The Amish Midwife - By Mindy Starns Clark Page 0,83
a terry cloth robe and sat on her bed with a textbook in front of her. Her hair hung long and wavy halfway down her back. The light caught the dark auburn sheen when she turned her head.
“Let’s see…I didn’t know where you were, whom you were with, or when you were coming back.”
“I was fine.” She looked up at me demurely and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Besides, I already told you that Ezra and I are good friends.”
“What would your mom say?”
Ella shrugged. “I turn sixteen on Saturday.”
“But you’re Mennonite, remember. Not Amish. We don’t do rumschpringes.” Oops. Freudian slip—I’d meant to say “you,” not “we.”
“But Mom has Amish roots, you know. She’s always said I’ll have more freedom when I’m sixteen.”
“I doubt if she ever intended that freedom to include riding on the back of Ezra’s motorcycle.”
“Well, she’s not here, is she?” Now Ella’s tone was a little bit sassy.
“Next time, if I’m still in charge, call me. Or send me a text.”
She closed her textbook with a thud. “That’s just it,” she said. “We don’t need you to be in charge. We’re totally capable of taking care of ourselves.”
I stepped back.
She stood. “Besides, Mom will be out soon. That’s what Ezra said.”
Maybe Will or Alice or someone was raising the bail.
“And you can go back to delivering babies and not feel like you need to watch my every move.”
“Ella—”
“I have homework to do.”
I told her goodnight and left the room, marveling at yet another mood swing in a short time. It had only been ten years since I was sixteen. Why did I have no idea how to deal with her?
The house creaked and groaned throughout the night. Around three the wind picked up and must have blown clouds in, because soon it was raining. In my restlessness I kept dreaming of a roaring motorcycle racing by Amielbach. Over and over I woke with a start.
In the morning, Ella was quiet and sullen. I checked the adoption registry site and found no messages. There was nothing concerning my adoption search in my email box, either. I turned the computer over to Zed. The man from Switzerland hadn’t emailed him back. Strike three and it was only seven thirty.
After Zed and Ella left for school, the couple from Marta’s church dropped off their car for me to use. It was a green Datsun B210 and was, I felt sure, older than I. I thanked them warmly and hoped it would run. After they left, I took it for a test drive down the highway and then across the covered bridge. The seat was vinyl and uncomfortable, but it seemed to have been well cared for, although it was pretty noisy. The gas tank was full and a sticker in the corner of the windshield indicated that the oil had been changed the day before.
When I returned to the cottage, I pulled my phone from my pocket. I’d missed a call and had a voice mail from Marta. “Bail’s been posted. Can you come and get me?”
“Who paid your bail?” It was one question I couldn’t contain as I drove Marta back to the cottage.
In true Marta form, not only did she not answer, but she didn’t even acknowledge my question.
“I mean, did a group of Amish raise the money?” My face grew warm. “Like Will and Alice? Did your church contribute?” Maybe the couple who loaned me the car were closet millionaires.
“There was no group contribution,” Marta said. “And, no, I asked our pastor not to use church money or money from anyone in our district on me. There are more worthy causes.”
I turned and headed south. “What’s the big deal in telling me who it was?”
“Some things are private,” she said.
I shrugged. “I’m not going to tell anyone. I’m just curious.”
She didn’t answer me. Her cape was fastened at the very top and her bonnet was perfectly in place over her immaculately combed hair. There was nothing about her that looked as if she’d spent a night in jail.
After a while she sighed. “I don’t want this told to anyone, not even my children.” She glanced at me and I nodded.
She looked straight ahead again and said, “Klara paid the bail.”
TWENTY-ONE
I gasped. Klara? I couldn’t imagine.
“Every cent of it,” Marta added.
“That’s great.” My voice was flat. I couldn’t fathom the Klara I’d met paying anyone’s bail. “But why?”
Marta didn’t answer, and this time I didn’t press her.