The Forgotten Daughter

by Joanna Goodman

  “You’re free to leave,” Bruno says. “You and anyone else who isn’t satisfied with this agreement can walk away right now. I suggest the rest of us vote.”

  Heads start bobbing. Everyone is growing restless. The room is airless.

  Bruno reads the final paragraph of the decree. “‘In witness whereof, the parties recognize having read all and each of the clauses of this agreement protocol and having accepted them, and have duly signed two copies as follows: The Duplessis Orphans Committee, signed by the President of the Committee—’”

  Bruno pauses and looks up. The room is tension-filled and silent. Elodie’s heart is pounding. A moustache of sweat has collected above her lip.

  “All those in favor,” he says solemnly.

  One by one, from the back row to the front, they begin to raise their hands. Sitting nervously on folding chairs in a room similar to the one from their very first meeting, Elodie can feel the tension, a collective holding of breath. It seems like forever since that first meeting. Elodie can’t even count how many protests she’s marched in, how many letters she’s written to politicians, how many disappointing days she’s sat in court in the last decade. Could it really be over?

  She raises her hand.

  The prosecutor counts them all as Elodie looks around. She estimates about two hundred people are here today, representing the eleven hundred orphans across the province who qualify for compensation in this new agreement.

  “And all those against,” Bruno says.

  A few hands shoot up in the air, Robert’s first among them.

  “The majority votes in favor,” Bruno declares. “The decree is validated.”

  A deafening explosion of cheers and applause erupts in the room as Bruno signs the document.

  Elodie hugs Huguette and then Francine.

  “It’s done.”

  “What am I going to do with my life now?” Elodie says, only half kidding.

  “Live it,” Francine says. “Spend your money.”

  Elodie will get about twenty thousand dollars—a base sum of ten, and another thousand dollars for every year she was wrongfully locked up. They will not get their apology from the Church, and they’ll have to sign a waiver accepting that, in order to claim their money. There will be no public inquiry into any crimes against humanity, nor will any criminal charges be laid. But this will have to do. It’s better than nothing. It’s much better.

  Outside, the sun is shining. The orphans burst through the exit door into the sunlight, like children being let out of school for the summer. The air is thick and humid. People are milling around the parking lot, hugging one another and high-fiving, celebrating. One woman is dancing for the CBC camera.

  This is a victory, Elodie tells herself. Twenty thousand dollars is a lot of money for someone like her.

  The media is everywhere. One of the familiar faces—a reporter for CKAC—approaches her. “What happened in there?” he asks her, offering the microphone. “There are a lot of happy faces out here.”

  “We’ve accepted the offer,” Elodie tells him, shielding her eyes from the sun, “but with a very clear statement for the government: the offer is insufficient in many ways, but we’re accepting it because we’re getting old. We’ve been at this a long time, and it’s time for us to move on.”

  “Insufficient how?”

  “The church is getting off scot-free,” she says. “We’d also hoped for double the amount of money, but we know it’s this or nothing. At least this money gives us a chance to enjoy the last years of our lives.”

  “So you’re happy with the settlement then?”

  Elodie considers her answer. She adjusts the strap of her sundress, which has slipped off her shoulder. “Yes,” she says, enjoying the warmth of the sun. “I’m happy in the way I’ve learned how to be happy in the world.”

  “Can you explain what you mean?”

  She thinks about her past, what she’s lived through in and out of the asylum, and shakes her head. “I’m not very good with words,” she says, and smiles, knowing she doesn’t need to explain anything anymore.

  44

  SEPTEMBER 2001

  The Residence of the Beatitudes is in a squat, two-story apartment complex on a dead-end street in Cartierville. The facade is beige brick with white aluminum windows and railings, set back on a barren plot of interlocked pavement. “This is a far cry from her life at the convent,” Maggie says as they approach the building. “She probably thought she would live out the rest of her days at St. Nazarius.”

