by Shelley Wood
She looked up at me. I was blushing terribly and did so even more deeply when I saw her gaze flicker over my birthmark.
“Did you ever consider art school, Emma?”
I didn’t know what to say, because before we’d moved north, I’d longed for little else. Living up here, where prospects are so few, I had at last made peace with letting that dream go. Mrs. Fangel said that she’d attended the Boston School of Fine Arts, then Cooper Union in New York.
“There are many international students, you know,” she said while I was trying to untie my tongue. I finally managed to say that I’d just finished a practical nursing diploma in North Bay and was hoping to stay on as a nurse at the Dafoe Nursery.
She nodded and didn’t say anything more for a moment, instead opening my scribble book and leafing through it again. When she spoke she said, “Have you ever used pastel or watercolors?”
“Not since school,” I replied. “And that was many years ago, when we lived in Ottawa.”
She closed my book and stood, handing it back to me.
“Let’s go paint the girls, shall we?”
For the next two hours, Mrs. Fangel let me sit at her easel and showed me how to mix my colors and choose my brush. She taught me angles and strokes and how to shadow my shapes for depth and light. Then, when it was time for her to leave, she gave me her card and said I should keep in touch.
“I’d love to see how you get on,” she said and shook my hand.
But that wasn’t all. She gathered up her easel and paints and pastels, then turned to me and said, “I have more supplies than I know what to do with; you won’t mind if I donate these to the Dafoe Nursery, will you?” She gave me a wink.
This time my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, and it was all I could do to choke out a thank-you. I thought I was going to cry.
Ivy put her arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze and said she’d make sure I put them to good use. Even the Captain seemed pleased for me, which is saying something.
It’s late now. Past midnight, I’m sure. My eyes are trying to go to sleep on me before I’ve even finished writing this down. What a day! What a day.
June 1, 1935
THE CAPTAIN HAS quit. Nurse de Kiriline has quit!
It simply doesn’t make sense. We’d celebrated the quintuplets’ “real” birthday on Tuesday, this time a quiet and private affair. I remember noticing the Captain’s look of peace and contentment. The past year has aged her more than any of us; the lines etched into her lean face are deeper and more numerous, surely, than they were when she first arrived at the farmhouse last year. But there is something softer about her too. I watched her lifting little Cécile out of her chair and holding her high in the air, Cécile gurgling happily. The Captain’s expression was the same as I feel on my own face these days. Cracked wide open with joy and pride and wonder. I know she has borne the brunt of the tense interactions with the formidable Mme. Dionne in recent weeks, but she is tough as nails.
The quintuplets’ birthday was front-page news in all the papers, I’m told. The Captain has a scrapbook where she has been collecting many of these stories, with friends and colleagues in different cities sending her clippings when they see them. Who will collect all these for us now, I wonder.
Ivy says Nurse de Kiriline and Dr. Dafoe spoke in private after the quiet celebration we had for the girls’ birthday—their real birthday. The Dionnes came over for cake and tea, the parents as well as the children, and the atmosphere was better, I thought, than at the big party last week with all the reporters and government bigwigs gathered around for the photos. The Captain has been very strict with the other Dionne children in the past—they are so rough-and-tumble, compared to the quintuplets. But she was very kind to them at the birthday, I thought, serving them their cake and giving them little gifts of their own. Mme. Dionne is pregnant again, having never really lost the weight she gained when she was carrying the quintuplets. She is now as wide as an icebox. After tea, she needed help to rise from her chair. I simply can’t imagine bearing a single child, let alone spending my every adult year carrying baby after baby. It gives me shivers.
Mr. Davis has a reporter’s nosiness, Ivy says, and he may be able to sniff out the reason the Captain has left us so quickly. In the meantime I’ve asked Dr. Dafoe for her forwarding address, which he gave me stiffly, with reluctance. I would like to write to her to thank her for taking me on last year, when she could have chosen anyone to help during those difficult days.
