The Forgotten Daughter

by Joanna Goodman

  She’s startled to find James on the couch when she gets home, reading and listening to music. He looks up when she comes in, and his face opens into a wide smile. “Hey, baby,” he says, setting his book down on the coffee table. “I missed you.”

  She tries to force a smile but can’t manage it. She wants to shower, wants to be alone.

  “Come here,” he says.

  She goes to him, worried he’ll smell Callahan’s disgusting cologne on her. He pulls her down beside him and leans in to kiss her.

  She pushes him away.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m tired,” she says. “I need a shower.”

  “I’ll join you.”

  “No.”

  “Are you okay?” he asks, reaching out to touch her hair.

  “I’m fine,” she says, moving his hand away.

  “You sure?”

  “I told you, I’m exhausted.”

  “Let me take care of you,” he says, making another attempt to embrace her. This time she lets him. She doesn’t want to hurt him or rouse his suspicions.

  She slumps against him, and he rubs her back, kisses the top of her head.

  “You’re so tense,” he murmurs, and she’s aware of how rigidly she’s holding her body. His kisses and touches are making her faintly nauseated. She fights to keep back tears.

  When his hand slides underneath her sweater, her back stiffens even more. “Stop it!” she cries.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “I just don’t feel like it.”

  “You sure?” he says playfully, grazing her nipple with his fingertips.

  Something in her snaps, and she slaps him in the face, hard. “I said don’t feel like being touched right now. Can’t you just respect that?”

  James looks stunned. For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

  He doesn’t say anything as he gets up. His hand is on his cheek, his expression incredulous.

  “James, I’m sorry—”

  She wants to tell him everything, but she can’t. He’ll be angry. He’ll say, I told you so. She’ll expose how vulnerable she is. Instead, she watches him disappear into her bedroom; hears drawers opening and closing, the closet door slam. He emerges with his overnight bag over his shoulder.

  “Don’t go,” she says, panic constricting her throat. She doesn’t want him to leave. She wants him to hold her, but she doesn’t ask for that.

  “I’m sorry!” she calls after him.

  He doesn’t say anything, just opens the front door and leaves. Elodie’s words come back to her, pounding in her temples. You can’t bury something that’s still alive.

  16

  MARCH 1994

  Elodie is sitting at the back of the courtroom in the Palais de Justice, Véronique on one side of her, Maggie on the other. She’s holding both of their hands for moral support, awaiting the judge’s decision. Bruno is seated next to their lawyer in the row right in front of them, his back straight as a board, a nodule of sweat trickling down his thick neck. Huguette and Francine are in the row behind her.

  “This case is very sensitive,” the judge says. “The lawyers for the defendants have pointed out that the religious orders in question are elderly and have lived with great stress, anxiety, and shame since these petitions were filed. These troubling accusations call into question their very lives’ work.”

  Elodie can feel her face getting hot. Her palms are damp.

  “The Duplessis orphans are seeking group damages from three sources: the religious orders, the Quebec government, and the medical establishment,” the judge explains. “Let’s address the religious orders first. They are accused of falsifying records, making false diagnoses, illegally interning children in mental institutions, forcing them to work without remuneration, depriving them of a proper education, and subjecting them to corporal punishment and mental cruelty.”

  Elodie tunes out the judge, her mind wandering to Claire, her best friend from the orphanage. She’s never seen her at any of the Duplessis Orphans Committee gatherings, which may mean she was never sent to one of the asylums. Elodie prays that to be the case. Still, she thinks of her constantly. Where is she? What does she look like now? She still imagines her as she was then: always with her hair in braids, missing her two front teeth. They’d been friends from the time Elodie could walk and talk. Other girls came and went, but Claire and Elodie remained, more inseparable as the years passed. They promised each other that whoever’s mother came for them first, they would take the other with them.

  Elodie remembers one of their last conversations before she was sent away. They were coloring under Claire’s bed. Elodie was drawing one of her families—a yellow-haired mother, plenty of brothers and sisters. Claire said, “I think I know why my parents gave me away.”

