by Shelley Wood
Yours,
Lewis
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
August 27, 1939
21 Heath Street
Toronto, ON
Dear Emma,
I telephoned and spoke with Fred, who was very kind, but firm. You are well, he said, but he wouldn’t give me your forwarding address—a promise they made to you, I gather, Fred and Ivy. He did tell me you are enrolled in art school, although he said he couldn’t tell me where, and that pained him, I think. He’s proud of you. They both are. And they have a little girl of their own now, he told me. How wonderful. I forgot to ask her name.
Oh, Emma. How did I hurt you?
All of my letters to the nursery and to Callander this summer have gone unanswered. Did you even get them? I’m sending this last to Fred and Ivy so it will be sure to reach you, somehow, someday, wherever it is you’ve gone.
This will be my last letter: I leave for England tomorrow to do my part in the coming war. I hope to bury myself in my work and put all thoughts of you aside, impossible as that seems in this moment. Work has been the only thing that’s helped with my confusion—and my sadness—over your decision to vanish. We’ve done good work here with our planes, Emma. It has been some small consolation, to feel so needed.
I’d like to say: write to me. But my heart says you won’t.
Here’s another thing my heart says, Emma. I love you. I wish I’d found a way to tell you sooner. I love you, and I wish you well.
I’m enclosing the letters you sent me over these last 18 months. I can’t take them to England with me, can’t bear to, but I don’t want to leave them behind when there’s no telling when or if I’m coming back.
Yours always,
Lewis Cartwright
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
[ENCLOSURES: Letters from E.T. to L.C., February 1938 to May 1939]
February 18, 1938
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
Dear Lewis,
Of course I’ll write, but only if you address me as Emma! I’ve known you three years, you realize. No more “Miss Trimpany,” please.
I hope things are progressing with your airplane landing feet. I had never given a moment’s thought to what a bird does with its feet when it flies. I will have to remember to watch for this if a single feathered creature is fool enough to return to this frigid corner of the earth.
This winter has been particularly frosty in the nursery: Miss Tremblay was fired earlier this month and Nurse Noël got her marching orders yesterday morning. Dr. Dafoe was strongly opposed to some of the religious teachings they had taken to drumming into the girls, calling them little sinners and making them feel shy in their own skins. I am not a great believer in God—my father is “lapsed” (as my mother puts it) and he planted the seed of doubt in my heart—but I do believe, if God exists and had the gumption to give the world these miraculous girls and let them live and thrive, then surely he is proud of every square inch of them, clothed or not. I firmly believe they need to be taught warmth and kindness, not shame and guilt. Still, I can’t help but worry about how the Dionnes will react to the removal of staff they expressly wanted to keep. George Sinclair, Dr. Dafoe’s secretary, has told me that M. and Mme. Dionne have asked to have exclusive say over the choice of nursery staff in the future. If that happens, I can’t imagine I’ll last much longer in my post. I’ve lasted longer than anyone else as it is.
Yours sincerely,
Emma
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
* * *
April 21, 1938
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
Dear Lewis,
These days, as you know, I don’t even walk the short distance home to see my parents, let alone tramp to the top of a mountain. That sounded like quite the expedition. I hope your blisters healed quickly.
Here, as you’ve no doubt seen in the papers, we’ve weathered another dramatic departure: this time Dr. Blatz himself. I admit I was fed up by all the doctor’s rules and schedules, and abhorred his so-called studies. But, as my mother likes to say, better the devil you know . . . If things keep up the way they’ve been going and the Dionnes get their way, I suppose the girls’ next teacher could be Pope Pius XI. George tells me His Holiness has had so many run-ins with the German Reich, he may soon be looking for another job.
I don’t know why I’m making light of things. Nerves, I suppose. I had a long telephone call with Ivy tonight and she told me some truly disturbing things. I started writing them in my journal, but the fact is, her story was so sensational, I don’t feel like I can put it in a book that anyone might lay their hands on here. These days there is such a steady stream of strangers coming and going and staff who start and stop—it makes me think I should take more care. In any case, I’ll set this down for you and perhaps you can let me know if you think it sounds like utter nonsense, or whether it is something I should worry about. I may also run this by George, who I trust. I suppose I could also ask Dr. Dafoe point-blank, but it’s hard to imagine saying some of these things out loud.
You may have heard some of the scuttlebutt around Nurse Inès Nicolette. The rumors are mostly true: when she left the nursery a year and a half ago she was indeed pregnant. According to Ivy, who heard it from Fred, who himself heard it secondhand from a newspaperman at the Star, Nurse Nicolette insists that the father is M. Dionne. You may not know this, but she actually came back here with her little boy last fall, and there was quite a scene. Now, Fred’s man at the Star says that Nurse Nicolette actually approached a Quebec newspaper to sell her story, but the Quintuplet Guardian committee was able to persuade her to keep quiet for the sake of the babies. Ivy says Fred’s contact believes she was paid a large sum of hush money and she’s now living out East, in Nova Scotia. I can’t quite believe it. M. Dionne seems very devoted to his wife and family, and Nurse Nicolette was often a guest in their home.
