The Amish Clockmaker (45 page)

As I tried to stay out of the way, the nurse checked Amanda's vital signs and then helped her onto the examining table—which really looked more like a big fancy chair to me—and directed me toward a stool in the corner. I sat as instructed, wondering how long this was going to take. Somehow, the other visits had been a lot easier when all I'd had to do was drop my wife at the door and then kill a little time at the diner across the street with a cup of coffee and some pie.

The midwife entered, and she and Amanda chatted as easily as if they'd known each other for years. My wife seemed knowledgeable about everything, though many of the words and phrases they used sounded like a foreign language to me. The midwife had an odd little device attached to her belt, and after they talked for a while, she helped Amanda lay back even farther on the table chair and arrange her clothing so that her bare stomach was exposed.

I was mortified—this was way too intimate for me—but both women seemed perfectly comfortable with whatever was happening, so I forced myself to hover in the background and not do or say anything stupid.

The midwife pulled a part of the device loose, though it stayed connected with a cord. Then she pressed it against Amanda's stomach and moved it here and there as both women grew silent.

I felt as though we were supposed to be waiting for something, and I was feeling so antsy I was just about to ask what that was when I heard the
strangest sound come from the base of the device, almost like a heartbeat after running, pulsing in a rapid but steady beat.

“What is that?” I whispered, thinking surely it couldn't be what I thought it was.

Both women smiled my way and I knew. And though I'd never heard anything like it before, it almost sounded familiar to me, as if I already knew and loved what I was hearing.

“That's your baby's heartbeat, Mr. Zook,” the midwife said, smiling at me.

My baby's heartbeat. It was such a beautiful sound—and one that brought me tremendous relief. In a way, I realized, I'd been holding my breath since yesterday afternoon when I learned Miriam Raber's baby had died during the pregnancy. I didn't know what caused such a tragedy to happen, but at least now I knew that my own child was alive and well, its heart pumping to beat the band.

The rest of the visit wasn't so bad after that, and it was deeply reassuring to hear the midwife say that both mother and child seemed perfectly healthy, with everything progressing as expected. When we returned to the waiting room, I noticed two other fathers there now, one of them Amish, which also made me feel better.

I paid at the window while Amanda studied a wall of brochures—information, no doubt, about pregnancy and childbirth and nursing. As we headed out, I saw that she was carrying one of the brochures in her hand but didn't think much of it. It wasn't until we were in the buggy that I noticed her animated expression.

Something was up.

“What is it? Why are you smiling? What are you not telling me?”

Amanda's expression grew intense. “I think I know why Miriam Raber was acting so weird right before she died.”

A part of me didn't want to hear it, didn't want to think about babies and death and tragedies that ripped families apart. But Amanda insisted I take a look, so before we pulled out of our parking spot, I took the brochure from her hand.

It was a glossy, tri-fold piece of literature with a bright purple title on the front that said
Warning Signs of Postpartum Depression & Psychosis.

“What is that?” I asked, staring at the words that sounded scary even without being totally sure of what they meant
.

“It's an illness a woman can get after she's had a baby, Matthew. Or if she's
pregnant and loses the baby. It's a mental illness, which tells me it probably wasn't always diagnosed properly in years past. They didn't know as much then as they do now.”

“Okay,” I said, waiting for her to explain.

“The important part is right here,” she said, flipping open the page and pointing to a list of symptoms. “Look at this. It says that postpartum psychosis can make a woman feel like she's going insane.”

I scanned the page, my eyes absorbing the words as quickly as they could. According to the text, postpartum depression could begin soon after giving birth and might include symptoms such as feelings of sadness and inadequacy, a sudden withdrawal from family and friends, frequent crying, or even thoughts of suicide. I flipped to the next page and read it out loud.

“ ‘Postpartum psychosis is a rarer and more extreme version of postpartum depression.' ” I looked up at Amanda, who prompted me to go on. “ ‘It can include symptoms of delusions, hallucinations, thoughts of harming the baby or yourself, and severe depressive symptoms.' ”

It was all making sense. This explained what Joan had been talking about when she described Miriam's strange behavior after the baby died. No wonder Clayton had tried to tell his family that Miriam was sick. They all believed she was simply pining away after the
Englischer
she was still in love with. But it wasn't that at all. She really was sick.

I'd stake my store on it. Miriam Raber had postpartum psychosis.

“Amanda, this is it,” I said, my eyes still fixed on the brochure.

“I know! It says if a woman has postpartum psychosis, she needs to be hospitalized. It won't go away on its own. It only gets worse.”

I looked up at my brilliant wife. “Miriam probably had this and no one knew it. Joan said she just kept getting worse and worse.”

