The Daughters' Story

by Cyr, Murielle;

  She shook her head. “I don’t care about all that. Seeing you today sure makes me want to see Aunt Jan and Grandma again, but the timing isn’t right. If I go back now, Denis and Uncle Peter will say I went back just for the money. I’ll only go after they’ve gotten what they want. Maybe they’ll hate me a little less and I won’t get the door slammed in my face.”

  He finished off his tea and slid his chair back. “You might be right, but Janette isn’t well. It’d do her good to finally see you. Stella is living in a seniors home now. Janette visits her when she can. I had planned on a quick stop to see Janette after the meeting today, but I came here instead. It’s a three-hour drive back to Saint-Roch so I’ll be driving back home as soon as I leave here. I hear those arrested in the raids today will stay locked up for a while before they even see a lawyer. So I’ll probably be filling in again at another meeting. We’ll visit Janette together when I get back. Denis usually finds some place to go when I go there, so we’ll have her to ourselves.” He grinned at her and headed for the door.

  She managed a weak nod and swallowed hard. If Uncle Denis was still home when they got there, she didn’t know how he’d react. He might refuse to let her in and tell her never to come back. Maybe Aunt Jan didn’t even want to see her after all. She closed her eyes, thanking all the forces in the universe for sending Papi her way. If things went wrong at Aunt Jan’s, at least she had Papi back.

  Chapter 6

  Lisette and Serge entered the glass vestibule and pressed the information button on the wall panel. She pulled out a jagged piece of paper from her jacket pocket and looked at it. “I’m pretty sure this is the place.” She studied the small metal sign posted beside the door. “Looks like some kind of retirement home. The woman I spoke to never mentioned anything about that. If she answered the phone, she must have a direct line to her room.”

  A middle-aged woman came from the reception desk and headed down the marble-floored hallway towards the vestibule. She unlocked the door and smiled. “May I help you?”

  Lisette noticed the name tag pinned on the woman’s sweater and smiled back. “I see you’re the manager, Mrs. White. We’re here to see Mrs. Stella Pritchart.”

  “I see.” The woman’s gaze shifted from Serge’s shoulder-length hair down to the lit cigarette in his hand. “Is she expecting you?”

  “Yes. I spoke to her earlier.”

  “She must’ve forgotten to inform the office. Please give me your name. I need to check with her first. We’re never too careful these days.”

  “Tell her it’s Lisette and—”

  “Sorry for interrupting, dear.” She stared at Serge’s cigarette. “We do our best to provide a safe and healthy environment for our residents. You’ll have to finish that outdoors, young man, or if you prefer, in the glassed-in room beside the office. Safety regulations, you know. Some of our tenants tend to be forgetful. So we keep the smokers in one spot to keep our eye on them. I’ll be right back.” She pulled the door closed and trotted down the hall.

  Serge blew out a cloud of smoke from the corner of his mouth. “Stuck up English cow. Bet everyone here is a bloody squarehead.”

  “Get real, Serge.” She gave him a sharp look. “This is NDG. Not Westmount. Names have nothing to do with the language you speak. Lots of families all over Quebec with names like McDuff or McGregor don’t speak a word of English. Try to keep your politics on ice for a bit. The building might have an English name, but it doesn’t mean none of the residents speak French. This place looks posh to us, but that’s because we’re used to crappy student apartments. Stub out—the manager’s coming back.”

  “This place stinks of lavender. English lavender.” He looked back at his car. “I might take a snooze while I wait for you.” They watched Mrs. White approach. “I better get out of here before the old bag notices the torn seam on my fly, and here’s me not wearing underwear. Her blood pressure will explode.” He patted Lisette’s backside and strutted towards the road just as the woman unlocked the vestibule.

  “Will the young man join you later?” The woman stretched her neck out the door and glanced in Serge’s direction.

  “He’ll wait for me in the car. Did you manage to find her?”

  “She’s not hard to locate, that one. Sitting beside her favourite window in the lounge. She likes to view the garden while she drinks her afternoon tea. Follow me.” She swung the glass door open, let Lisette in and locked up again.

  The spacious lounge had a variety of stuffed armchairs, a leather sofa along one wall and a large TV set on the higher shelf of a wooden wall unit. A bright kitchen section equipped with modern electrical appliances filled the far end, with a long oak table surrounded by twelve matching chairs.

  Mrs. White headed to a partitioned corner of the room, greeting everyone she met along the way. A tall bookcase beside an array of potted plants on pedestals separated this corner from the rest of the room. A delicate-looking woman, her white hair tied in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, sat gazing at the tree-lined backyard through a large picture window.

  Mrs. White leaned down to touch her arm. “Here’s the visitor I told you about, dear.”

  Stella Pritchart stared at Lisette and remained silent a long while. “Claire? It can’t—” Her eyes darted between Lisette and Mrs. White. “Is this a dream?”

  The woman patted Stella’s shoulder. “You’re not dreaming, dear.” She looked towards Lisette. “The longer they stay with us, the harder it is for them to distinguish what’s real and what’s not. It’s worse for those who never get visitors.”

  A clog shifted into place within Lisette’s heart. The older woman had seen a resemblance in her with someone she knew. This meant she was linked to a family chain. She was connected somewhere—she belonged.

