by Janette Oke
“Miss Walsh?”
Lillian was on her feet just a little too quickly to be considered poised. “Yes, Mr. Dorn?”
“I’m going to drive out to the local orphanage again, where we have a confirmed record for Miss Bennett. I thought you might like to pay a visit there.”
“Oh, I would. Yes, please.”
The slow drive through crowded streets took them to a two-story brick house on a small lot beside a little creek. Mr. Dorn slowed to a stop for a moment at the side of the road where Lillian could see the property well. He broke the silence to explain, “We don’t have many orphanages in the West. Often they’re merely charity homes organized by churches to care for a few children in the short term. Many community families take in children. In fact, for decades children from England have been brought to Canada in hopes of relieving some of the terrible overcrowding there. And even those Home Children are quickly placed.”
Mr. Dorn seemed to be offering a chance to understand the situation better. Lillian was grateful and hurried to take advantage of the moment. “Why do so many families seek to adopt?”
“Children are quite vulnerable, Miss Walsh. They often fall victim to childhood diseases or accidental deaths. A family may produce several children and still only raise one or two to adulthood. Yet in these frontier areas children are also an essential part of a functioning household—a productive farm. They often work just as hard and as long as their parents. So if a family is unable to bear children of their own or if their youngsters pass away, adoption is a necessary solution.”
“Oh, I see.” It was rather easy to believe Mr. Dorn, having been adopted herself. And then, “But it doesn’t seem that Gracie was adopted.”
“Yes. That’s true. I’d expect that was due purely to her medical troubles.” As Mr. Dorn pressed the gas, the vehicle lurched into a narrow driveway between the creek and the house. Mr. Dorn turned off his car. It rattled its last gasp and fell silent. “Please don’t expect any great revelations, Miss Walsh. We’ve already been here before. They have a file that includes Miss Bennett, but we’ve already looked through her paperwork thoroughly and we know what it contains. However, I felt you might like to speak to them for yourself.”
“I understand. And I truly do appreciate this opportunity. Thank you.”
The home was very still, not at all as Lillian had pictured an orphanage to be during the summer months. Are the children at play? Elsewhere? She dared whisper another question to Mr. Dorn.
“It’s likely that they’re in training. Many orphanages now provide schooling in labor skills.”
Lillian would’ve preferred to see the children scampering about the home or playing in the yard near the little creek.
The man who met them at the door ushered them down the empty front hallway toward an office where a second man worked alone at a desk.
“Welcome, Mr. Dorn. We’ve been expecting you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bevins. May I introduce Miss Walsh?”
The man pushed back his chair and strode around his desk in order to shake Lillian’s hand. “I hear you’re looking for a long-lost sister. I’m sure it’s a stressful time for you. Whatever we can do to assist you, I’m pleased to help.”
He offered seats to Lillian and Mr. Dorn with a wave of his hand. “I took over the running of this home only a year ago. We’re a larger organization, so we seem to have a quicker turnover rate than most—both in children and in staff. Miss Walsh, as I’ve explained to your solicitor, Grace Bennett was placed in our home for only a few months. Then it was revealed that she’d tested positively for tuberculosis, also known as consumption. Both frightening words, I’m afraid. Miss Bennett was quickly removed. The director at that time felt she wasn’t adoptable. Please understand, in those years there was no way to tell if a person who’d reacted poorly to the injection would eventually come down with the disease. It seems harsh, I’m sure. But they were making the decision based on the needs of all the other children with the best medical advice they had at the time. And their fears were real. Most families had lost members to the dreadful malady—as many as one in seven deaths at the time.”
“I understand.” Lillian’s expression was grim. She forced herself to speak her mind even at the risk of sounding ungrateful. “But how is it we can’t learn where she went next?”
“Oh, we do know that.” The man returned to his desk chair and opened a manila file folder laid out in front of him. “We know she was moved to a small home outside of Lethbridge. The only trouble is, we also know that home closed down, very soon after Miss Bennett would’ve been a resident. And when it closed, all its documentation was lost.”