  When St. Nazarius Hospital was torn down, the adjacent convent had to be vacated, and the few dozen elderly nuns who still lived there had to be moved to assisted-living residences. More nuns from other convents will surely follow. As the decline of the Catholic religious orders continues, the convents are becoming more and more anachronistic. The future is uncertain for the Motherhouse in Shaughnessy Village, the convent of the Miséricorde downtown, and the Ursuline Monastery in Quebec City; all of them will soon be obsolete. Aging nuns throughout the province will have to be relocated and decisions made about what to do with all the empty buildings that once housed a powerful community of religious orders. The nuns who once ran all the hospitals, schools, and orphanages are vanishing, and in that, Elodie takes small comfort.

  She recently read an article in the Journal de Montreal that said there are only about five thousand Catholic nuns left in the province, compared to ten times that when Elodie was growing up in St. Nazarius. Most of them are in their seventies and eighties, with no new novices on the horizon. Sister Ignatia is probably in her eighties now. One of Elodie’s contacts from the Duplessis Orphans Committee, a friend of a friend of a friend, provided the address of the Residence of the Beatitudes, where Ignatia was sent to live out the rest of her miserable days.

  “They used to run an empire in Quebec,” Maggie says, looking outside at the grim building that is now home to the few remaining of them. “They’ve certainly come down in status.”

  The reception desk sits to the left of what appears to be a common room. There are a few elderly women watching TV, others staring at the walls. It reminds Elodie of the Big Room at St. Nazarius, which seems fitting.

  “We’re here to see Sister Ignatia,” Elodie says to the woman at the front desk. She’s holding a copy of James’s book in her hands: Born in Sin: The True Life Story of a Duplessis Orphan, by J. G. Phénix. Her hands are shaking.

  “Is she expecting you?”

  “I was hoping to surprise her,” Elodie says. “I knew her at St. Nazarius.” She turns to Maggie and Nancy. “This is my mother and my daughter.”

  “Sister Ignatia will be happy to have visitors,” the woman says, smiling warmly. “What’s your name, dear?”

  She wonders if Sister Ignatia will remember her. And if she does, will she even let her in?

  “We’d like to surprise her if that’s okay,” Nancy says.

  The receptionist looks them over—three generations of good Catholic women here to see one of their former caregivers—and doesn’t even hesitate before calling up to Sister Ignatia.

  “You have visitors, Sister. A friend from St. Nazarius. A friend, Sister. From St. Nazarius.”

  Hanging up, she says, “Go on up. She’s on the second floor. Room 7B.”

  They take the stairs up one flight. Elodie knocks on the door of 7B. Her heart is pushing against her chest, thumping wildly. The door opens, and she holds her breath, anticipating that monster from her past. But it’s just an old woman, short and thick, stooped heavily over a walker. Not exactly frail, but certainly not threatening. She still looks like a bat with those small black eyes, wide-set on her broad face. She has jowls now, a sunken mouth. Her hair is a cloud of white, and she’s wearing a navy blue knee-length skirt and white shirt instead of a habit. A heavy gold cross rests between her large sagging breasts.

  Sister Ignatia appraises them, showing no trace of recognition.

  “I was at St. Nazarius,” Elodie s
ays, her voice a tremor.

  “Come in,” Ignatia says, opening the door wider and stepping aside for them.

  Elodie doesn’t move, so shocked is she to have been invited in without any qualm or apprehension. She thought Sister Ignatia would have slammed the door in her face the moment she realized Elodie was an orphan and not a former colleague. Why would she just let her in?

  Nancy gives Elodie a gentle push, and they file into the room, which is cramped and sad. Pea soup green walls, dingy sheer curtains, and a single bed with a bedspread of brown and green circles. A needlepoint cushion in the center of the bed is embroidered with a psalm: THIS IS THE DAY THE LORD HAS MADE, LET US REJOICE AND BE GLAD IN IT. A large crucifix hangs above the bed, a bronze Jesus gazing down on her while she sleeps. There’s an old rocking chair, exactly like the ones at St. Nazarius—she probably stole it—and two brown vinyl armchairs squeezed into the corner, facing a small TV on the wall. The only other furniture in the room is a brown dresser adorned with an altar of candles, statuary, and framed pictures of Jesus.

