The Home for Unwanted Girls

by Joanna Goodman

  Maggie and Gabriel went to Mercy Hospital first—an unpleasant experience in which they were rebuked and stonewalled by a team of nuns, and Maggie made to feel like a criminal for having gotten pregnant at fifteen. Afterwards, Maggie understood how Clémentine must have felt in her own hometown.

  Saint-Nazarius is set back on a vast campus surrounded by at least a dozen separate pavilions. The main entrance is housed in a stately gray stone building, U-shaped, with endless rows of white dormer windows. The center of the main building resembles a church, with two stone pillars on either side and a prominent cross on the roof.

  “Ready?”

  She looks over at Gabriel and gives him an unconvincing nod.

  They get out of the car and he reaches for her hand. They enter through the front gate and approach the building in silence.

  The psychiatric pavilion, with its barred windows, cavernous hallways, and strong stench of bleach, gives Maggie a terrible feeling of dread. She does a full sweep of the floor, which is ominously clean and quiet, and wonders where the children are.

  At the front desk, Maggie introduces them as the parents of an orphan who might have been transferred here in ’57. “She was born on March 6, 1950.”

  The nun, thin-lipped and bespectacled, cuts Maggie off. “I can’t help you,” she says. “All the patients’ records are sealed.”

  “I have her Record of Transfer,” Maggie says, retrieving it from her purse and holding it out to the nun. “I know most of the orphans from outlying towns were sent here or to—”

  “You gave her up, did you not?”

  “Yes, Sister, I did, but I was sixteen at the time,” Maggie explains. “I’m in a position to take care of her now.”

  “The records are sealed, madame. You gave up your rights to them.”

  “But if she’s here,” Maggie says, her voice rising, “isn’t it the best possible outcome for all of us if we take her home?”

  “Can’t you check the records,” Gabriel intervenes, “and tell us if she’s here?”

  “We know the exact date she was transferred,” Maggie adds, pointing to the Record of Transfer.

  “You’re wasting your time, madame.”

  “But we’re her parents,” Maggie cries, losing control. “Besides, this barbaric experiment is about to come to an end anyway. Dr. Lazure has already declared that the orphans don’t belong in mental hospitals.”

  “It doesn’t work that way,” the nun interrupts. “We still have laws in Quebec. If the girl was ever here, it’s because she’s mentally deficient.”

  Gabriel places his hand on Maggie’s forearm to calm her.

  “Can’t you just confirm if she’s here or not? Or if she ever was?” Maggie pleads, softening her tone. “A quick peek at her file?”

  “I will not,” the nun snips indignantly.

  Gabriel is glaring at Maggie, silently admonishing her to keep her cool. She ignores him. “I’ll come back with a lawyer if I have to,” Maggie threatens as another nun approaches the desk.

  She’s short and broad-shouldered, with a round face and wide-set brown eyes. “Hello,” she says warmly, taking over from her colleague. “My name is Sister Ignatia. Is there something I can help you with? I’m one of the ward supervisors.”

  Her friendly demeanor immediately puts Maggie at ease. “Yes, Sister,” she says, relieved. “Thank you. I’m looking for my daughter, Elodie. She was transferred here in ’57—”

  An unmistakable flash of recognition crosses Sister Ignatia’s eyes. Both Maggie and Gabriel catch it and exchange hopeful looks.

  “Elodie de Saint-Sulpice,” Sister Ignatia says, and the other nun gives her a sharp look.

  “Yes!” Maggie cries, her heart pounding.

  “I knew little Elodie.”

  Maggie’s heart stops. “‘Knew’?” she manages.

  “She was seven when she was transferred here.”

  “Yes,” Gabriel says. “She’s not here anymore? Was she adopted?”

  “Elodie was very sick when she got here,” Sister Ignatia explains. “She died not long after. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”

  Maggie collapses against Gabriel. She feels his hand enclosing hers, hears the nun saying something about Elodie being very weak from birth. All Maggie can think is that she failed her daughter.