  “Why?”

  “My thumbs. Look.” She held out both her hands, revealing two bent thumbs. “They don’t straighten.”

  Elodie was awestruck. She reached out and tried to straighten them for her, but Claire was right; they wouldn’t budge. “Have they always been like this?”

  “Yes. And also this.” She pulled off her sock and thrust out her foot, as though proud of her abnormalities. “My fourth toe doesn’t grow.” The toe was just a nubbin, about an inch shorter than the others. “I’m deformed,” she said, matter-of-factly. “And people always want perfect babies.”

  Elodie’s wish for Claire is that she got out unscathed, without ever having seen the inside of an institution.

  “The religious orders in question list the following points in their defense,” the judge says, “which I will now read to the court.”

  Elodie tunes back to the proceeding.

  “First, we cannot judge the past by today’s values. All societies evolve over time. What was once considered normal and morally acceptable may seem cruel and unfair to a new generation.” He glances up briefly to acknowledge the gallery and then resumes reading. “Corporal punishment and child labor were the norm back then.”

  “Bullshit,” Francine says from behind her.

  “Second,” the judge continues, “the nuns were the only ones who would care for the abandoned children. No one else wanted them. They devoted themselves to this task with limited means and did the best they could based on the knowledge available to them at the time.”

  There’s an outburst of angry twittering in the gallery behind Elodie. A couple of orphans are swearing in loud whispers. Elodie sneaks a glance behind her at Huguette. Her expression is stoic.

  “Although some members of the religious orders have acknowledged that there may have been some isolated instances of abuse, they worry, as do I, that by proceeding with a class action suit, we will be setting a precedent that would put the church on trial and risk denigrating the entire Catholic faith.”

  “What about how they denigrated us?” someone cries out.

  “Furthermore, progress in psychiatry is a recent phenomenon,” the judge says, ignoring the heckling. “The distinctions made today between mental handicap and mental illness were much less clear in the fifties—”

  “You’re telling us they couldn’t tell the difference between a normal kid and one who was mentally challenged?” someone yells. “This is a joke!”

  “Please take your seat, sir,” the judge instructs. “What we have here is an impossible situation. These orphans are looking for a scapegoat. Since they were abandoned and don’t know who their biological parents are, it seems to me they’re taking their frustrations out on the only parents they’ve ever known, the nuns who cared for them.”

  “He’s calling those monsters parents?” Maggie mutters, rummaging in her bag for a Kleenex. She finds one and angrily blows her nose.

  “Both the plaintiffs and defendants want desperately to be heard,” the judge says, his tone dispassionate. “The former claim they were mistreated, the latter wish to explain their side of things. But the truth has b
ecome distorted over the last forty years, making it impossible for the judicial system to serve justice in this case.”

  A wave of disappointment travels through the gallery, and Elodie can feel the collective sagging of spirits in the room. Véronique puts her arm around Elodie’s shoulders, as though holding her together.

  “Regarding the claims against the religious orders,” the judge concludes, “the Court of Quebec rejects the plaintiffs’ applications to pursue a class action suit on behalf of the Duplessis Orphans Committee. It is simply not the appropriate avenue.”

  Elodie doesn’t move. Bruno and the lawyer turn around to face them. “We’re going to appeal,” the lawyer says.

  “And we still have the criminal cases,” Bruno adds. “It’s not over.”

  “It’s just the beginning,” the lawyer promises. “Don’t be discouraged.”

  “As for the plaintiffs’ claim against the government,” the judge continues, “they accuse the government of failing to act as legal guardian for all the orphans and failing to ensure they were cared for and educated. The government has not responded to these charges, other than to reiterate the arguments of the religious orders, in which case the court must concur.”

  Elodie is on her feet, making her way to the exit. The judge is still delivering his verdict. “It is the medical association’s position that it is not responsible for any decisions made by hospital management, particularly ones made more than thirty years ago, when all hospitals were run by the church. Again, the court concurs—”

  Elodie bursts through the doors, Maggie and Véronique close on her heels. The moment she steps outside, TV cameras surround her and a microphone is shoved in her face. “What’s your reaction to the decision?” Radio-Canada.