“No one kept their records?”
“No. It was a private home as well. And the government doesn’t require those records to be turned over to anyone. So they were likely just burned.”
Lillian glanced at her hands in her lap for a moment, then back to Mr. Bevins again. “Can you tell me anything about Grace? Are there pictures? Was she relatively healthy? Does her file say if she—I don’t know—made friends easily? Had any particular talents? Any information at all?”
The man’s eyes lowered as Lillian added question after question. “We just don’t know much. I’m sorry. That kind of detail wasn’t recorded. It would only be available to you if we could locate someone who had actually worked here at the time.”
“And there’s no one?”
“I’m sorry. As I said, we have a high turnover rate for staff. They don’t stay long and they rarely inform us where they’re going next.”
“I see.” His words sounded hopeless. Lillian struggled to suppress her urge to capitulate. It threatened her ability to think clearly. She took a deep breath in an effort to clear her mind, clenched her gloved hands just a little tighter. “Well, could you please tell me what you know about Grace’s faulty diagnosis? If she tested positively, why didn’t she eventually fall ill?”
“Yes, I think I can help a little with that question, though I’m no doctor. It’s not unusual for us to see an exposed child remain well. We know more now about the causes of disease, and even about this specific bacterium. However, mere exposure, and certainly a positive test reading, does make it expressly more difficult to place a child into a new family. Doctors are just beginning to understand the difference between active and latent forms of the disease, but I’m afraid that the general public adjusts to these concepts very slowly. And, as I’ve said, almost everyone knows of friends and relatives—even famous artists and politicians—who died of consumption. So they think, ‘Why take the chance on an infected child and put my family at risk?’”
“You’ve seen situations like this before.”
“Oh yes. Your sister, for instance, was sent to Lethbridge with an older boy of similar circumstances.”
Taking a slow breath, Lillian contemplated aloud, “Another child—a boy. Well then . . . are there any other people mentioned in the boy’s file? Any names at all of other children, or of the staff where Grace and this boy were sent?”
“For the other home? Let me see . . .” Leaving Grace’s paperwork on his desk, he turned to a row of wooden filing cabinets and drew open a dated drawer. “We did check through Grace Bennett’s information carefully and there weren’t any leads like you’re describing. So I assumed we had nothing to offer you. But now that you mention it, I haven’t thought to check—yes, here’s his file. I have his documentation.” He shuffled through the forms quickly, muttering as if to himself. “Roland Scott. Date of admittance. Doctor’s assessment. Release form. Well look, there is a name! Willard Everett. The boy’s intake papers from Lethbridge are signed by a Willard Everett, who must have worked at that home.”
“Well, that’s something, isn’t it?” Lillian turned toward Mr. Dorn.
“Yes, it could be worth pursuing,” he agreed. “But please don’t set your heart on it too quickly. For all we know, that man has passed away as well.”
“You’re right, of c
ourse, but it might be something—some new avenue to explore. Now, how do we track down Willard Everett?”
“We make telephone calls. Perhaps a trip to Lethbridge may be in order at some point. We’ll do what we can.”
Mr. Dorn began the search for Willard Everett. Lillian found herself trying to picture what he might be like, feigned conversations in her own mind where he was discovered and he knew of Grace. She tried to stay hopeful, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.
Father had boarded his ship by now. He was steaming across the ocean toward Cardiff and the shores of his homeland. Lillian wished that she could hear his voice, could explain all that had occurred since he’d been gone and ask for any advice he might offer. And she knew as surely as she knew her own heart that Father was spending much of his time wondering about her as well. Please, God, please take care of him. He’s all the family I have at the moment. He’s so very important to me. She remembered that Grace Bennett’s uncle had probably contracted tuberculosis while on a ship. Could Father? And then she stopped short as realization struck. No, that man was my uncle too. The Bennetts, her first family, still felt like complete strangers—distant and unknowable.