  “I can make you copies from her file,” Sister Ignatia offers.

  When Maggie doesn’t respond, Gabriel says, “Yes, please. That’s very kind.”

  Sister Ignatia disappears down the hall, her shoes squeaking on the linoleum, her habit sweeping behind her. They wait about twenty minutes in bereaved silence before she returns with a Saint-Nazarius envelope.

  Maggie numbly opens it and glances down at some of the scribbled notes. Even through the blur of tears, some of the words leap off the page.

  Profound mental retardation. Danger to herself and others. Paranoid delusions. Violent outbursts and convulsions. Influenza.

  The diagnosis is signed by someone at the Hôpital Mentale Saint-Sulpice. The name is illegible. A scribble.

  “She wasn’t mentally retarded,” Maggie says, looking up.

  Sister Ignatia smiles sympathetically, but doesn’t say anything. Her look—full of pity and recrimination—says plenty.

  “This can’t be right,” Maggie says. “Is it possible there’s been an error? A mix-up?”

  “I knew her, madame,” Sister Ignatia says softly. “She had many problems. Not only health issues, but grave mental and emotional problems, too. Those notes were written by a doctor.”

  “Where’s the death certificate?” Maggie wants to know. “There’s nothing in the file after 1957. Not even a mention of her death.”

  “If there was a death certificate,” Sister Ignatia responds calmly, “the government would have it.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if’?”

  “Your daughter was mentally deficient and born out of wedlock,” Sister Ignatia says gently, her voice as sweet as syrup. “It’s unlikely there’s any record of her death, let alone her life, other than what you’re holding in your hand.”

  Outside, Maggie picks up a rock and throws it at the hospital’s brick facade. “I don’t believe her,” she says, turning to Gabriel.

  “Maggie—”

  “My daughter is not dead. I’m going to write to the government and request her death certificate.”

  He pulls her close and tries to hold her, but she fights him off. “I’m not just giving up.”

  “That nun has no reason to lie,” Gabriel says softly. “It’s time to let go.”

  “I’m not letting go,” Maggie states. “I don’t believe that woman. She had a sinister face.”

  “I get that you need to keep believing—”

  “My daughter is alive and I’m going to find her.”

  Chapter 43

  Elodie

  1961

  One afternoon in the final days of winter, when the outside world is gray and colorless through the barred windows, and all the snow has melted, Elodie is called away from her sewing machine in the middle of her shift. She gets up from the Singer and follows one of the nuns down the corridor in silent consternation. Swoosh. Swoosh. Never will she forget the portentous sound of the nuns’ habits sweeping the floor.

  They go up the six flights of stairs to the main lobby of the mental ward, but instead of going through the locked doors that lead to Elodie’s ward, the nun stops in front of one of the offices and knocks.

  “Entrez,” comes a man’s voice.

  The nun opens the door and gently nudges Elodie into the room. “Elodie de Saint-Sulpice,” she says, before disappearing.

  “I’m Dr. Lazure,” the man says, reaching for a file on the desk. Barely looking up. “Sit, please.”

  Elodie doesn’t move. As she realizes what’s happening, her body goes numb.

  “I won’t bite,” he says.

  She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes. She’s frozen. Whatever she says a
nd does in this office will decide her fate. She messed up last time. She said the wrong things, and they thought she was dumb or retarded or difficult. Whatever mistake she made, it ruined her life. She can’t let it happen again.

  The doctor is watching her. She feels herself trembling. Still, she can’t budge.

  “There’s nothing to be scared of,” he says. He seems kind enough, but she knows better than to trust him. Twice she’s been fooled by doctors; both times she paid dearly for her poor judgment.

  “Sit,” he repeats, more firmly.

  Finally, her legs move and she does as she’s told.

  “I’m part of a psychiatric team investigating institutions like Saint-Nazarius,” he explains. “We’re examining hundreds of children like you—”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re part of a commission tasked with determining whether or not you and others like you belong in a place like this.”

