at the clock and noted the time: 5:33 p.m. “You did it, Brie.”

  “A boy,” Stanley cried, turning to high-five his wife. The head football coach at Barlow High School, Stanley had guided Brie through the entire labor and delivery much as he must have ushered last year’s team through to the playoffs. “Finally, our own little future Bruin.”

  “A Bruin,” she echoed, meeting Stanley’s palm with her own. Then she collapsed back against the pillows, laughter bubbling from her throat even as tears spilled freely across her cheeks. After three daughters, I knew they had both been hoping for a son.

  I suctioned the baby, wiped off his tiny face, and then handed the scissors to Stanley, who didn’t need much help cutting the cord for this, his fourth down at the one-yard line, so to speak. Grabbing a warm blanket, I wrapped it around the infant and placed him in his mother’s arms, and then I added another warm blanket across them both. As soon as I returned to my chair at the foot of the bed, Sta
nley leaned toward Brie, touching his forehead to hers and wrapping his thick arms around wife and child.

  “You did it, babe,” he whispered, kissing her cheek.

  “We did it,” she replied, unable to tear her eyes from the infant she was clutching so tightly. “And you, Lexie,” she added. “Thank you. For everything. You’re the best.”

  I waved off the compliment, saying it was no sweat for a delivery this fast and free of complication.

  Through the next fifteen minutes, as I finished things up, I kept glancing at the three of them—father, mother, child—searching as I always did for that moment, that origin of family, that flash of absolute belonging.

  Though every birth was different, my search was always the same.

  When I was done I headed for the door, telling them I would be back to check on things in just a bit.

  “You guys know the drill,” I added, pausing in the doorway to take one more look at the little family. “If you don’t mind, be sure to send me—”

  “A photo of the baby. We know,” Brie said, laughing. “Don’t worry, we will.”

  Out in the hall, as the door swung shut behind me, I couldn’t help but smile. Baby number 244.

  Good work, Lexie.

  When I reached the nurses’ station, three message slips were waiting for me, all from the same person. As soon as I saw them, my legs grew weak. Sinking into the nearest chair, I was thankful no one was around at the moment to see my reaction. I had known this was coming, that this was going to happen sooner rather than later. Still, that didn’t make it any easier.

  Fingers trembling, I looked at the number as I dialed, even though I knew it by heart. My old friend and mentor, Sophie, answered on the first ring, blurting out the words I had expected to hear.

  “It’s your dad, honey,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “He needs you. It’s time for you to come on home.”

  ONE

  Three weeks later

  For twenty-six years I thought I’d been told the truth. But I was wrong. “Alexandra,” my father rasped, his bony fingers fumbling for my hand.

  “What is it?” I asked, leaning forward from my chair beside the bed, realizing that he was the only one who ever called me by my full name. Grasping my hand, he drew me closer, bringing my palm to his face.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “Sorry? Whatever for?” I asked, refusing to believe this dear man had a need to apologize to me for anything.

  “For not telling you sooner. If your mother were still alive, she would have said something long before now.”

  “Said something about what?” I asked, trying to ignore an odd fluttering in my stomach.

  For a long moment he didn’t reply. Then he surprised me by saying it was about my adoption. It had been private, handled by an attorney, and though I had never been given many details about it beyond a few basic facts, my father seemed to have some sort of related, long-overdue information he wanted to share with me now.

  “When your mother and I flew to Pennsylvania to get you, we met your birth grandmother,” he began, telling me what I already knew, how she had handed me to them in the Philadelphia airport, wrapped in the baby quilt that was now tucked away in the linen closet in my apartment in Portland. “It was the only time your mother and I ever left the Northwest.”

  I knew that too. Before Mama became ill, we had taken day trips to Crater Lake and Mount St. Helens and the beach, but after she died he and I stuck pretty close to home, as they had before I came along in the first place.

  “It pained your grandmother to give you up.”

  I nodded again, wondering where he was going with this, what he so desperately needed to tell me. But then he began to cough, deep, rattling spasms that seemed to draw the very life from his lungs. Once the coughing stopped, he laid his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. Leaning forward, I whispered that he would have to save this conversation for later because right now he needed to stay quiet and get some rest.

  The cancer that had started in his kidneys was in his lungs and probably working its way into his brain. Looking at his sad, sunken face now, I imagined the cells splitting, over and over. I willed them to stop, to rewind, but I knew it was too late.

  After I washed the morning dishes, I bathed my father and turned him. The hospice nurse had asked me if she could order a hospital bed for the living room to make caring for him easier, but he wanted to die in his own room, the one he had slept in for the last fifty-two years, the one he’d shared with Mama.

