Minding The Amish Baby. Carrie Lighte
its direction and heading back toward the main road. She figured it must have been desperate Englischers who were lost and needed help finding their way. But if that was the case, why had the driver honked as if deliberately trying to wake the household, and then left as soon as Tessa appeared, without waiting to receive directions first?
As she was about to close the door, something at her feet caught her eye. She peered through the near dark. It was a basket of laundry, of all things! Tessa was aware Turner paid an Amish widow, Barbara Verkler, to do his laundry for him, but she was perplexed by the absurd manner and timing of its delivery. She lifted the cumbersome basket, brought it indoors and was about to put out the lamp when something inside the basket moved beneath the light cloth draped across the top. A mouse? She didn’t need another one of those getting indoors. Tessa wrinkled her nose and gingerly lifted the fabric.
There, bedded snugly on a pillow of clothing and diapers, was a chubby, pink-cheeked, toothless and smiling baby that appeared to be about three months old. The infant kicked her feet and waved her arms, as if to say “Surprise!” But Tessa was beyond surprised; she was so stunned she staggered backward. Was this a joke? The baby flailed her limbs harder now and her smile faded as she began to fuss. Tessa realized the child wanted to be held, and as she lifted the baby from the basket, an envelope slid from the blanket onto the floor.
Sensing it would provide information about whatever prank someone was playing on her—she didn’t think it was a bit funny—Tessa bounced the baby in one arm and opened the envelope with her other hand. The note said:
Dear Turner,
I’m sorry to leave Mercy with you in this manner, but I know I can count on you to take good care of her for a few weeks until I’ve had time to decide what to do next. Please, I’m begging you, don’t tell anyone about this—not even Mark or Patrick, if you can help it.
Your Lynne
Tessa couldn’t believe what she was reading. This baby was intended for Turner’s doorstep, not hers; the driver must have seen the address on the mailbox and assumed Turner lived in the daadi haus. So, who was Lynne? Tessa always assumed there was more to her serious, enigmatic landlord than what met the surface, but she never imagined he was guarding a secret like this. Before she had an instant to contemplate what to do next, someone pounded on the door. Had the driver realized his mistake and returned for the child?
“Tessa!” Turner shouted urgently, as concerned for her safety as he was annoyed about the disruption to his sleep. “It’s me, Turner. Are you all right?”
When the door opened, Tessa was pressing a finger to her lips. “Shh. You’ll upset the bobbel,” she chastised, gesturing with her chin toward the baby she cradled in her other arm, its face obscured by Tessa’s posture.
Taken aback, Turner lowered his voice and uttered, “A bobbel? What—”
“Kumme inside,” Tessa directed. “There’s something you need to read.”
In the kitchen Turner took the note Tessa thrust at him. He scanned the message and upon noting its signature, a surge of wooziness passed from his chest to his stomach and down to his knees. Lynne—the girlhood nickname he’d given Jacqueline. Feeling as if he was about to pass out, he plunked down in a chair and covered his face with his hands. His first thought was, I’ve heard from Jacqueline. Denki, Lord! But it was immediately followed by a rush of anguish over the circumstances surrounding her communication. His mind was roiling with so many questions, concerns and fears, he felt as if the room was awhirl.
When the dizziness diminished, he opened his eyes. Noticing a torn envelope lay on the table in front of him, he bolted upright again. “Why did you open my note?” he asked.
“If I had known it was meant for you, I wouldn’t have!” Tessa huffed, swaying from side to side as she spoke. Turner could now see the baby clearly; her eyelids were drooping and her long, wispy lashes feathered her bulbous cheeks. “But when someone leaves a bobbel on my doorstep in the middle of the night, I’ll search for any clue I can find.”
“Who? Who left the bobbel with you?” Turner figured it wasn’t Jacqueline—she wouldn’t have made the mistake of leaving the baby at the daadi haus instead of up the hill.
“I assume by the car the person or persons were Englisch, but I didn’t see the driver or if there were any passengers,” Tessa responded. “Don’t you know who Lynne is?”
“Of course I do,” he affirmed, without answering what he assumed Tessa really wanted him to tell her: Who was Lynne? “I just wasn’t sure who dropped the bobbel off.”
“‘Dropped the bobbel off’ is putting it mildly. This kind was abandoned,” Tessa emphasized. “What kind of person does something like that in the dead of winter? If you want, I can stay here with Mercy while you go to the phone shanty.”
“The phone shanty?” Turner repeated numbly. “Why would I go there?”
“I assume you’ll want to call someone...like Lynne? Or the Englisch authorities?”
“Neh!” Turner responded so forcefully the baby jerked in her state of near sleep. “Neh,” he repeated in a whisper.
“Why not?” Tessa pressed.
Turner stalled, studying the baby. Even in the dim light and with her eyes closed, she was clearly his sister’s child. With her dark tuft of hair, roly-poly build and snub nose, she looked exactly like Jacqueline did as a baby. “You know we respect the law, but we don’t involve the Englisch authorities in private matters like these,” he said, referring to the general Amish practice of managing their own domestic affairs whenever possible. “Mercy was left in my care because her mamm had an emergency. If you hand her to me, I’ll take her home now.”
Tessa hesitated before placing the baby into Turner’s arms. “Okay, but it will be easier for you to carry her in the basket. Let me fix this one so it’s more comfortable and secure.”
She left the room and when she returned, Tessa emptied the basket before placing a firm cushion on the bottom. Then she showed Turner how to swaddle the baby with a light blanket. She covered the lower half of Mercy’s body with a quilt, emphasizing to Turner that it was only for the short walk to his house. “You probably already know this,” she said, “but bobblin this age mustn’t have any loose blankets in their cradles because blankets can cause overheating or even suffocation.”
Turner shuddered to realize he hadn’t known that. What other serious mistakes might he make?
Placing the contents of the basket in a separate bag, Tessa observed, “At least someone took care to pack windle, clothes, a bottle and some formula. Look, there are even instructions on how to prepare it and what time she eats.”
“Gut, then I should be all set,” Turner said, trying to project assurance.
Tessa arched an eyebrow at him. “Have you ever cared for a bobbel on your own before?”
“Neh, but I raised my sister from the time she was a toddler.”
“That’s not the same as caring for an infant this young.”
Turner knew Tessa was right, but what else could he do? He felt duty bound to honor Jacqueline’s request not to tell anyone about Mercy, so asking his sisters-in-law for help was out of the question. “That’s my private matter to manage and I’d like it to stay that way,” he said pointedly, turning toward the door.
“Wait,” Tessa said. Surprised by the weight of her hand on his arm and the authority in her voice, Turner pivoted to look at her. The skin above the bridge of her nose was dented with deep lines, and worry narrowed her big brown eyes. “Mercy’s sleeping now, but that won’t last long. Joseph has temporarily reduced my hours at the shop, so I just work Saturdays now. If you’d like, I’m free to watch the baby during the day while you’re