  “What’s a commission?” Elodie asks, and then regrets it immediately. Terrified he’s going to think she doesn’t know anything; that she’s retarded or ignorant, like Sister Camille said.

  “It’s a duty or a project assigned to a group of people,” he answers neutrally. “I don’t work at this hospital, you see. This isn’t my office. I’m just visiting. I’m here to ask you some questions.”

  She nods, taking a nervous breath. She notices the file in front of him and can’t help but stare at it. It’s her file. She can see the numbers 03–06–50 on the front cover and recognizes them as her date of birth.

  “Shall we start?” he asks her.

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  “Remember, I’m here as an ally.”

  She has no idea what that means—ally—but this time she doesn’t dare say so.

  “How long have you been here, Elodie?”

  “Four years,” she says.

  “And before that?”

  “The orphanage.”

  “And you’re now . . . ?”

  “Eleven?” she says tentatively, wondering if it’s a trick question.

  “It’s not a test,” he says, reading her mind. “Elodie, do you know why you’re here at Saint-Nazarius?”

  “No, sir.”

  He scribbles something in her file.

  “Because the doctor from the orphanage thought I was retarded?” she ventures. “Or crazy?”

  Dr. Lazure continues scribbling in her file.

  “On Change of Vocation Day,” she explains, “Sister Tata told us we were all mentally retarded, but me and Emmeline and a couple of other girls, we were the only ones sent here to Saint-Nazarius. So we must have done something wrong—”

  Dr. Lazure looks up at her, but doesn’t say anything.

  “I’m not retarded,” Elodie says, her voice rising. “I don’t belong in here.”

  “I don’t disagree with that.”

  “I’m an orphan,” she tells him. “Not a mental patient. Sister Camille says I’m backwards from being here so long, but that doesn’t mean I’m crazy.”

  “Indeed not.”

  “So I may not know all the answers to the questions you’re going to ask me,” she says. “But I’m not crazy.”

  Dr. Lazure nods, frowning. She can’t tell if she’s displeased him or said something wrong. Shut up, she silently reprimands herself. “I didn’t know the answers to the other doctor’s questions and that’s why they sent me here. But I was only seven—”

  “This isn’t a test you can fail.”

  “Isn’t it?” she says. “I want to get out of here. I have to.”

  “I understand.”

  She shakes her head. “No, you don’t.”

  “Tell me,” he says.

  “They killed my friend,” she blurts. “Emmeline de Saint-Sulpice. We came here together. She wasn’t the first one they killed either.”

  Elodie stops and covers her mouth with her hand. She’s done it again. Said too much, the kind of reckless babbling that already got her into terrible trouble with Sister Ignatia. What if this doctor tells on her like the last one did?

  “That’s a very serious accusation,” Dr. Lazure says.

  “It’s true, though,” Elodie continues, unable to stop herself. “They gave Emmeline an overdose of Largactil. Another girl was killed for singing. They weren’t retarded either. They were just orphans, like me—”

  Dr. Lazure is nodding. There’s a deep crease between his eyes. Elodie knows she’s made another serious mistake. She looks down at the floor, trying to hide her trembling lip and tears.

  After a moment, in which the crease in Dr. Lazure’s forehead softens, he says, “Can you tell me what this is, dear?”

  He holds up a picture of what looks like a box with knobs.

  “No, sir,” she responds.

  “It’s a radio,” he tells her. “What about this?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It’s an accordion. And this?”

  “A car,” she says, recognizing it at once.

  He holds up more pictures of different objects, asking her what each one is. She knows some, but not all.

  “This is a refrigerator,” he tells her, when she fails to guess.

  This is a pineapple, a telephone, a present. A tractor, a heart.

  “It’s just like last time,” she interrupts, her voice breaking. “I’ve never seen these things, but it doesn’t make me crazy!”

  “Of course not,” he agrees.

