The Amish Midwife - By Mindy Starns Clark Page 0,38
right to testify when they do.”
“What would be the point?” Marta asked.
Connie put on her reading glasses again and pulled out a notebook.
“Exactly. I don’t think it would do any good. I think the testimony from Lydia’s husband will be far more convincing. Especially if the grand jury started asking you a lot of questions.” She opened a notebook. “Let’s see…Friday afternoon is open. Four o’clock. Come see me then.”
Marta nodded and stood. I joined her. I said, “Nice to meet you,” to the attorney as I followed Marta out the door. She was silent as we descended the staircase. When we reached the sidewalk, I asked her how she found Connie Stanton. The woman hadn’t impressed me at all.
“One of the men in my congregation arranged it. She’s representing me for free.”
“Oh,” was all I could manage. Things didn’t look good for Marta. Not at all.
As she pulled onto the street and then made a quick turn, I silently rehearsed ways to use this situation to my advantage, to force her to tell me what she knew about my birth family. I could threaten to tell the judge that, technically, she’d practiced both last night and this morning. I could go to the local newspaper about her case. I could report her to the state of Pennsylvania.
When we stopped at a red light, I was distracted from such thoughts when, much to my surprise, a man on the street pointed at us and laughed. The woman with him lifted her camera to her face.
“What’s up with them?” I asked.
“They think I’m Amish and find it funny that I’m driving a car.”
“Does this happen a lot?”
“Often enough. Some tourists eventually figure out that there’s a difference between the ways Amish and Mennonites dress—like the shape of the head covering, the fabric of the dresses—but obviously not these two.”
Soon we were passing the row houses again in downtown Lancaster, the clusters of men gathered in front of convenient stores, the old women sitting and smoking on their stoops.
“Thank you for helping me this afternoon. I appreciate it.” Marta’s words hung in the air between us. When she glanced my way, I thought I could detect a small crack in her armor, a little hint of vulnerability in her expression. “Obviously, though,” she added, “I still need your help.”
“Obviously.”
“I know your job in Philadelphia will be starting soon.” When I didn’t reply, she added, “I’d like you to stay. If you won’t, can you at least do the prenatal appointments this afternoon while I make some phone calls to try to find someone else?”
Avoiding her question for the moment, I asked why some of her prenatal visits were in homes and some in her office.
“It all depends. I’ll go to the home if it’s a hardship for the mother to come to me. Or if it’s a family I’ve worked with for years. Otherwise, I encourage the women to come to the office.” She drove in silence for a few more minutes and then said, “I can’t pay much—not what you’re worth. And I can’t give you the information you think you want. You’ll understand someday—probably when you’re older—that some things in life are really better left alone.”
“The people who say that are usually the ones who already have the information they need.”
“Be that as it may…” she replied, her voice trailing off.
And with that, we had reached an impasse. Though I was no longer concocting schemes in my head for forcing her hand, there was no way I would do this without the promise of something tangible in return.
“How about an exchange? I’ll give you one day of help if you’ll answer one question, a new one,” I said. And before she could object, I added, “One that it is your place to say.”
She waited, unwilling to make that deal until the question itself had been thrown out on the table. Fine. Turning in my seat, I studied her face for a long moment and then spoke.
“Marta, have you ever seen me before? In person?”
“What? Of course. Just yesterday—”
“I’m talking about before. When I was a baby, a newborn. Before I was sent away from my birth family, clear to the other side of the country. Did you ever see me? Did you ever touch my curls or let me wrap my tiny fingers around one of yours or look deep into my eyes and wonder who I might grow up to be?”