Nolan Trilogy

by Selena Kitt

  “My daddy was the guy who knocked me up.” Lizzie stabbed the barely remaining butt of the cigarette out in the ashtray, looking up at them staring at her. “What?”

  “You’re joking,” Marty said with an uncomfortable laugh, meeting Leah’s eyes.

  “Nope.” Lizzie blew the last bit of smoke out of the corner of her mouth. “When I told the ghoul, she said my baby would probably be born deformed. Said he’d probably have to be raised by the nuns.”

  Joan Goulden—all the girls called her the ghoul, because she wore so much makeup and she never, ever smiled, so her red-lipsticked mouth would droop into a frown, and her heavily made-up eyes behind her thick glasses—was the social worker who handled their adoptions. She came once a month, like the doctor, and met with all of them, asking all sorts of invasive questions.

  “You told her?” Leah blinked in surprise.

  “She wouldn’t stop asking me who the father was.”

  Leah knew the drill. And although she had refused, so far, to tell the ghoul—“Joan, dear, you can call me Joan,” as if they were the best of friends—who the father of her baby was, now she knew she could never, ever give in and reveal the truth, or her baby wouldn’t be placed in a respectable home.

  What if he’s deformed?

  She rubbed her belly through her white cotton nightgown, feeling the baby moving. It wasn’t long after the doctor had heard the heartbeat—a few weeks—when she’d felt it for the first time. She’d been in the shower and she’d thought, at first, it was just the water running over her rounded belly.

  They had two bathrooms for thirty-two girls, one on each of the residence floors. The toilets were lined up in stalls, six of them, but the showers were open, community affairs, just showerheads in a line along one tiled wall, no curtains or anything.

  There was no privacy in Magdalene House and the nuns walked in whenever they liked, coming in to hurry them along while they were scrubbing up, wet and naked at six in the morning. The girls kept tabs on each other’s bellies, watching navels evolve from tucked away “innies” to flattened whorls to poked-out little bits of flesh.

  They watched each other growing bigger and bigger—and bigger still—faces and bellies getting rounder every week. The girls whose names were near the top of their weekly rotating chore list were the biggest, getting ready to pop—that was Marty’s phrase.

  Marty had been teasing her about her belly-button, her long red hair like wet copper over her creamy white shoulders as she poked Leah’s tummy, “It’s gonna pop out any minute now!” Marty’s navel was already slightly extended, and she’d felt her baby move a hundred times, she said. “Like butterflies,” is what she claimed it felt like.

  Leah had turned off the shower, standing there wide-eyed and dripping on the tile, the first time she felt it, sure she was imagining things, but no—there it was again. Like the lightest of touches, a sweet caress, only it was on the inside of her body.

  “Did you feel it?” Marty had asked, grabbing Leah’s arm. “You’re feeling it, aren’t you? Did you feel it?”

  Leah just nodded, meeting her friend’s eyes with a wondrous stare, and Marty had hugged her, both of them laughing and crying at once, naked and wet on the tile, their roommates hearing the commotion and coming over to join in the group hug.

  She felt him moving now—she was sure it was a “him,” and she was sure he looked like his father, with thick, dark hair and bright blue eyes—but it wasn’t butterflies anymore. Now it was little pokes and prods. She imagined him in there doing back flips and somersaults. A little dancer already!

  But what if he’s deformed?

  There was a time, way back at the beginning, when she had wished her baby dead. She’d wished herself dead too. Finding out the man she had fallen in love, the man whose baby was growing inside of her, was actually her own father, had thrown Leah into a despair so deep she couldn’t see any bottom.

  It was Father Michael who had buoyed her up from the other side of the confessional screen, who told her God had a plan, and her sins could be absolved, no matter how bad they were. She’d managed to choke out the most pressing part of her dilemma—she had missed two periods and was pretty sure she was pregnant—but had never gotten around to telling him who the father of the baby might be.

  Only her mother knew.

  Father Michael had phoned Leah’s mother, asking her to come to the church. He had been the one to convey the news her daughter was likely with child. Patty Wendt didn’t ask whose baby it was, because she already knew. She looked at Leah curled up and sobbing in a chair in the Father’s office, shaking her head in disbelief and disgust.

  Leah might have confronted her, accused her mother of lying to her for years about who her father was, demanded answers—but she was too lost in her own pain to care. The only thing that mattered was the truth. However it had happened so long ago between her mother and Mr. Nolan, Rob was Leah’s biological father, and nothing could change that fact. That was why he couldn’t marry Leah, that was why she had to go away, far away, and “take care of” her problem by giving birth and then giving away whatever monstrosity was growing in her belly, a baby fathered by her own father.

  Leah had spent four weeks in the nunnery wishing herself dead, wishing the baby dead. They’d both be better off, she reasoned. And then they’d moved her to Magdalene House, and she’d found herself surrounded by other girls like her, girls who had made the same mistakes, whose sins were just as great, whose bellies were growing just as round, and she’d found herself hoping again.

  But what if…?

  “That’s awful, Lizzie.” Leah stroked the blonde down on the girl’s thin arm, glancing over at Marty, seeing the horror in her eyes, Frannie’s too. “I’m sorry.”