  “I’m ignorant,” she tells him. “That’s all.”

  He smiles sadly and writes something in her file.

  “If you’re letting us out of here,” she says, “do you think you can arrange for me to go back to Saint-Sulpice? In case my mother comes back for me?”

  His expression clouds. He looks away, avoiding her.

  “That’s all for today,” he says.

  She sits there for a moment, not wanting to leave without something concrete to latch on to, a promise or some shred of hope to get her through the remainder of her days here. “I don’t belong here.”

  He nods in response and gets up from the table.

  The days trickle by lethargically, each one gloomier than the one before. Girls from Elodie’s ward start disappearing, but she remains. Sister Camille assures her that her day will come, but she’s beginning to wonder. The older girls—the ones who are eighteen, nineteen, in their early twenties—are being sent out into the world with a single suitcase and a prayer. They’ll have to find work and places to live, a mandate that to Elodie seems insurmountable given their limited skills and knowledge about the world. Elodie is grateful she’s only eleven.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Elodie’s head snaps up to find Sister Ignatia standing above her.

  “I’m just sitting here rocking,” Elodie responds, her tone slightly more defiant than usual.

  “The toilets and floors in your dormitory bathroom need scrubbing,” Sister Ignatia says, her black eyes hard. “Now that Yvette is gone, it’s your job.”

  “I already have a job—”

  The back of Sister Ignatia’s hand lands squarely against Elodie’s temple before she can finish her sentence.

  Elodie clutches her head to stop the ringing in her ears. She can feel hot tears burning her eyes. “When I get out of here—”

  “You’re not getting out,” Sister Ignatia interrupts.

  “I’m an orphan,” Elodie says, emboldened. “That’s why the doctor interviewed me.”

  “And where do you think you’re going to go?”

  “Back to a real orphanage or a foster home, somewhere my mother can find me.”

  “Your mother’s dead,” Sister says, her tone almost triumphant.

  Elodie feels her pulse start to pound. “No, she’s not,” she says, her voice a tremor. “You’re just saying that.”

  Sister Ignatia’s expression is void of pity. “It’s in your file.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Elodie manages, her mouth dry.

/>   Sister Ignatia turns suddenly and leaves the room. Elodie rocks back and forth, trying to calm down. Could it be true? Her mother dead?

  The girl in the rocking chair beside her—one of the real mental patients—lets out a loud yelp.

  “Shut up,” Elodie mutters.

  The girl yelps again, baring her teeth like an animal.

  “I said shut up!” Elodie cries, tears spilling down her cheeks. The retarded girl grunts something and whimpers.

  The next thing Elodie knows, Sister Ignatia is back, waving a file in her face. “Here,” she says, holding it up. “Just so you know, once and for all.”

  Sister opens the file. “‘Mother deceased,’” she reads aloud, and then she turns it so Elodie can see for herself. Elodie can make out the word “mother,” but the other word—“deceased”—is just random letters. She doesn’t remember how to read very well.

  “She’s dead,” Sister says. “She died in childbirth—God’s punishment for her sins. You have no father. You’re a bastard, and you’ve nowhere else to go. You’re too young to go out on your own, and too old for an orphanage or a foster family. No one wants a pubescent girl. You’ve fallen between the cracks, so this is where you’ll be staying.”

  “It’s not true,” Elodie says, her voice catching.

  Sister Ignatia smirks. “It’s right here,” she says, pointing to the elegant script, permanently recorded in black ink. “‘Mère décédée.’” Mother deceased.

  “But you’ve never said so before!”

  “I’m saying so now.”

  Chapter 44

  Maggie

  Maggie steps inside the seed store and turns on the lights. She hasn’t felt up to being here since her father died, but tonight she was inspired to come back and reconnect with him. She looks around with a stab of grief. Her father will never set foot in here again, never roam the floor or ring up a sale or engage in another political debate with the French farmers he derided and adored so much. It’s Maggie’s place now.