The Amish Midwife - By Mindy Starns Clark Page 0,7

stretched my back. Plenty of people in Dad’s church spoke German. I would ask Sophie tomorrow. Both she and James were coming then to help me get ready for the funeral.

Scrubbing was something that brought me comfort, so I tackled the kitchen while James de-cluttered the living room and Sophie turned on the vacuum cleaner. I would go through Dad’s clothes and books later by myself. James was such a packrat that if I let him help, I knew he would cart more things to his already overcrowded studio apartment in Portland than I would be able to take to Goodwill. This issue was a sore point between us, and I had no intention of contributing to the problem.

I cleared the kitchen counters and sprinkled cleanser over the worn Formica. Dad had always kept the house spotless when I was growing up and trained me well in that, but in the years after I left he began to let things pile up. A stack of newspapers here. A tower of books there. It wasn’t as if he lived as a teenager—the dishes and laundry were always done—but it was as if he relaxed his standards a bit. As if he finally cleaned just for himself without having to worry about me. And that was a good thing.

“What’s this?”

I turned toward James as I clenched the large gritty sponge. He stood in the kitchen doorway, the carved box in his hands. I’d left the box open on the table beside Dad’s easy chair the day before.

“Oh, that.” I tossed the sponge into the sink. “I found it yesterday.” The vacuum cleaner stopped in the background, and Sophie appeared next to James.

“There’s a letter.” He held it up. “And two locks of hair.”

I nodded.

Sophie’s cap tilted a little to the left. “Who’s it from?”

“From my birth grandmother. At least that’s what Dad said.”

“The letter’s in German.” James held the document in one hand and balanced the box in his other.

“I know.” I rinsed my hands. “Do you know who could translate it for me?” I turned toward Sophie.

“Mr. Miller probably could. He used to teach German.”

“That’s right.” I’d forgotten he’d taught for years at the community college in Salem. “I’ll take it,” I said to James as I finished drying my hands. He slipped the items back into the box, carefully closed the lid, and passed it to me with a reluctant smile.

Feeling oddly vulnerable and exposed, I stashed it back in Dad’s closet, high on the shelf.

I finished the kitchen, scrubbing the decades-old appliances until they gleamed again. Dad was gone. Tears filled my eyes, and I stood up straight, brushing them away with my forearm. I’d never been one to cry easily, but now I was afraid if I started I might not stop. I slipped out the back door into the bright, cold day and stopped under the windmill next to the wooden bench that had been there as long as I could remember. It was weathered and gray. Behind me was the hazelnut orchard, all that remained of the original farm.

The back door slammed, and Sophie stepped out with the throw rug from the hallway. She shook it over the porch railing with vigor, snapping it back and forth. She was amazingly strong for such a small woman.

“Are you all right, Lexie?” she called out. I nodded and looked up at the metal blades of the windmill that were just beginning to stir in the slight breeze.

The door slammed again as Sophie went back inside.

I sat down on the bench. Sophie and her mother, Mrs. Chambers, had both been friends of Mama’s. Though Sophie had been raised Presbyterian, she switched over to the Mennonite faith during the late 1960s at the height of the Vietnam War. Sophie’s mother apparently respected her daughter’s decision, but she chose to remain Presbyterian herself. As one of Mama’s few non-Plain friends, Mrs. Chambers fascinated me. She drove a Mercedes and wore gold hoop earrings and used rouge on her cheeks. Sometimes we would visit her in her old Victorian house in Woodburn, and I would marvel at the intricate doilies and antiques and artwork that graced her fancy home.

Over the years I had the impression that my parents owed her a great debt, and when I was old enough I found out exactly what that debt was: Mrs. Chambers had been pivotal in my adoption. She had learned of me, of a babe in Pennsylvania in need of a new family, and