The Amish Midwife - By Mindy Starns Clark Page 0,87

think we’re that close?” She stopped jumping but one hand stayed on my shoulder.

“Yep,” I answered, repeating quietly, “that close.” I braced myself for her to ask who my birth mother was.

“Wait until I tell Mamm and Daed. I don’t think they realized it when you stopped by the other day.” She started pinning her hair back into place. “They’ve been so worried about other things…”

I found a ponytail fastener in my pocket and wound it around my hair, pulling it through for a half loop and landing it high on the back of my head, even though I’d had it down before.

“So you’re from Oregon, right? Why are you working with Aunt Marta?”

I made a face as I wondered how much Ada knew. It didn’t sound like much. Probably not even that Marta had been arrested, much less that Klara had paid her bail. “Marta just…needed an assistant for a while. Her partner retired.” It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly.

“And how did you end up in Oregon?” Ada secured her cap and led the way out of the bathroom, her steps quick and purposeful.

I followed. “That’s where my parents—my adoptive parents—lived.”

She spun back toward me in the kitchen. “And they were okay with you coming out here?”

“Well, they would have been, I’m sure, but they have both passed on. My mother when I was eight, and my father just recently.”

“Oh, Lexie.” Ada surprised me with a half hug. “I’m so sorry.” Her hand felt warm against my back, and she smelled fresh, like line-dried clothes and the spiciness of spring.

Emotion overcame me and I struggled not to cry.

“I don’t know what I would do if I lost my father.” She pulled away and looked me in the eye. “What a lot for you to handle on your own.”

I nodded, trying to anticipate what I would say if she asked about my birth parents, but the question didn’t seem to be on her mind.

She gestured toward the yard. “I need to get back to work. Come with me.”

I nodded again and followed her to the back porch, where she quickly slipped her shoes back on. She wasn’t as passive as she’d seemed the other night. She actually seemed quite capable. She grabbed the hoe and marched toward the garden.

“We did most of the planting last week but didn’t have time to finish. I’m working on the beans.” She stepped onto the soft soil, sinking down a little. “Do you like to garden?”

I said yes, but that wasn’t really the truth. Obviously she did, and for some reason I wanted something more in common with her than our looks. The morning had been cold, but now the sun was shining brightly. I pushed up the sleeves of my sweatshirt as I spoke, and in no time I was telling her about the hazelnut orchard, the pruning with Dad, and the burning of the branches in the winter.

There was something about her, maybe the way she held her head as she listened, even though she was hoeing, that made me keep talking in a way I hadn’t talked to anyone for months. I rattled on about my parents’ farm in Oregon, the town of Aurora, the people at church, and my work at the hospital. All the while she nodded and listened, but when I mentioned I was a nurse, she stopped hoeing.

“Oh, I notice the nurses the most when I’m at the hospital. I can see why you went into that.”

I realized I’d been dominating the conversation like a bore. “How are you feeling? Will Gundy said that you’ve been ill.”

“Will said that?” Her eyes lit up and she leaned against the hoe. “He was in the eighth grade when I started school. He was so nice to me. He was nice to everyone.” She smiled. “How are his girls?”

“People seem to be a little worried about Christy, but the twins seem good.” I smiled at the thought of them.

Ada looked beyond me for a moment. I turned my head. A buggy traveled along in the distance on the road and then passed behind the trees that lined the field. “Is that your parents?” I asked.

She shook her head. “But they should be home soon.”

I didn’t have much more time. “Tell me about you. About your health. What you—” I was going to say “want out of life,” but then I realized that was a foolish thing to ask a young Amish woman. I hoped she wanted what was her only