Ivy had other gossip, too, relating to M. Dionne’s demands that he be permitted to review all payments going in and out of the girls’ trust fund. So far the other guardians have refused, but Ivy believes the departure of Dr. Blatz represents a real change in the tide. If power continues to ebb away from Dr. Dafoe, who knows what will happen?
I haven’t told you, I don’t think, but I have been hired as the official artist for the quintuplets, or that is how it was explained to me. I can’t help but worry how M. Dionne would respond if he knew I was earning additional income through the commissions I receive for the paintings of his daughters. Ivy keeps telling me I need to leave the Dafoe nursery and lead my own life, not the lives of the Dionne quintuplets. I don’t know what to think. For years I thought this might be my true calling, helping raise these girls to be healthy and strong, protecting them from harm. But this presumes that menace is something we could keep at a distance with all our walls and fences. Is it possible, Lewis, that all the things we’ve been doing to help these girls might somehow be doing more harm than good? On the other hand, how on earth did one of us, on the inside, come to be pregnant with M. Dionne’s child or at least lay such a plausible claim to this that she could be paid to keep her peace?
Now I’m blathering. I sound certifiable. I don’t know whether to destroy this letter or send it. But I’m not sure where to turn.
Yours sincerely,
Emma
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
* * *
June 11, 1938
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
Dear Lewis,
You are a true friend to listen to the ramblings of what must sound like a mind deranged. It is just the constant uncertainty. And no, I don’t worry about the privacy of my mail. It has never been tampered with, as best as I can tell, and I trust George implicitly. He is a good man and this work is taking its toll on him too.
As for
my art, I’m not sure I’m a “true talent,” but it is kind of you to say. By way of thanks, I’m enclosing a little sketch I made of the girls gathering daisies on the lawn. I hope it makes you think of home.
It was their birthday last month: four years old! It seems like just last week we feared they couldn’t survive four hours. I love them so much it feels sometimes like I’ve got more air in my lungs than I could possibly need for breathing: I might burst. The whole Dionne clan came over for lunch on their birthday, and it was hard not to think of Ivy’s stories. Émilie ran to me when play got too rough, and the look on M. Dionne’s face when he saw her burying her head in my neck—I don’t think I’ve seen him look at me with such fury since that awful day in the courtroom when my silly doodle of a syrup tin seemed to sway the jury in favor of Dr. Dafoe. This time Oliva Dionne glared at me as if he could read everything I’d written to you in my last letter. Oh, Lewis—my whole life I’ve enjoyed a certain invisibility; I’m unsettled to think this protection may be wearing off here.
Last thing: these planes of yours with the retractable feet—what is their purpose? I assumed you were designing planes for commercial air travel, but I woke up this morning and realized with a start that you are probably building military planes. Is that right? Dr. Dafoe is receiving more and more letters from desperate families in Europe who’ve been caught up in Herr Hitler’s ambitions in some way. George and I argued about it yesterday: he insists the storm clouds are gathering and the armies whetting their swords while I “bury my head in the sand” at the Dafoe nursery. But I have to believe we’re doing important work right here, keeping the girls safe from all the evils outside the fence and behind the glass, at least until they’re old enough to understand how special they are.
So tell me: why does Canada need your planes?
Yours sincerely,
Emma
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
* * *
July 22, 1938
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
Dear Lewis,
Thank you for saying you think our work here is important. I believe this in my heart of hearts, but how will history judge us?
I had an odd run-in with Maman Dionne, who I startled, poking around my sketchbooks and easel. She swiftly shuffled off again, looking sheepish. First I worried she might have leafed through my private journal, but the fact is I don’t think she can read and scarcely speaks a word of English.
After she left I thought: what if she simply wanted to see a painting of her own children? Does she even have a true likeness in her home? No photographs are allowed of the Dionnes with the quintuplets—different agencies hold the rights to these photos. This means if the Dionnes wanted a photograph of the five girls, they’d have to clip it from the paper or buy it from their own souvenir stand—with most of the proceeds going to the Newspaper Enterprise Association. It’s absurd, I know. I’ve never warmed to Mme. Dionne. She’s not a warm woman herself—so strict and rough with the children and forever making the sign of the cross, surrounded by us sinners. But every now and then her stern veneer will fall away and you’ll glimpse the haunted look she wears underneath, as if she’s yearning for a different life.
Mind you, she may yet get her wish. All the papers now say the government is moving ahead with plans to build a large home on a nearby property where all the Dionne family can live, plus apartments for the nurses and staff. George says Dr. Dafoe has told the other guardians that such a house will be built over his dead body. I don’t know who to believe. For years we’ve heard that our fragile girls simply couldn’t survive crammed with a half dozen siblings into the ramshackle farmhouse across the road. The fact is, the girls are now as hale as can be; they’re simply not accustomed to that style of life. I might feel differently if the Dionnes themselves were different: if Maman and Papa were kinder, sunnier, less pious folk, and their other children weren’t so jumpy and fearful. If they seemed more loved.