  At his request I played Bach’s Sei gegrüsset on his old stereo, and then after he took a few spoonfuls of vegetable soup for lunch, he asked me to read to him, nodding to his old worn King James Bible on the bedside table. I opened it to Psalm 23, wanting something familiar, words I wouldn’t stumble over. I read, “The Lord is my shepherd—” and then was interrupted by my cell phone trilling in my jeans’ pocket.

  “Go ahead,” Dad said. “Maybe it’s your sweetheart.” His lips moved as if trying to smile.

  I stood, digging out my phone. It was, indeed, James, his voice somber as he asked how we were doing.

  “Getting by.” I didn’t want to give too many details with Dad listening. “How’s your project coming along?” It was the week before midterms, and James had a big presentation due the next day for his master’s in counseling program.

  “Ah, I get it,” he said, his voice softer, deeper. “You’re there with your dad right now?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I understand. Just tell me, are you all right? I mean, relatively speaking? You hanging in there?”

  “Trying.”

  “That’s my girl. I know this isn’t easy. Losing a parent is hard enough, but your dad…” His voice faltered. “I mean, he’s just such a special…” Again, he stopped, cleared his throat, and then finally gave up.

  “I know,” I whispered into the silence, aching for James as much as for myself. “I know.” Taking a deep breath, I blinked my tears away and forced my voice to sound more upbeat. “So the project’s going well?”

  Clearing his throat again, James seemed glad for the change of subject. We chatted for a few minutes, and by the end of our conversation we both had our emotions back under control—until the moment we said goodbye and James added, “Give your dad my love, okay?”

  “Will do,” I managed to squeak out before quickly pressing the “End” button. Just because I was feeling weepy myself was no reason to get James going again too.

  Wiping my eyes, I sat back down on the needlepoint cushion my mother made when she and Dad first married. They waited twenty-five years for a baby, for me. That was part of the story too—part of the miracle, they said.

  “James says hello.”

  Dad nodded. He’d probably gathered that from my side of the conversation.

  “He has projects and then midterms,” I added. “Otherwise he’d be here.”

  Dad nodded again, his eyes still closed. I thought that maybe it was too difficult for him to speak, but then he said, “You look nice today. You’re so pretty with your hair pulled up like that.” His eyelids fluttered as he spoke.

  I pursed my lips. All my life, my father had told me how pretty I was, even when I was wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and a simple ponytail. Even when I was thirteen and in braces, the tallest person in my class at five feet ten inches, including the boys and the teacher, and even when I was fourteen and couldn’t wash my hair for a week because I had broken my arm.

  “I think I’ll rest a while,” he said.

  “I’ll read to you later.”

  “Thank you,” he whispered, his eyes still closed. “For everything.”

  He’d done a round of chemo, for me, but then he refused any more, saying seventy-six was a good age to die.

  His snow-white hair grew back curly after the treatment. He’d always been handsome, but now he looked like a geriatric angel. I pulled a tissue from my pocket and dabbed at my eyes. He was wro
ng. Seventy-six was far too young for him to die.

  As he slept, a new rattle developed in his breathing.

  I carried a wicker basket of wet towels out the back door into the shade of the overgrown yard. Dad bought an automatic washer when I was in high school, but he never felt a dryer was necessary. The sun was warm for a February afternoon, and the towels would dry by nightfall, even in the shadows of towering evergreen, maple, and walnut trees. To my right was the windmill, completely still now due to the breezeless afternoon, and beyond the yard were the hazelnut trees Dad had lovingly tended all of his adult life, although he always called them filberts, the more old-fashioned term.

  Regardless of what the trees were called, I had always loved the order of the orchard: the perfect symmetry of the trees planted row by row, the cleared ground, and the comfort of the green canopies in the heat of summer. I sighed. I’d have to sell the orchard—and hire someone in the meantime to prune and mulch and then spray the trees in the spring and harvest the hazelnuts in the fall if it hadn’t sold by then. It was too much work for me to try to do on my own.

  I reached into the cloth bag of pins at the end of the line and started hanging the towels.

  Dad had stubbornly cared for himself as he battled cancer through the cold and dreary months of winter. I know there were days when he had still tried to care for the orchard too. When Sophie called me at the hospital a few weeks ago to say that Dad could no longer fix his own meals or keep up with the chores, I had taken an official family leave from the clinic where I worked and come right away, knowing I wouldn’t be going home until he passed.

  I had a wooden pin in my mouth and a towel in my hands when Sophie’s Subaru turned into our driveway. I dropped both into the basket and started toward her. By the time we embraced, tears were streaming down my face.

  “There, there,” she said, patting my shoulder. “How is he?”

  I sucked in a ragged breath and then exhaled.

  “He’s sleeping, but his breathing sounds different. The hospice nurse said she thinks he has a week left, but I’m not so sure. She increased his morphine yesterday.”