There really wasn’t much of significance to report, but before Lillian retired after a disappointing and exhausting day, she sat at the small table in her room to write a brief note to Father. She knew he wouldn’t receive it until after he arrived at his destination, but at least he’d be reassured that they were continuing to search. The thought did little to cheer her. After all, even the name of a man associated with Grace seemed to be getting them nowhere. She sighed wearily. Would she ever find her sister? Had Father been right when he said it may be a fool’s errand?
But the very next day Mr. Dorn announced that they’d discovered the location of Willard Everett. He was working as a schoolteacher in a small southern town. And this morning he would await their telephone call.
As much as Lillian coached herself to expect little, she found that her heart raced as Mr. Dorn asked the operator to connect him. She wished desperately that she could’ve heard both sides of the conversation. Leaning as far as she dared across the solicitor’s massive oak desk, she held her breath in order to listen more intently.
“Mr. Everett, my name is William Dorn. I’m making inquiries regarding a child who was housed at the Little Pines Children’s Home outside of Lethbridge. I believe that you . . . Yes, sir, that’s what we discovered.” A pause. “The child’s name was Grace Bennett. This would be more than a decade ago. She’d be a young woman by now. . . . I’m sorry, what?” A long pause with several nods of his head. “Well, yes, sir, I’d be very interested in that.”
Lillian’s head began to swim. It must be good news. It must be at least another piece to the puzzle. Please, God, let it be good news!
“Yes, I have a pen ready.” Mr. Dorn scratched down an address and noted other information that Lillian was unable to read upside down. “Well, I’m pleased you remember, sir. I’m sure this will be of great benefit to our search. . . . Yes, thank you. And you have a good day too, Mr. Everett.”
He dropped the receiver onto its base. A wide smile broke across his face. Lillian wasn’t certain if she’d ever seen him smile before. “Well, Miss Walsh, it seems you have a gift for investigation. That was, obviously, Willard Everett—the name you yourself discovered. And he remembered your sister. More than that, he knows where she currently resides.”
Lillian blinked hard, struggling to comprehend. “Where she lives? Now?”
“Yes. Right now. She’s living in Lethbridge.”
“Thank You, God,” Lillian whispered aloud. Lethbridge isn’t too far from Calgary by automobile. “How soon can we travel there? I want to see her as quickly as possible.”
“Of course, but we’ll need to contact her by telephone first if we can. We want to do this in a manner that is gracious to Miss Bennett as well. We don’t want to shock or upset her if we can avoid it. I’ll make some more calls and . . .”
Questions tumbled from Lillian’s lips. “Where does she live? Does she live alone? Does she have a family? Will she have a telephone?”
“All in due time. All in due time.”
It was a struggle for Lillian to hold herself in check that evening. It seemed she should be doing more—something to close the gap that still held her apart from her sister, something more than pacing across the floor of Miss Simpson’s home. Lillian tried to read, tried to pray, tried to calm her anxious mind.
Forcefully, she reined in her troubled thoughts, refusing to allow herself to travel down a dark path of worry that threatened to begin. At last, even though in some ways it was against her better judgment, she settled at the little table and pulled forth paper and pen. She had to reach out to someone, and Father, though he was many miles away and though she’d just written to him, seemed to be the only confidant she had in the world. If only he were there to share her anxiety. How much time will pass before he’ll even be able to receive and read my letter?
It had always been Mother with whom Lillian had been so close, sharing her personal feelings, but she felt certain that by now her father would somehow understand this terrible expectancy—this sensation that she would implode if something wasn’t settled soon. A tear slid down her cheek as she lifted the pen and began to write. Dearest Father, this time, we may actually have found Grace. . . . She stopped. She hardly knew what else to say.
His sandwiches were gone, the milk bottle emptied, and Lemuel still had not found a job in the prairie city of Lethbridge. He’d found shelter—of sorts. An empty store on a side street had a shed in the tiny backyard, where barrels and broken bits of former furnishings and miscellaneous garden tools were piled in haphazard fashion. It didn’t appear to have been used for some time, so Lemuel pushed his way through the dust and cobwebs and managed to scrape together enough space to stretch out for a night’s sleep with his blanket on a mat made of discarded newspapers he’d pulled from a trash bin. At least they would keep him off the dirt.