And you, Lewis. You are building warplanes! So will Canada join this war? Who will fly these fighter planes of yours?
Best wishes,
Emma
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
* * *
September 28, 1938
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
Dear Lewis,
Politics is not my strong suit, but I must say: it’s refreshing to hear you say something that’s not 100 percent polite for a change. My news: I had a strange run-in with M. Dionne. He came into the room where I was painting and I didn’t notice him until he was standing right behind me. You know, he’s never actually spoken to me directly? Nor have I ever been alone in a room with him. I just leapt out of my seat and started busying around trying to clean up my things and left him planted in front of my painting. I didn’t like doing that. It felt like I’d left one of the girls in some state of jeopardy, which of course is ridiculous.
But all of us feel such constant pressure to keep them safe. In my nightmares, Yvonne finds a door left unlatched or Marie jimmies open a ground-floor window and the five of them blithely amble out into the bustle and roar of the crowds, where they are trampled, struck by a car, whisked away, held for ransom, or worse. One day, I know, our girls will be young women who will want to see the world and to come and go as they please, but how do we get from here to there, Lewis? When will it be deemed safe enough for the gates to swing open? It’s hard to imagine the world letting them lead a normal life. Because where would that be? Would there be a place for me? Every entrepreneur within ten miles around is crowing like a rooster about the necessity of keeping the quintuplets in Callander, whether they move to this Big House or not. George on the other hand says the government will probably move them to Toronto or Ottawa, which are easier for tourists to access. I think George is pulling my leg, but I can’t tell.
Have you sorted out your upper gull wing problem? Flying has always sounded rather romantic, but not being able to see the ground when you’re trying to land strikes me as a good deal less alluring. And speaking of romance, I keep meaning to ask about your rock doves. Have they had their young? I read in the papers that the human Mr. Hughes has moved on from Bette Davis to a different bird altogether. I hope your Bette fares a bit better.
Sincerely,
Emma
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
* * *
November 13, 1938
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
Dear Lewis,
We are all recovered from the Great Tonsil Adventure—everything went just fine.
Why can’t Britain build her own planes? And how on earth would you even get the planes over the sea to England? Where would you put down for fuel?
You asked me whether M. Dionne loves his daughters. My first thought is: of course he loves them. Even the coldest hearts have melted at the sight of them trundling around in the public playground or mugging for the cameras. And yet my next thought is, How can he love them when he doesn’t even know them? How can anyone? We played a little trick today that proves my point. As you know, each of the girls has her own special color that she’s supposed to wear, but this morning I proposed that each swap outfits with one of her sisters. At first they were anxious—a new look on their sweet faces and I can’t stand it—but after a few minutes they realized what a great joke this would be and they were back to being the clowns I know and love, each of them trying to out-silly the other. Marie is a clever little mimic, and after plucking a pink hat from the shelf did a deadly impression of bossy Yvonne scolding her sisters. I burst out laughing, and the others followed, even Yvonne, and I realized how long it’s been since we’ve all laughed like this together. Still giggling, they raced into breakfast and took their seats in their regular places, then scuttled gleefully from one chair to another, each trying to remember who she was supposed to be and where she ought to sit. I
could see Nurse Corriveau’s nostrils working like a bellows, worried she might be the butt of the joke, while Miss Callahan carried on in her sunshiny way, unaware of anything amiss. Then Dr. Dafoe arrived, and they charged over to him announcing their borrowed names amid squeals of laughter, but he just called them his “funny little monkeys” and tottered off to his office. These are the quintuplets the world knows and loves—miraculous mirrors of one another, sweet as a consequence of being indistinguishable. What I’ve realized is that these are the girls Dr. Dafoe and the other guardians want the world to know and love, so that the advertisers keep knocking and the tourists come in droves. I know and love something different: five unique and headstrong little girls. One who loves bumblebees and bath time; one who loves thunderstorms but is scared of the dark; one for whom the only thing better than building sand castles is getting to knock them all down; one who loves to finger-paint and knows how to tie her shoes; one who hates beets but is not the least bit squeamish about blood. Now who are the girls that M. Dionne loves? I can’t say. You’ll tell me he hasn’t been given the chance to know them, that he was stripped of a father’s natural right to learn how to love his own daughters, and that’s certainly true. But there are also chances he’s squandered. These last four years, he’s wasted more time shouting over books and payments in Dr. Dafoe’s office than he’s ever spent with his girls.
I have two weeks’ leave over Christmas, so there should be plenty of time for a visit. And as to your bold question: no. Mr. Sinclair has become like a brother to me here, and I’m grateful for his friendship.
Yours truly,
Emma
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
* * *
January 2, 1939
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
Dear Lewis,
Thank you again for taking us tobogganing. It was exactly what I needed to shake off the winter blues, and Edith talked of little else for the rest of my visit. That’s no mean task, upstaging Santa Claus.
I’m back at the nursery again tonight, and much to my gratification the girls swarmed me like a hive of honeybees and tried to plant as many sticky kisses on me as possible. Annette almost popped my shoulder out of its socket trying to climb me like a rope ladder.