The upside of all this is, I’ve been asked to move into the dormitories at the Dafoe Nursery full-time. I think Father and Mother will be glad to have the house to themselves again—they got used to me being away when I was at St. Joe’s, I imagine. Father has little to say to me these days, his nose buried in the news from Europe. And Mother seems a bit low. Allergies, she says, making her feel poorly, but she has dark circles under her eyes and no energy for the garden, which she usually loves this time of year. I can’t help but worry. Most mornings she’s still in bed when I set off for the nursery on my bicycle. By the time I’m home at night, she has already retired for the evening.
August 18, 1935
THERE ISN’T A single hour in the day when I have time to pick up my paintbrush or jot down a few things here. Ivy has been visiting her sister in Toronto these past two weeks, her first proper holiday since the quintuplets were born, and that’s meant more responsibilities for me and little time for myself. I’ve loved every minute of it.
If I take up my pen these days, it is only to note the daily measurements for the babies. Dr. Dafoe is now working with Dr. Blatz, a scientist from Toronto who visits regularly and who has explained how marvelous it is to be able to monitor the progress of five identical girls. We now follow a strict schedule for toilet, dressing, nourishment, and indoor and outdoor play, and we must make note of their moods, activities, and interactions, their height, weight, bowel movements, and any outbursts. Annette and Yvonne now weigh twenty-two pounds each. Cécile is slightly less, but has six teeth, two more than any of the others. Marie and Émilie were nineteen pounds, eight ounces, at today’s weighing, and twenty-eight inches tall. Yvonne, Cécile, and Annette crept past thirty inches today.
“We are making an important, an unprecedented contribution to science, ladies.” That’s how Dr. Blatz put it to us, with Dr. Dafoe by his side staring studiously into the distance and swaying forward and back, his hands clasped behind his back. “It is an honor and a privilege to be a part of this historic work.”
The babies were highly agitated for the first few days of Ivy’s absence, nattering at me in a language they alone can understand. Presumably they want me to explain where Ivy has gone and when she’ll be back. They will be overjoyed when they wake tomorrow to find her bustling about their cribs. I know Mr. Davis has also felt the sting. I’ve noticed he spends scarcely half the time with us to take his photos each morning as he does when he’s got Ivy here to tease and impress.
The latest nurse to join us on staff is Nurse Inès Nicolette, who hails from a small town near Quebec City. She is very devout and has made a special point of trying to teach the girls to put their wee hands together for the Lord’s Prayer. Cécile is the only one who seems to understand this is not a lowly game of patty-cake, donning a serene and studious expression and moving her mouth in silent imitation of her new minder. The Dionnes approve of Nurse Nicolette greatly, partly, I’m sure, because she speaks not a word of English. They have invited her to Sunday dinner tonight, which is absolutely unheard of.
Last thing: Mother is pregnant! I don’t know what to think. This explains why she and Father seemed so out of sorts when I was staying at home in the spring. They are over their surprise and worry now, it seems. I haven’t seen them looking so happy in years. It is a tough time to bring a child into the world, but my salary here at the nursery will be a big help, and there is no talk these days of the Callander post office closing—the sheer volume of mail arriving for the
quintuplets, the doctor, and the Dionnes alone could keep the doors open.
When I was little I was desperate for a brother or sister but assumed that Mother and Father feared having another child who looked like me. It certainly never occurred to me that my parents might actually have been hoping for another all those years.
I haven’t been able to get home to see them in weeks, but Mother and Father came out on the bus last week to share the news. You could have knocked me down with a feather.
“I won’t be taking a pebble when I leave this time,” Mother said, gesturing at the souvenir stones in the baskets by the gate, winking at Father as she said it. I wanted to slip through the slats of the porch! Even the papers are now reporting that these stones bring good luck and fertility. I’d thought it was harmless nonsense, until now. The stones are wildly popular with all the tourists, however. Dr. Dafoe has hired the Cartwrights, father and son, to bring in new stones from the lakeshore by truck each morning, having cleared the nearby fields of all pocket-size rocks.
