alienlike creature and a combination of affection and uneasiness presses into me. I’ve not spent much time around babies. In fact, I’ll be the first to admit I’m more than a little out of my element. Even so, there’s nothing more heartrending than to look into the eyes of such a tiny and vulnerable human being and know someone abandoned her.
“I’ll just let you hold her while I get dressed.”
Before I can object, the Amish woman places her gently in my arms. She must have sensed my hesitation—or maybe the instant of panic in my eyes—because she chuckles. “Keep her head in the crook of your arm to support it.” Bending slightly—ignoring my discomfort—she coos at the baby. “Just like that.”
Tugging the cardigan around her, she nods at Tomasetti and leaves the kitchen.
I’m staring down at the baby in my arms, relieved she’s not crying. I’m already looking to hand her off to someone else. I’m aware of Tomasetti moving closer to get a look at her face.
“She doesn’t look very old,” he says.
For a second I wonder how he could know that, then I realize he was a father of two before we met. “How old?” I ask.
“If the cord is still attached”—He shrugs—“a few hours. ER doc should be able to narrow it down.”
Bishop Troyer sidles up to me. “I’m very glad she stopped crying.”
Alarm niggles me at the thought of holding a screaming baby, but I shove it aside. “Bishop, do you have any idea who might’ve left her with you?”
The three of us stare down at the baby. “I don’t know,” he says, looking baffled.
“Do you know of any expectant mothers who might’ve been confused or frightened about having a baby?” I prod. “Troubled marriages, maybe?”
“No, Katie,” he tells me. “Nothing like that.”
I nod, knowing that even in the Amish community, some secrets are tightly held.
“Bishop, can you take us through exactly what happened?” Tomasetti asks.
The old man relays the story from the moment he was awakened until he opened the door and discovered the laundry basket on the front porch. “I think there was a knock, but I can’t be sure.”
“Did you see or hear anything else?” I ask. “A car? Or a buggy?”
He nods. “When I stepped onto the porch, I heard something or someone on the other side of the lilac bushes. I called out, but they ran away.”
I recall the tall bushes that grow alongside the lane. “Did you see anyone?”
He shakes his head. “It was too dark.”
“Any idea how long the baby was on the porch?” Tomasetti asks.
“Not too long,” the bishop replies. “Once I was awake, I got up right away and came downstairs.”
Tomasetti nods down at the baby in my arms. “The quilt was with her?”
“Yes.”
I look closely at the quilt. It’s a pretty patchwork of rose and cream. “It’s Amish,” I tell him.
“A nine patch.”
I glance up to see the bishop’s wife approach, fully dressed and toting a second crib blanket. “To keep her from catching a chill.”
“Ada, do you recognize the workmanship on this quilt?” I ask.
She examines the fabric. “Hmmm. I don’t recognize the stitching. Or the pattern or color combination. And there are no initials. It’s well made, though.”
I turn my attention to the bishop. “Was there anything else with her?”
The Amish man picks up a wooden rattle off the table and hands it to me. “I believe this is Amisch, too. My uncle made several just like it for our children.”
“Sometimes the women will crochet a little cover for the newborns,” Ada adds. “Makes it softer for the tender gums since they like to put everything in their mouths.”
The rattle is made of wood—maple or birch—and constructed with a four-inch-long smooth dowel with one-inch round caps on either end, and three rings around the center.
I turn my attention to the bishop. “We’re going to need to take that.”
Tomasetti reaches into an inside pocket of his jacket and removes a
“I’ll just let you hold her while I get dressed.”
Before I can object, the Amish woman places her gently in my arms. She must have sensed my hesitation—or maybe the instant of panic in my eyes—because she chuckles. “Keep her head in the crook of your arm to support it.” Bending slightly—ignoring my discomfort—she coos at the baby. “Just like that.”
Tugging the cardigan around her, she nods at Tomasetti and leaves the kitchen.
I’m staring down at the baby in my arms, relieved she’s not crying. I’m already looking to hand her off to someone else. I’m aware of Tomasetti moving closer to get a look at her face.
“She doesn’t look very old,” he says.
For a second I wonder how he could know that, then I realize he was a father of two before we met. “How old?” I ask.
“If the cord is still attached”—He shrugs—“a few hours. ER doc should be able to narrow it down.”
Bishop Troyer sidles up to me. “I’m very glad she stopped crying.”
Alarm niggles me at the thought of holding a screaming baby, but I shove it aside. “Bishop, do you have any idea who might’ve left her with you?”
The three of us stare down at the baby. “I don’t know,” he says, looking baffled.
“Do you know of any expectant mothers who might’ve been confused or frightened about having a baby?” I prod. “Troubled marriages, maybe?”
“No, Katie,” he tells me. “Nothing like that.”
I nod, knowing that even in the Amish community, some secrets are tightly held.
“Bishop, can you take us through exactly what happened?” Tomasetti asks.
The old man relays the story from the moment he was awakened until he opened the door and discovered the laundry basket on the front porch. “I think there was a knock, but I can’t be sure.”
“Did you see or hear anything else?” I ask. “A car? Or a buggy?”
He nods. “When I stepped onto the porch, I heard something or someone on the other side of the lilac bushes. I called out, but they ran away.”
I recall the tall bushes that grow alongside the lane. “Did you see anyone?”
He shakes his head. “It was too dark.”
“Any idea how long the baby was on the porch?” Tomasetti asks.
“Not too long,” the bishop replies. “Once I was awake, I got up right away and came downstairs.”
Tomasetti nods down at the baby in my arms. “The quilt was with her?”
“Yes.”
I look closely at the quilt. It’s a pretty patchwork of rose and cream. “It’s Amish,” I tell him.
“A nine patch.”
I glance up to see the bishop’s wife approach, fully dressed and toting a second crib blanket. “To keep her from catching a chill.”
“Ada, do you recognize the workmanship on this quilt?” I ask.
She examines the fabric. “Hmmm. I don’t recognize the stitching. Or the pattern or color combination. And there are no initials. It’s well made, though.”
I turn my attention to the bishop. “Was there anything else with her?”
The Amish man picks up a wooden rattle off the table and hands it to me. “I believe this is Amisch, too. My uncle made several just like it for our children.”
“Sometimes the women will crochet a little cover for the newborns,” Ada adds. “Makes it softer for the tender gums since they like to put everything in their mouths.”
The rattle is made of wood—maple or birch—and constructed with a four-inch-long smooth dowel with one-inch round caps on either end, and three rings around the center.
I turn my attention to the bishop. “We’re going to need to take that.”
Tomasetti reaches into an inside pocket of his jacket and removes a
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