  Sister Ignatia painstakingly lowers herself into the rocking chair. Elodie and Maggie take the armchairs in the corner, with Nancy perched on one of the armrests.

  “Do you remember me?” Elodie asks her.

  “Were you a nurse, dear?”

  “I was a patient from ’57 to ’67. My name is Elodie de Ste. Sulpice.”

  “What a pretty name. Elodie. That’s a lily, isn’t it? I used to love to garden.”

  Elodie doesn’t know what to say.

  “Did you say you were a nurse?”

  “I was a patient on the psychiatric ward at St. Nazarius. You were in charge of my ward. Don’t you remember me?”

  “Yes, of course. You were a sweet girl. Very bright. You played the violin, didn’t you?”

  Elodie looks over at her mother. It’s obvious to her now why Sister Ignatia agreed to see her. She has no recollection of the past.

  “How are the others?” Sister Ignatia asks her. “I miss them. I wish they’d visit more often.”

  Elodie is thrown off guard. She’s rehearsed her speech so many times in her mind, but never did she imagine giving it to a pathetic old woman with dementia. What a waste it is, after all the buildup. “You abused me and tortured me when I was there,” Elodie tells her, studying that craggy face for some sign of lucidity. Trying to jog her memory. “Don’t you remember?”

  The old woman just stares at her with an empty, untroubled gaze. It’s like the devil’s been exorcized from her body by age and senility, and all that’s left is the shell.

  “You chained me to a metal bed frame and left me there for days,” Elodie continues, needing to say it anyway. “You told me my mother was dead.”

  “I cared for all my girls,” Ignatia says, sounding genuinely confused. “Why would you say such things to me?”

  “I don’t believe you don’t remember anything.”

  Sister Ignatia looks past her at Maggie and Nancy. “You two were there,” she says to them. “Tell her how I cared for you. I cared for all my girls. I was outnumbered, but it didn’t stop me from doing God’s work.” Her whole body is trembling as she defends herself, her eyes jumping from Maggie to Nancy to Elodie. An animal, cornered, with no idea why.

  Everything Elodie had wanted to say now seems utterly futile. Sister Ignatia may as well be dead. There will be no contrition or acknowledgment from her, no apology or pleas for mercy. Her mind—that former crux of evil—is gone.

  “We should go,” she says softly.

  Maggie and Nancy stand up. Maggie is crying into one of her vintage floral hankies. Nancy puts her arm around her grandmother, and Maggie rests her head on Nancy’s shoulder. They lean on each other.

  “I’m very happy for you,” Sister Ignatia says. “I only wanted the best for all of you. You were always a sweet girl, Lily. And very bright.”

  When they get outside, the weather has turned muggy and the sun is bobbing between a smudge of clouds. The air feels heavy, like rain is coming.

  They get inside the car. No one says anything. No postmortem is offered. Elodie fastens her seat belt and rolls down the window to let in the Indian summer air.

  Finally, after starting the car and adjusting the air conditioner, Maggie breaks the silence. “Do you feel any sense of closure?” she asks Elodie.

  Closure is a word that gets thrown around a lot these days, but she has no idea what it’s supposed to feel like. She’s had an apology from Dr. Duceppe, a financial settlement from the government, and a glimpse into Sister Ignatia’s pitiful life. All those things have been marvelously healing, moments of great vindication. But closure implies something far more permanent. Her past will not be shuttered in one final grand gesture just because the government compensated her or because Sister Ignatia is going to die alone with her delusions and her framed pictures of Jesus.

  “I feel relief,” she says, glancing outside as a light rain begins to fall. “I feel like I’ve been chained to that bed my entire life, and now I’m suddenly free.”

  Maggie reaches over and touches her knee, and Nancy puts her arms around her from the back seat. Elodie looks from one to the other, swelling with love for both of them. Love is her revenge, she realizes. And her life is filled with it today.

  As Maggie pulls out onto the road, Elodie thinks about that slogan on Sister Ignatia’s needlepoint cushion. This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it.