Dr. Dafoe was already crouched at his desk when I summoned the nerve to knock, his funny egg-shaped head wobbling over his papers, his glasses sliding down his nose. He has started decorating the walls with framed photographs of himself with the quintuplets as well as some of the glossy advertisements that have aired in the past few months: “Why Colgate Dental Cream is Dr. Allan Roy Dafoe’s Choice for the Dionne Quintuplets.”
“Yes, Emma?” he said and pushed his glasses back into position with a stumpy finger.
“My birthmark,” I blurted out. “Will my brother or sister have it too?”
He simply sat there blinking, his small hands clasped primly in his lap. Then he gave me his most reassuring professional smile—broader even than the one in the dental cream advert. “Birthmarks are random, my dear, and very rare. It is highly unlikely that your little brother or sister will have one.”
I’m relieved, of course. I’m glad this baby likely won’t be bullied, or pitied, or passed over as I have been. But I also thought: How nice it would be to have someone else in the world who looks a little bit as strange as me.
August 22, 1935
WE HAD TORRENTIAL rain today, so Dr. Dafoe suggested I accept a ride with Mr. Cartwright, who brought the stones this morning, rather than walk into Callander for my day off. Father was in the front yard weeding the borders when we turned onto my street, and he straightened up as the truck approached. When he saw Mr. Cartwright at the wheel, Father’s face broke into a smile—something we don’t see too often in our house. It turns out he and Mr. Cartwright used to be quite friendly when we first moved to Callander. At that time, Mr. Cartwright had an office beside the post office. They stood chatting together long after I’d gone in to see Mother. Father told me later that Mr. Cartwright is an educated man—he used to be a bookkeeper to most of the bigger businesses in the region before they went under. Father thinks he sold what he could when the economy started downward, using the money to buy his truck.
“Neil Cartwright used to tell some very funny stories about some of the richest fools in this part of Ontario,” Father said, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose reflectively. “Quite a change of pace, hauling pebbles for superstitious tourists. These are strange times.”
The funny thing is, on the short drive to town, Mr. Cartwright had been telling me about his son Lewis, who was doing some other errands today—they typically work together. He said Lewis studied to be a high school teacher, but there are no jobs for teachers these days, particularly with so many students dropping out before their senior year. It seems almost no one’s life ends up taking the shape first imagined for it.
August 30, 1935 (Toronto Star)
* * *
EXHIBITION NEWS: DIONNE QUINTUPLETS
TORONTO, Ontario—”Aren’t they darling.” That’s the byword around the St. Lawrence Starch Co. booth in the Pure Food building at the Canadian National Exhibition, referring of course to the world-famous Dionne quintuplets. A huge photograph of these babies measuring approximately 8 feet long and 4 feet high is on view showing a close-up of the kiddies that outrivals anything ever shown before.
The St. Lawrence Starch Co. is certainly proud of the fact that Bee Hive Golden Corn Syrup was used in the first feeding of the Dionnes, and rightly so as this product is certainly one of the greatest energy builders that is on the market today. This delicious corn syrup is not only good for babies but for adults and growing children as well.
Used with permission.
September 27, 1935
Miss Emma Trimpany
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
Dear Nurse Trimpany,
Thank you for your note. I’m sorry it has taken me some months to reply. I haven’t quite felt up to it. Please understand that it pained me to leave as abruptly as I did. At some point in the future I may be in a position to explain myself in full, but that is not the case now. Suffice it to say that I believe my number one priority at the Dafoe Hospital and Nursery was the health and well-being of the quintuplets, but my second, perhaps equally important priority is the health and well-being of my staff. It is my belief that the escalating confrontation between everyone vying for the babies has become so volatile as to be unsustainable. I am greatly concerned by the tactics that M. Dionne appears to be prepared to use in his mission to regain full custody of the quintuplets and by the lengths Dr. Dafoe will go to to stop this. Indeed, my own interactions with Dr. Dafoe have become such that I have taken my concerns to the other guardians. My dearest hope is that they appreciate the gravity of the situation and take steps to safeguard the babies, hospital, and staff.
I’m sorry I am unable to say more. You have an artist’s eye for detail and insight into the people around you. Be sure you put it to good use.