  “My mistake was telling the ghoul in the first place,” Lizzie said morosely, covering her belly with her arm. “Now my poor baby’s doomed. Poor little nugget.”

  “She’s coming!” The voice from the doorway startled all of them. It was the new girl—the new ‘Jean.’ Leah studied her face, the slanted eyes and wide cheekbones, seeing that Lizzie had been right. “Bed check!”

  The girls had a schedule for the turret, taking turns by rooms and always preparing a watch. It was usually the new girl who got sent up as a warning, because she was the one most likely to get caught. Seniority. The nuns didn’t do bed checks every night or even every week, never giving them a warning when they might be coming.

  The girls scrambled to stash the ashtray and the cigarettes, turning off the radio and hiding it too before heading for the stairs. The one thing about the nuns’ insistence that they be quiet all the time made it easy for all of them to move around, quiet as mice.

  “Thanks, Jean.” Marty grabbed the older woman’s hand. She stared at them, wide-eyed. “Come on, hurry!”

  They got down the stairs and back to their respective rooms—Jean was in the room next to theirs. Marty steered them all into their room at the end of the hall, shushing them and sending them to bed. Leah crawled into hers, heart hammering in her chest, squeezing her eyes shut and praying not to get caught. The warning system wasn’t foolproof—once Sister Benedict had made it up the stairs before they could get back to bed. She caught them in the hallway in their nightgowns, all four of them. They’d had to clean toilets with toothbrushes that time.

  Hurry, Marty! Hurry! Hurry! She peeked through slitted eyes at her friend’s empty bed. She was down the hall making sure Jean got back to bed, of course. Marty was their self-appointed leader and took it on herself to take responsibility for the well-being of all the little mothers in the house.

  Leah heard Sister Benedict on the stairs, the sound of her heavy tread and labored breathing. Marty still wasn’t back yet. Her other roommates were in their little twin beds, covers pulled up, feigning sleep. Leah was too, the smell of bleach heavy on the sheets and pillowcase. The nuns seemed to think there was nothing a little bleach and boiling hot water couldn’t fix—except maybe unwed pregna
ncy.

  And they had found a solution for that too.

  Marty appeared in the doorway, out of breath, and bolted for her bed. She’d made it back, but just barely. Leah and Marty slept next to each other, and Frannie and Lizzie had beds side-by-side across from them. Marty reached her hand out in the gap between their beds and Leah grasped it, squeezing briefly, a gesture of reassurance and solidarity, before letting go. She heard Sister Benedict down the hall and they held still in their beds, waiting for her arrival.

  The beam of the flashlight moved over their open door and Leah closed her eyes tight, pretending to sleep—mouth open and drooling, breathing deep and even. She felt the Sister’s flashlight beam move over her face, seeing red behind her closed eyelids, before the nun moved on. The girls remained quiet, even after she was gone, and eventually their unconscious façade became reality as they fell asleep, one by one.

  But Leah stayed awake thinking about Rob, feeling the little man in her belly doing acrobatics, excited by the adrenaline rush. She still couldn’t accept what her mother had told Mr. Nolan, overheard words that had changed Leah’s life forever, “She’s your daughter.” Leah didn’t want to believe it, but she’d never known her mother to lie before. Why would she?

  She lied to you about your real father…

  Her whole life, Leah had believed her father, Victor Wendt, to be dead, killed on a Navy ship, but if what her mother said was true, her father had been in her life all along. Mr. Nolan, her best friend’s father, was also her own. She didn’t understand the reasons behind her mother’s untruth, but the outcome had been disastrous.

  Falling in love with Erica’s dad hadn’t been planned, but it had happened, and they had both been very happy together. They’d been planning on marriage, a home, a life—but her mother had ended all of that with three words. Carrying his child was no longer a cause for celebration—now there was only reproach and exile.

  Her mother’s betrayal had left her completely alone, abandoned. She ha

  d been banished from everyone who loved her, everyone she loved. There was no one left, except the baby in her belly, and because of that, she was determined he get a chance at some semblance of a life. It had never occurred to her that her love with Rob could create anything less than perfection, but now she wondered.

  She didn’t want anything to be wrong with him, not really. But if, like the “new Jean,” he was “different”—well, that didn’t make him any less human or worthy of love, did it? God loved them all—isn’t that what the scriptures said? And she would love him, no matter what. She loved him already, sight unseen. In fact, she found herself hoping maybe he was “different”—would they let her keep him then, if he was imperfect?

  God worked in mysterious ways, right? That’s what they always said.

  She rolled over in the darkness, hearing Marty snort in her sleep. There was no telling what the future held, that much was for sure. She once thought she knew, had it all planned out, and things crumbled around her like sandcastles in the wake of a tidal wave. She could only worry about the things she could control, the little things in her charge, and this baby was the only thing she had left. She wanted him to live, to have a full, rich, rewarding life, and in order to do that, if she had to lie, she was fully prepared to do so.