  45

  OCTOBER 2001

  Véronique steps up to the microphone and taps it to make sure it’s on. There are about forty people waiting for the reading to get started. It’s standing room only, with a pleasant din of conversation over which Véronique has to raise her voice. “Welcome to De Gournays,” she begins. “I want to thank you all for coming out tonight to celebrate the one-year anniversary of this little bookstore.”

  Applause, whistles.

  “I recognize so many faces tonight, which is what I’d always envisioned,” she says. “A neighborhood bookshop where a community of like-minded people could come together and hang out. And I’m so honored to be hosting the book launch of one of my favorite local authors, Maryse Poile. She’s here tonight to read an excerpt from her new book, La Rue Castelnau. Afterwards, Maryse will be signing books at the back of the store.”

  Véronique points to the table over by the Marie-Claire Blais section, where a few people are already waiting, copies of the book in hand. Maryse approaches the microphone, hugs Véronique, and sits down on a stool to read.

  “Thank you, Véronique,” she says, “for creating this very warm space for us to gather and celebrate our love of books.”

  Véronique is smiling so hard her upper cheek muscles are strained. Maryse starts to read as Véronique gazes out at the crowd, feeling quite pleased with herself. It’s a better turnout than she anticipated. The reading is well received, and when it’s over, the crowd moves to the table for the book signing.

  There’s already a queue snaking its way to the front door. She’ll probably sell about fifty books tonight. She does a quick calculation. It’s a good night. She stands beside Maryse to facilitate the signings, opening the books to the first page, sticking Post-its with people’s names on them so the line moves more quickly. Lisette is standing by the cash register. Every time a sale gets rung through, she gives Véronique a thumbs-up. She’s beaming, talking to everyone who buys a book. Véronique can read her lips from here. My daughter owns this place.

  And then she spots James leaning discreetly against the bestseller shelf at the front of the store. Their eyes lock. He smiles. She hasn’t seen him since that night outside the Canadian News Agency. Four years ago. It takes her a moment to catch her breath, steady her racing heart.

  He must be at least forty, but he doesn’t look it. He’s still got that thick hair, with flecks of silver at his temples now. He seems confident and self-assured, a man who’s forged a life for himself. He looks practically the same as he d
id almost ten years ago, when he showed up outside her apartment trying to get an interview. It was the summer of ’92. He was doing a story on the October Crisis, absurdly introduced himself as J. G. Phénix. He was so self-important back then. She told him to get lost. She was probably already in love with him.

  “This is for Pierrette.”

  Véronique turns back to the elderly woman standing in front of her; she’s smiling eagerly, a little reverential. “It’s P-i-e-r-r-e-t-t-e,” she spells out.

  Véronique has to pull her attention away from James. She writes Pierrette distractedly on the Post-it note for Maryse.

  “I grew up on Rue Castelnau,” the woman tells her.

  Véronique nods and listens. Stay in the moment, she reminds herself. She sticks more Post-it notes, shakes hands, answers questions. Everyone has a story. People keep telling her how much they love her store.

  When she looks up again, James is gone.

  The place finally empties out at around nine. Lisette stays to help clean up the mess—half-empty trays of party sandwiches, plastic cups of white wine, crumpled napkins and biscotti crumbs on every surface.

  “What a success,” Lisette says, sweeping the floor. “Léo would have been so proud.”

  “Maybe,” Véronique says, collecting the empty wine bottles.

  “Just be proud.”

  “It’s quite surreal,” Véronique admits, looking around her store. She wonders if James was impressed. She hasn’t stopped thinking about him all night. She was rattled when she first saw him across the room, and then disappointed after he left. Why would he show up only to leave before speaking to her? He looked damn good, too. She might feel a bit more ambivalent if he’d gained some weight and lost some hair. At least he knows about De Gournays. As a matter of pride, she wanted him to know.

  Véronique sends her mother off with a few leftover bottles of beer and a box of party sandwiches. When she’s alone, she fills a plastic cup with warm wine and goes behind the counter to close out the night’s sales. As the cash drawer swings open, she notices a copy of James’s book, Born in Sin, next to the till. It wasn’t there before the event, which means he must have left it for her earlier. She was beginning to think she had hallucinated him.