The Amish Midwife - By Mindy Starns Clark Page 0,127

stepped toward us, hugging each one and then graciously welcoming James in a hushed voice.

“Ada, who is it?” Mammi asked, opening her eyes and trying to sit up.

“It’s family,” Ada replied, giving me a wink.

We approached Mammi’s chair so that I could introduce James, but before I even spoke, the door swung open and Klara came rushing into the room.

“Out!” she cried. “Everybody out!”

“Klara…” Alexander was right behind her, followed by Marta.

Klara had a dishtowel over her shoulder and a wooden spoon in her hand. Her face was red, and a strand of sandy hair had come loose from her cap.

“Out! Now!” she snarled.

Ada stepped in front of me, protesting, as Mammi struggled to sit up in her chair. I spoke as well, as did the others, our voices all clamoring to be heard.

“Klara!” Mammi’s voice rang out, sharper and louder than all the rest, cutting through the din. Silenced, we all turned toward the older woman, who had managed to get the recliner to the down position and was sitting tall, her cap askew and her white hair poking out from underneath it. “Please stop. This has gone on too long.”

“You need to let things be,” Klara replied, standing with her feet apart, hands gripping both ends of the wooden spoon. Though her eyes were on her mother, I knew she was speaking to everyone in the room.

“We just want the truth,” Ada said gently, stepping forward.

Klara looked around at each of us, terror and betrayal shining clearly in her eyes.

“I won’t be a part of this,” she hissed. “Alexander, Ada. Come.” Klara stepped around Marta and moved toward the open doorway.

I watched, heart in my throat, as Alexander remained exactly where he was, looking down at his boots, his hat in his hands, fingers kneading furiously at the brim. I turned to look at Ada, and satisfaction surged in my chest as I realized she had chosen to remain stubbornly in place as well.

Clearly noting the lack of movement behind her, Klara glanced over her shoulder when she reached the door, her face twisted into a scowl. There, she faltered in surprise that neither husband nor daughter were following orders.

“Klara, I am not Alexandra’s biological father,” Alexander blurted out suddenly.

Klara spun around to face her husband, her cheeks flushing an even brighter red, though whether from anger or embarrassment, I wasn’t sure.

“Same old song,” Klara barked. “I don’t care how many times—”

“It’s different now,” he interrupted. “There’s actual proof. Medical proof.”

Klara jerked her head back, clearly shocked. She took a deep breath and held it, suddenly looking at me for confirmation. Technically, Alexander was overstating things a bit, so I tried to qualify his words by being more precise.

“I had my DNA tested. Until Alexander also is tested, we won’t know if he is my father or not. But what we do know for sure, so far at least, is that Ada and I are siblings. Full siblings. She’s my sister.”

Klara’s face went white, her mouth opening and closing like a fish, but no words came out. Before she could find her voice, Ada spoke.

“I was tested as well. The doctor said the DNA proves it. Without question, Lexie and I are sisters.”

Our words had a strange effect on Klara. She exhaled slowly, her face growing pale, her jaw slack. She looked from her daughter to her husband to her sister, the spoon slipping from her hands and landing with a soft plop on the braided rug. No one moved to pick it up. Finally, she turned again toward Alexander.

He met her shocked gaze with confidence, his shoulders squared. As they stared at each other, it was as if he stood taller than I had ever seen him. The slumping was gone, the averted eyes were no longer trained toward the floor. Even his fingers had stilled along the brim of the hat.

“I have told you this all along, Klara,” he said, his voice even and deep. “You chose not to believe me, but Giselle and I were never involved, never intimate. There was no way Lexie could have been mine.”

Klara tried to reply but nothing came out. Clearing her throat, she tried again, rasping, “But Giselle named the child Alexandra. Why would she have used that name unless the babe was yours?”

Mammi sat forward as if to speak, but Klara cut her off.

“I wasn’t stupid,” Klara continued, her voice growing stronger as she railed at her husband. “I saw how you looked at Giselle, the way she