  So when the ghoul asked about her baby’s parentage, she would continue to avoid and evade and, if need be, lie. It didn’t matter if her mind conjured up images of hideous deformities, she knew her baby was perfect, whatever his parentage happened to be. It wasn’t his fault his parents had made an unintentional mistake. She was determined her baby wouldn’t have to pay the price for the secret her mother had kept all those years.

  Whatever happened, Leah knew she could never, ever tell.

  Chapter Four

  Elvis kissed her.

  It was just a brief thing, a brush on the cheek, but Erica swore she would never wash her face again, clutching the photograph the star had autographed to her chest and practically hyperventilating just watching him sign more autographs, taking pictures with a big, bright smile on his face.

  “Happy?” Her father put his hands on her shoulders.

  “Beyond!” Erica smiled up at him, their eyes meeting, and she felt Leah’s absence profoundly in that moment, in spite of her delight at the attention of her favorite singer.

  “I’m glad.” He kissed the top of her head, moving on, threading his way through the crowd to talk to Father Patrick on the other side of the room.

  Erica was surprised to see both Father Michael and Father Patrick at this particular function. She thought Father Michael might secretly be a closet Elvis fan—he’d hinted as much the couple times she’d talked to him about music—but Father Patrick thoroughly disapproved of rock ‘n roll, which he labeled Satan’s music, and Elvis was the devil.

  Hypocrite, she thought. She had her camera, the one issued her by the school, since she planned to cover the story for Mary Magdalene’s little rag of a newspaper. She lifted it up, peering through the viewfinder, and panned the room, looking for a good cover story photo. Miraculously, perhaps a gift from God himself, Father Patrick and Erica’s dad were walking over to the table where Elvis, surrounded by four big, burly bodyguard types, was sitting and signing autographs of the photos her father had taken of him.

  Erica grinned, waiting patiently with her camera for the right moment. She wasn’t the photographer her father was, but he had taught her everything he knew. Wait for it, just wait for it. And it came, naturally, organically, Elvis rising with a smile, hand out, shaking Father Patrick’s hand, both of them smiling big. Erica snapped the photo, then snapped two more, a trick her father had taught her. Always take three times as many photographs as you intend to use. Everything with photography was the rule of threes, from composition to developing.

  “You aren’t planning on putting that in the school paper, are you?”

  “Father Michael! You scared me.” Erica let the heavy camera dangle around her neck, turning to face him.

  He was young for a priest, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties, very handsome, so handsome the girls at Mary Magdalene’s whispered about how dreamy he was, what a shame to waste such a fine specimen of a man in the priesthood, and they all clamored to get into his classes. He taught one every term at the college level, and Erica knew several girls who had decided to attend St. Mary Magdalene’s Preparatory College for Girls instead of heading straight to Brown or Vassar right after high school based solely on Father Michael’s good looks and interesting classes.

  “You know Father Patrick won’t approve the photograph you just took.”

  “Then he’s a hypocrite.”

  “Erica!”

  “Well I’m sorry, but it’s true. How many times has he preached against the dangers of rock music? He called Elvis the devil! Now he’s shaking his hand? That’s a deal with the devil then.”

  “Maybe someday, when you’re older, you’ll understand adults have certain obligations to the community,” Father Michael said. “Things aren’t always as black and white as the newspaper.”

  “When I’m older?” Erica scoffed. “I’m not a little girl anymore, Father Michael.”

  “Of course you’re not.” Father Patrick’s voice startled them both. He was standing behind them. “That’s a very pretty dress, Erica.”

  “Thank you.” She smoothed it down self-consciously. “It was my mother’s.”

  “I remember it well. She wore it at your confirmation.” His smile spread slowly, a distant look of recollection on his face. “You’ve grown up to be as beautiful as your mother.”

  “Th—thank you.” She’d known the man her whole life, but after reading her mother’s journals, she felt different in his presence. She looked at him and a whole new way.

  “Father Michael, would you tell Mr. Nolan we’re leaving and give him our regards?”

  “Of course, Father.” The younger priest limped away, leaning heavily on his cane.


  “Ah, now I have you all to myself.” Father Patrick’s smile grew even wider, making his eyes light up.

  “Father Patrick, I have a question for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “What would you say if I told you I have information about a secret society at our school?”

  Father Patrick raised his eyebrows. “What sort of secret society?”

  “The Mary Magdalenes. Does it ring a bell?”

  “Perhaps. Does it interest you?”

  “Perhaps.” Erica flashed him a smile, thinking of her mother’s journals. She was almost to the end of the second, and things had finally started getting really good. The things her mother had revealed about the man standing in front of her were both shocking and titillating. She still couldn’t quite believe it.

  Father Patrick had been her mother’s generation’s version of Father Michael, good-looking and young, thick dark hair, piercing blue eyes. Father Patrick was old now, balding, the hair he had left had turned white, his blue eyes rheumy behind thick framed glasses. Back in the day, Father Patrick probably could have spoken words that would enchant girls everywhere. Now he was an old man, but his presence alone commanded respect. When Father Patrick spoke, people listened. And Erica, like every good Catholic girl, had been raised to not just respect the clergy, but to revere them. They were the mouthpiece of God.