  She looks around for Bruno or the lawyer, someone equipped to speak on her behalf. Maggie is touching her elbow, steadying her. “You don’t have to say anything,” she says into her ear.

  “Are you a Duplessis orphan, madame?” CKAC.

  Elodie stares down at the microphones and takes a breath. Her heart is beating rapidly. “I’m disgusted by the judge’s decision,” she says, her voice shaky. “All we want is a public apology. Justice for our suffering and our stolen childhoods. I was diagnosed mentally deficient. Do I look mentally deficient to you? No, but that was how they got rid of us back then.”

  “What’s next?”

  “Our lawyer will appeal,” Elodie says, realizing with some shock that she is actually speaking articulately in front of a camera and all these people are hanging onto her every word, as though she is some kind of an authority or expert. “We still have the criminal complaints,” she says, her voice gaining confidence. “If they think we’re going to give up and disappear, they’re wrong.”

  The questions continue to come at her like bullets. You’re saying you’ve filed a criminal complaint against the church? For what? Can you tell us what crimes you believe were committed against you?

  “The first crime against me was failure to provide an education” Elodie says, looking over at Maggie and Véronique, who are watching her from the sidelines. Maggie is beaming, the proud mother. Véronique winks at her. “They deprived us not only of schooling, but of basic life skills,” she continues, really finding her footing now. “I wasn’t prepared for the real world when I got out. I had no way to cope with life. The nuns treated me as if I didn’t exist, never gave me even the slightest bit of human affection. I was tortured in every way possible. It’s unforgivable, and I won’t rest until those crimes are acknowledged.”

  “Can you spell your name, please?”

  “Elodie Phénix,” she says, her voice stronger, more certain. She looks directly into the camera and spells her name. “E-l-o-d-i-e. P-h-é-n-i-x.”

  As she does so, her determination crystallizes. This is just the beginning, she thinks. She will continue to fight. She will do whatever she is called on to do until there is a satisfactory resolution—whatever the hell that looks like.

  17

  APRIL 1994

  The TV is on in the break room, and most of Stan’s employees are huddled in front of it, watching coverage of Kurt Cobain’s suicide. A couple of grunge girls are crying. It’s always shocking when an icon dies young, especially in a culture like Stan’s, where everyone is obsessed with music. Upstairs in the store, they’re playing Nevermind on a loop. It’s all anyone can talk about.

  Véronique shoves a flat bag of popcorn in the microwave and watches it pop. Dinner. She’s got the night shift tonight. She prefers the later shifts these days, can’t stand being home alone at night. It’s the loneliest time, where she feels James’s absence most profoundly. They haven’t officially ended things, but they haven’t spoken in a couple of weeks. She’s giving him space and giving herself time, too. The incident with Callahan is still fresh—in her mind, on her body. Some of the bruises haven’t fully healed yet, and the thought of having sex still makes her uneasy.

  She hasn’t told anyone what Callahan did, including her uncle and Pierre. She was worried Callahan would retaliate and blow up her uncle’s operation, get them all arrested and thrown in jail. Or that her uncle would simply murder Callahan—which wouldn’t be so bad—but what if Camil got caught and spent the rest of his life in jail on account of her?

  She did stop smuggling. In some ways, the timing worked out. At the end of February, the government slashed the taxes on cigarettes, basically putting the tobacco smugglers permanently out of business. Her uncle was prepared for it and switched seamlessly to smuggling marijuana and booze, but it gave Véronique a plausible excuse to take a break. She told Camil she wasn’t sure she wanted to get involved with dope and that she needed time off to think about her future. In some ways, it’s the truth. Not that she cares whether she’s selling cigarettes or weed—she doesn’t give two shits—but she does need time to regroup.

  Pierre and Camil are not pleased with her. They want her back in the business, handling the Ottawa colleges—specifically Callahan’s clientele. Callahan makes a ton of money for them, and they need her as much for her popularity with men as for her English. They don’t understand her hesitation around selling weed.

