Page 105 of Shamed

The irony of the statement burns. I think about Mary Yoder. Noah Schwartz. Sadie Stutzman. Bishop Troyer. Three lives snuffed out, a fourth irrevocably changed. And for what?

The Amish woman looks up at me. “You’re Amisch?”

“I was,” I say, hoping she’ll talk to me, willing her to talk.

In the distance, sirens wail. Vernon Detweiler lies prone and unmoving just a few yards away. Outside the sliding door, Tomasetti kneels, speaking quietly to the injured deputy.

I look at Rosanna Detweiler and I feel a hundred unasked questions pushing against the floodgate.

“I know what it’s like,” I say to her. “All those rules. All the expectations.”

She stares at me, saying nothing.

“There’s a lot of pressure to conform when you’re Amish,” I say slowly. “A lot of cultural norms. I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t abide. I couldn’t be the girl they expected me to be.”

“The Amish and all their morals.” Bitterness rings hard in her voice. “How moral were they when they took my baby?”

I wait, hoping she’ll continue.

Her gaze settles on her husband. Pain flashes in her eyes at the sight of him facedown in the dirt, the blood on his clothes. Tears squeeze between her lashes. “All he ever wanted was to have a family,” she whispers. “Little ones, you know. It was the one thing I couldn’t give him. I tried, but … He went to them, you know.”

“The Helmuths?”

“Vern went to see Mary Yoder. A week ago in Painters Mill. He asked her to return the girl. The child that was rightfully ours.” Her mouth tightens. “The old woman refused. She threatened to go to the bishop. The police, even. Such a selfish, stubborn woman.” Her lips tremble. Tears stream down her cheeks. “I realize this must sound crazy now, but had things worked out differently, Vern would have been a good datt.”

It’s an outrageous statement, but I let it go without a response.

“Sadie thought I was hurting the babies.” She whispers the words as if she’s sharing some secret that’s so forbidden it cannot be uttered aloud. “She never said as much, but I knew. I could tell by the way she looked at me. All the questions.

“I didn’t hurt them. I would never commit such a terrible sin. Maybe I wasn’t as good a mamm as I should have been. You know, cooing and kissing and the lot. I think Sadie must have picked up on that.”

She’s thoughtful for a moment. “They were special, you know. Little Amos and sweet Bonnie. They were slow learners. Like Nettie. The doctor said it was too early to tell, but I knew.”

“They had Cohen syndrome?” I ask.

Nodding, she raises her hands, brushes tears from her cheeks. “The doctor said it was SIDS that killed them. That didn’t keep people from talking. You know how the Amish are. They may be pious, but they love their gossip—almost as much as they love God.” A bitter smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “Vern and I heard every cruel word.”

I think about Sadie Stutzman. The minutes I spent with her at her small house on the river. Those poor babies … The midwife’s concern had not been ambivalent. Were her suspicions correct? Or is this woman telling the truth or some version of it? Is it possible Sadie Stutzman and the bishop did something unthinkable?

“And Nettie?” I say.

“I barely remember the birth. It was difficult and long and I was half out of my mind with pain and exhaustion. Afterward, Sadie told me she was gone. We didn’t question. We never got to see her. Or hold her. We were so grief-stricken it’s all a blur.”

“And the grave?” I ask. “The marker?”

She shrugs. “Someone dug the grave the night she was born. They put up the marker. I don’t know who.”

The sirens are closer now. Two of them, rising and falling in a weird harmonization. I stare at the Amish woman, my heart tapping a hard tattoo against my ribs.

“At some point, you realized the truth,” I say.

“Vern was always suspicious. I mean, after Nettie. A couple of months ago he ran into Elmer Moyer. They’d had a falling-out over money before. Elmer had accused Vern of shortchanging him. That night, Elmer was drunk and started taunting Vern, telling him he’d driven a baby up to Painters Mill. Vern came home in a state. Angry, you know. Furious, in fact.”

She closes her eyes, tears squeezing between her lashes. “He dug up the grave later that night and, dear God in Heaven, there was nothing there.”

“What happened to Elmer Moyer?” I ask.

“He left town. Ran away.”