Free The Amish Midwife by Mindy Starns Clark, Leslie Gould

earth and rain rose up from the soft ground. The buds were just beginning to swell and the branches created the structure of a tunnel over my head. In another month it would be a canopy of shady leaves. A movement danced ahead at the end of the row, and for a minute I thought,
Dad!
The image in my mind was clear—his weathered face, white hair, straw hat, and rounded-toe boots. But when I reached the last row, I found the shadow of a poplar tree manipulated by the breeze. I turned and walked back to the house, seeing myself among the trunks of the trees. A toddler squatting on the ground, playing with a stick. A five-year-old with my doll. An eight-year-old mourning Mama. A ten-year-old climbing a tree. A teenager helping Dad with the pruning, fertilizing, and spraying. I’d grown up in this orchard. It was home as much as the house.
    I stopped by the coffee shop to check the adoption site I’d registered on but found no response. I definitely needed more information to conduct a thorough search—such as the name of my birth mother. I’d tried a couple of weeks ago to get a copy of my original birth certificate with no success. I was told that without the consent of my birth mother, the certificate couldn’t be released, but once I was in Pennsylvania I could go to the department of vital records in Harrisburg and make anotherrequest. Even if they blacked out the name of my birth mother, I still wanted a copy. Maybe they would leave my original name intact. I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask again—and maybe someone would take pity on me if I did it in person.
    Over the last two weeks I had called all seven of the hospitals I’d located on the Internet in Montgomery County, but every one of the records department clerks I spoke with said they couldn’t help me. My biological mom could make a request, but I couldn’t. I also came across a Pennsylvania law that allowed adoptees to write a letter to the court of the county they were born in, requesting information about one’s biological parents. Although I couldn’t request their identities, my letter would be put in a file and matched to them if they wrote in requesting information about me. It was a gamble, but I’d already sent off the letter, even though I only had my birth date, county of birth, and the fact that my grandmother was “tall.” It was a pretty pitiful collection of information to start a search on. But now there was Marta…
    As I left Aurora, driving through town for a last look at the old buildings and antique shops, I felt optimistic. I was going to Pennsylvania. I was much, much closer to learning my story than I had ever been.
    My hope and optimism lasted until I reached my apartment and began packing, trying to decide what I should take on my adventure. I picked up the last photo I had of Dad from my dresser. As I focused on his angelic curls and faded blue eyes, grief descended again and I cried for him, for Mama, for my birth mother. For all my losses. Then I placed the photo in my suitcase and packed the wooden box and my baby quilt in a carry-on bag and felt a little better.
    As cruel as it seems, I asked James to drive me to the airport. And, of course, he did, looking as if he hadn’t slept all week.
    I hadn’t given him all the details about the reason for my sudden departure, but it seemed someone else had—someone named Sophie. “You’re setting yourself up,” he said.
    “For?”
    “Rejection.” His voice was deep.
    “I never expected acceptance. Just information.” I knew I was lying. Of course they would accept me once they met me. They would love me and regret ever giving me up.
    “I really have a bad feeling about this, Lex.” For being so smart, James relied a lot on his feelings. That was probably why he was so comfortable with the world of psychobabble. He should have become a surgeon—a heart surgeon or a brain surgeon—instead of tormenting me with his feelings.
    “How about if I come with you?”
    I