  “What’s the difference?” Camil said, yelling at her over the phone. “Weed is probably better for them than tobacco anyway!”

  She held her ground, and they haven’t spoken to her since. It’s the longest she hasn’t spoken to Pierre since they were kids. They’ve never had a real falling-out before, but she figures time will heal both their resentments. Besides, Pierre has a short attention span.

  What Callahan did scared her. It scarred her. She misjudged him, thought of him as a harmless frat boy. Worse, she trusted him, which has left her doubting herself.

  “Hey, Véronique. Your parents are here.”

  She looks up from the microwave, where she’s become entranced by the popping corn, the bag puffing up before her eyes like a self-inflating balloon. She turns to the stairwell, where Encino Man, the cashier manager, has thrust his head into the lunchroom, his wild black frizz of hair throwing lion shadows on the wall.

  “My parents?”

  Encino Man shrugs. Véronique lets her popcorn finish popping and removes it from the microwave. She opens it, the steam rising into her face, and reaches in for a handful. She goes upstairs, starving, wondering what the hell her parents are doing here. When she spots them standing by the front counter, her mother ever so slightly leaning on her father, she can tell right away something is wrong. They both look shell-shocked, their skin bleached. As she approaches, her mother’s mouth is trembling.

  “What’s wrong?” she says. “What happened?”

  “Let’s go outside,” her father says.

  She follows them out wordlessly, heart rushing, cheeks hot. “What is it? What happened?”

  “Are you cold?” her father asks her. “You don’t have a jacket.”

  “Why are you here? What’s happened?”

  Her mother reaches for her hand. �
��It’s Pierre,” her mother says, her voice cracking. “He died in a boat accident this afternoon.”

  “No—”

  Pierre dead? It can’t be. Her mother tries to pull her into her arms, but Véronique pushes her away. “How?” she wants to know. “In broad daylight? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It was a collision with another boat. Everyone died.”

  Véronique is shaking her head. Her father pulls her into his arms, and she buries her face against his chest. He strokes her hair. Lisette is sobbing. They stay huddled together like that for a long time, ignoring the world rushing past. Pierre is dead. Pierre is dead. She repeats this to herself, to see if it will make it feel more real. It doesn’t.

  “How’s mon’onc Camil?” she asks, lifting her face from her father’s jacket.

  “What do you think?” Lisette says. “He’s devastated. He blames himself. We’re going there now.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Véro . . . You have to come.”

  “I can’t. Not today. I just . . . I can’t go there today. I’ll drive up tomorrow.”

  Lisette purses her lips.

  “You shouldn’t drive,” Léo says. “Come with us.”

  “I want to be alone. Can you just take me home?”

  Her father nods, and she goes back into the store to get her jacket and backpack, and to let Encino Man know she won’t be back for a few days. “My cousin died,” she tells him, and it comes out as a question, as though she isn’t sure. She goes downstairs to the lunchroom in a trance, her limbs moving as slowly as if she were underwater. Kurt Cobain is still on the news. No one even looks up at her.

  At home, she opens a bottle of wine, puts on R.E.M., and curls up on the couch. She should have been driving the boat. She should never have walked away. Pierre would be alive. He handled the shotgun and kept lookout; she drove. She let them down. How will she ever make peace with that? Who will take his place in her life? He was her brother. Her twin cousin.

  The more she drinks, the more the memories come. When they were eleven, their parents—her mother and his father—decided to send them to sleepaway camp just outside the reservation. It was meant to be a sort of boot camp to keep them out of trouble for the summer, but it had no effect whatsoever on Pierre. The camp was housed in a convent off the highway, set back on the edge of the woods. They did archery, rope courses, pellet gun shooting, and pottery. Every night, around the campfire, Véronique earned a green feather for good behavior, which all the green-feather kids would tuck into their headbands. Pierre always got yellow, as a warning. He never wore his in his headband. At the end of two weeks, Véronique earned an eagle feather and Pierre nothing.