Yours sincerely,
Louise de Kiriline
P.S. I am enclosing the scrapbook I was keeping of the babies’ lives. It’s time I set aside the habit of wondering what the press is saying about them, and us. I hope you can be convinced to keep it up.
December 10, 1935
The film crews and celebrities have finally packed up and left, but what a month! The film is to be called The Country Doctor, with Jean Hersholt starring as “Dr. Luke” and Dorothy Peterson playing the head nurse. If you told me two years ago that I’d be shaking the hands of two Hollywood film stars before my twentieth birthday, I’d have laughed until I was hoarse.
Dr. Dafoe was very strict with all of our Hollywood visitors. Every day the actors and actresses, technicians, cameramen, and any other support staff entering the nursery had to don gowns and masks, then have their noses sprayed by me or Ivy, while the doctor paced the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Me, Emma Trimpany, spraying the hairy nostrils of Mr. Jean Hersholt twice a day. It is simply too funny.
I hope they will use some of the scenes with Ivy holding the babies in the background or leading them out to the yard to play. I was never asked to be in front of the cameras at all, and I’m perfectly fine with that.
December 14, 1935
DR. DAFOE DRESSED up as Santa for our early Christmas with the girls today, Fred snapping photo after photo. This year the girls weren’t the slightest bit put out by his costume. Émilie marched over to him laughing and pointing, and when he stooped down to lift her into his arms, she reached up and tugged his beard clean off. Half of Fred’s pictures will show all of them gathered around the world’s most famous physician inexplicably dressed as an elf. Annette, Yvonne, and Cécile then trundled over, and it was dog pile on le Docteur while Marie scrambled to join in. “Doh-Doh,” they call him, Yvonne and Annette managing “Le-Doh-Doh.” The doctor loves it. He is a different man than he was before the quintuplets were born—less of a fuddy-duddy and more comfortable with being the center of attention, even when he pretends he doesn’t like it.
The real stars are the babies. You see them everywhere now, and not just in the newspapers. The
y are pictured in advertisements for Bee Hive corn syrup, Lysol, Quaker Oats, and Palmolive. Mrs. Fangel did the artwork for many of these adverts, but I think she needs to pay us another visit to see how much the girls have changed. There is one out now for Pears baby powder, and the drawing of the babies does not look much like them at all.
December 24, 1935
BACK IN MY little bedroom in Callander, or what used to be my bedroom. Father and Mother have redone the room completely—new drapes and shelving, a crib and change table, a fresh coat of egg-yellow paint on the walls, and all my silly girlhood things packed away in the attic. They will keep my bed, they’ve assured me, and I’m welcome to come and visit anytime. But I can see that they feel, as I do, that I’ve flown the nest and it is now being feathered anew for the little one due any day.
Mother is tired and slow on her feet, but she otherwise looks better than I have seen her in years. Christmas is always a terribly busy time at the post office, but Father, too, seems to be brimming with energy. How strange for them to be repeating this process, so many years later. They don’t seem to see it that way at all. I’m hoping the baby will come while I have these few days off from the nursery so I can be of some help to Mother. Otherwise I will have to ask to take additional time off, and I’m loath to do so.
It was the younger Cartwright who drove me back to my mother and father’s tonight. Lewis Cartwright has ferried me home or back several times now. He is a good foot taller than his father, well over six feet, with gangly limbs that seem to struggle to stay still, twitching the way a bird on a branch will shift and reshuffle its feathers. It is quite something to watch him fold himself behind the wheel of the truck. He’s a very kind young man, I can tell, but it is simply impossible for me to imagine him as a teacher in front of an unruly class. His father, Neil Cartwright, could talk a leg off a donkey, but Lewis needs to be cajoled by his father before he’ll utter a word, and, even then, he sometimes has a hint of a stutter and speaks so softly, it’s hard to catch what he’s saying. When it is just him and me in the truck, there is little in the way of conversation. Our drive to Callander tonight was entirely silent apart from a few pleasantries at the outset. As we drove along, I’m sure I could hear the first snowflakes landing on the cab. How utterly different from my noisy days in the nursery.