Amanda nodded, pleased to have solved a riddle that had lasted for sixty years. And we were both relieved to know what really happened to Miriam back then. It had a name. Though rare, it was a true medical condition.

“
Danke,
” I said, reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze. She smiled in return.

We decided to go straight to the Helmuths' with the brochure. I felt hope growing in my chest, hope that maybe this information would soften Becky's heart enough for her to let me back inside to see Joan for one more try. I figured it wouldn't hurt either to have my sweet, charming, delicate pregnant wife in tow, just as a reminder that our livelihood depended on finding Clayton Raber.

When we got there, Becky was outside in her squash garden with a rake in her hands. She looked up as I drove in, set her rake down, and came toward us. I helped Amanda out of the buggy.

“What now?” Becky asked, frustration on her face and in her voice.

“We stopped by because I have something new to tell you,” I said.

“I'm sure it's nothing I want to hear,” she replied, her words biting.

Ignoring her words, I motioned to Amanda, who quickly produced the brochure. “We think we've figured out why Miriam Raber started acting so odd after she lost the baby. We think maybe she had this illness.”

I added, “Amanda saw this today at the birthing center in Gordonville, and we decided to bring it right over.”

Becky stared down at the brochure's glossy front as if it were poisonous to the touch. She looked up at me with the same venom in her eyes. “How many times do I have to say this to you?
Stay away from here
. You're upsetting my mother, me—the whole family!”

“I just thought you would want to know,” I said. “Please take it. Joan would want to know what it says.”

Becky turned around as if she were going to stomp off without it. Then she faced Amanda and, in one swift motion, ripped the brochure from her hand. She scooped up her rake and propped it against the house as she entered through the door, which she slammed soundly behind her.

After the shock of our encounter wore off, Amanda let out a whistle. “You weren't kidding, Matthew. These people are difficult.”

She looked over at me, cautiously, perhaps expecting me to be upset or angry, but I returned her gaze with a smile.

“It may look hopeless now,” I said as I helped her back into the buggy. “But I think once she reads the pamphlet for herself—if she does—she'll be grateful for the information. This might even change her whole attitude.”

“I sure hope so.”

After we returned home, Amanda lay down for a nap, and I made my way to the store to relieve Noah for a break. I stayed busy while he was gone, but once he returned I went into the back room and checked the pile of the day's mail stacked on my desk, hoping there might be a response to my information request for the police file on the death of Miriam Raber, the one I'd
submitted online on Friday. It was supposed to take five days, the website had said, but I was feeling optimistic.

It wasn't there.

I sat at my desk and studied the pile of papers before me. I wished I could talk to someone who was involved back then, a detective, police officer—anybody. They probably wouldn't remember where Clayton had gone when he left Lancaster, but at least they could confirm whether he would have been required to give them his new address, and if that address would have gone into the police record. Otherwise, there was no reason to wait for the stupid information request anyway.

So much for doing things the Amish way
. As it turned out, face-to-face conversations with real people were no better than the fancy
Englisch
computer-related searches and tracking technology. Apparently, no one was going to find Clayton no matter what method they used. I sighed heavily. The Amish network had let me down.

I returned to the front of the store, my mind still going over other avenues to try, other possibilities. I wondered if the old newspaper reports would have had the name of the detective or detectives involved with the case. Though it would take a lot of time and trouble, I could try going to the Lancaster library to find that information—but then a thought struck me.

Didn't cops have a sort of network, kind of like the Amish did? I'd read about it before, a “brotherhood of the badge” or something. The officer at the police department hadn't been all that helpful, but maybe I could ask the one policeman I actually knew personally, one who helped us out in the past.

The officer's name was Nick Iverson, and he'd been the one to respond last fall when we had a theft at the store. It was our own fault, really.
Daed
had forgotten to put away an outdoor display of Amish-made birdhouses one night, and they ended up disappearing by morning. I was really frustrated—and maybe I shouldn't even have involved the police—but it was just one more loss to our diminishing finances, a good several thousand dollars of inventory down the hole. At least the church allowed such an action on my part, and Nick ended up being sympathetic and respectful. He even helped track down the stolen items, acting on a hunch. It turned out, thanks to a big local football rivalry, that the items had been taken by some spirited teens who had been planning to put them in the individual lockers of the opposing team members. Apparently, the thieves' mascot was a blue jay, and the birdhouses were to serve as an intimidation technique, a sort of symbolic calling card.

Remembering all of that now, I called the station and asked for Nick by name. The woman on the other end told me where I could find him, saying he was working an event at a local firehouse. I thanked her for the information and hung up, deciding to go over there and speak to him right away.