He shoved the small case with his few belongings into a corner covered by a tattered old awning, deeming the forgotten shed his off-the-street home. He tried to find some way to keep his spirits up even though his heart had pounded with fear that he’d be caught as he’d moved stealthily through the alleys. This shed’s much better than any dark corner I ever found in London, he told himself. Shopkeepers there were much more vigilant, constantly chasing away the street children who fought for possession of any little bit of shelter. However, it took considerable effort to keep his thoughts from asking the persistent questions that plagued him most. Why? Why am I alone again? What’s wrong with me?
After the first night of solitude Lemuel had seriously considered seeking out help. Surely there would be some representative of the society in this town. After all, this was where he’d been turned over to Mr. and Mrs. Andrews. He could still remember the faces of the man with the funny-brimmed hat and the other with gray whiskers—even the teenage boy with the red flag. Were they still in the area? Could he find them? And, even more importantly, would they help?
He had questioned those he met in the street as discreetly and nonchalantly as he was able and learned from the pastor of one of the town’s churches, as he was sweeping off the front steps, that no one from the society remained in the area. The only people directly involved operated in the East—or at least as far away as Winnipeg, halfway in between. For Lemuel, seeking them out would involve traveling many miles either by hitching rides or hiding away on a train. He didn’t relish the idea of either.
So as he slipped quietly from his hidden shelter the next day, sneaking stealthily out into the alley and stretching out his back and arms and legs in an effort to make them limber again, he resolved to make his own way instead, to make the woman proud by being independent and responsible. And, less clearly defined in his heart, he hoped to somehow show the man as well. Was there a chance they’d meet again? The farm was many miles away, bu
t the man had returned him to this place—the same place from which he’d been received. If I get employed here, will the man come back again? Will he realize that I’m worth keeping after all—maybe take me back to the farm no matter how crowded it is? Maybe.
Lemuel carried the reference letter carefully tucked in his jacket pocket whenever he left his shelter so that he might pull it forth and show it to any prospective employer. It was so difficult not to tell lies as he answered the series of inevitable questions. At last he settled in his own mind that the woman wouldn’t count it a sin to claim just a couple more years of age, to speak as if his parents had only recently died, to claim he had a room in a nearby boardinghouse. That’s almost true. The place where I sleep is kind of a room, though certainly not in a house. It felt sort of like a discarded island, remote and isolated. However, he was certain he could honestly say he wasn’t ever truly alone. After all, he could hear intermittent ruckus from the nearby hotel at all hours of the night. Sometimes feet would shuffle down the alley just next to where his head lay, or the butcher’s dog would chase a cat away with a great racket. In fact, he told his timorous conscience, he honestly wished he were far more alone at night than he actually was! The weight of the morality of the farmer and his wife was a burden he hadn’t carried back in London. He feared it may cost him much, but when his thoughts returned to the woman, he determined to try to live up to that standard—that whenever possible he’d divert the questions instead, switching quickly to another topic if his answers felt too deceitful. As near as he could figure from all those times of reading the Bible, their God was the same One his parents had prayed to, and He didn’t seem to approve of lying.
Lemuel’s first success came on his third day. A woman needed her cellar cleared of the past year’s potatoes in order to be ready for the new crop soon. It was a smelly, disgusting job, but in exchange Lemuel was given an evening meal and a refill of the milk bottle. It was another two days before a shop owner agreed to trade two apples from his crate in exchange for sweeping out his storage shed. Apart from such bartering, food scavenged from the trash bins was all he had to eat. The very next morning he felt blessed when he received the opportunity to sweep the sidewalk outside the barber shop. But for that chore he was offered only a free haircut. Lemuel didn’t feel in need of a haircut, but he accepted. Maybe it’ll help to look less scruffy.