  “We’re serving your favourite—shepherd’s pie—for supper later. I’ll come and get you when we’re ready to serve.” Mrs. White gave the elderly woman a quick wave and walked away.

  Lisette hesitated before speaking. The woman had seemed to understand why Lisette wanted to see her when they spoke on the phone, but right now, she seemed pretty muddled. If she proved to be unreliable, this visit was a complete waste of time.

  Stella stared at her, her hands clasped together on her lap.

  Lisette felt a slight twinge in her left eyelid. Two things were possible: she had an actual family somewhere, or the woman was senile. The questions she had prepared were useless if the second possibility was correct. But still… any clue she offered might be helpful. She dragged a metal chair in front of the woman’s armchair and lowered herself down. “I’m not Claire, Mrs. Pritchart. My name is Lisette.”

  Stella flashed her a weak smile. “How foolish of me. Of course, you’re not Claire. That’s why I thought I was dreaming. The poor girl… such a tragic end.” She paused to stare down at her lap and after a moment, lifted her gaze. “You’re just as beautiful as she was, though. Her hair was lighter, but there’s no denying you.”

  Lisette forced back a smile, her heartbeat increasing. “I don’t know who Claire was, Mrs. Pritchart.” This woman had just confirmed she had a family. “I’m here to find out about Nadine Pritchart. I think she might be my mother.”

  The woman blinked and reached out to touch Lisette’s knee. “Nadine’s child? Can this be true? No one knew what happened to her.” She tilted her head and studied Lisette. “Yes, I remember now… it must’ve been you who called before.” She paused, her eyes far away. “Our Nadine was pregnant when we last saw her. I hope life has been kind to her.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. “When you’re alone with your memories so much... it’s hard to know what’s real after a while.”

  “Believe me, Mrs. Pritchart, I’m as real as it gets. I’m looking for the woman who gave me away for adoption twenty years ago. I’m not expecting a joyous reunion, but I do have some questions about my medical history she can help clear
up for me.”

  Stella remained silent a short time before speaking. “What choice did that poor girl have?” She bit down on her lip, a look of sadness in her eyes. “What about you, dear? Was your adopted family good to you?”

  Lisette stiffened in her chair. “The less said about that, the better. My adoptive parents divorced when I was five and decided they didn’t want me anymore. I moved in and out of eight different foster homes until the day I wrote my last high school exam. I packed my bag and left without a word. Does this answer your question?”

  “I’m... so sorry to hear that, dear.” She lowered her gaze and fidgeted with the blanket on her lap.

  Lisette shifted in her seat. Why was she talking so rough to this woman? She had nothing to do with anything. “Don’t be sorry, Mrs. Pritchart. I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. Where I grew up, talking tough was a girl’s only defence, besides knowing how to throw a punch or place a kick in the right place.” A sharp pain shot across her forehead. She tore her glasses off and massaged her temples. If she was lucky, a couple of deep breaths and she’d be OK again.

  “Are you alright, dear?”

  Lisette tilted her head forward and inhaled. “This happens sometimes… it comes and goes.” She straightened and pushed her hair away from her face. “If Nadine Pritchart is my mother, that makes you my great-grandmother.” She patted her stomach. “And here is—” She stopped to think about it, then grinned. “Your great-great grandchild. So, can you help me find my mother?”

  Stella looked at the roundness of Lisette’s belly and smiled. “My heart stopped when I first saw you before. I thought it was Claire come back to us. It’s been so long since I heard her name mentioned. The same thing with Nadine. I stopped asking Janette about her. It pained her too much to talk about it.” She paused a moment. “I don’t know if I can help you find her, dear. She was just a young girl last time I saw her. But I’ll tell you whatever I can remember about her.”

  “That works. I don’t want to keep you too long. I’ve got someone waiting for me outside.”

  Stella pulled her sweater closer, a pleased look on her face. “It’s a joy to have a visitor. And someone as young and beautiful as you. It doesn’t happen often here. You feel like you’ve fallen out of circulation. People forget about you. Not that the boys ever came often to see me when I was at home. My youngest son, John, used to drop off little Nadine with me. I was so happy for the company with Timothy being away on the trains so much.” She broke her story to smile at Lisette. “Please excuse me... you must think I’m babbling. I thought age blanked out a few memories. But they crowd together instead, some cut into each other and I have to figure out what goes where.”

  “It’s OK Mrs. Pritchart. If you don’t mind, I’ll be taking notes to help me figure things out.” Lisette pulled a pen and notebook out of her bag.

  “Please. Call me Grandma Stella... our Nadine always called me that. She never saw her mother’s side of the family. Claire came from a little fishing village back east. She never did get around to bringing Nadine back there to visit.” Her eyes grew pensive. “I’m not sure John encouraged that. He liked to have her close by.”

  Lisette glanced up from her writing. “A control thing?”

  “Perhaps—” She halted for a brief moment, her look pensive. “John needed more attention than my other two. Good-looking child, and bright too. Didn’t have to work as hard as my other two, but the awards kept coming. He was shorter than the other boys he grew up with on the block and got pushed around a lot. Timothy said it was me coddling him too much. He’d say the boy got all his nervousness from me.” She leaned her head against the back of her armchair and closed her eyes.

  Lisette hesitated a moment, not sure if the woman had dozed off. She was about to put her notebook back in her bag when Stella opened her eyes. “You seem so young, dear. When is the baby coming?”

  “Mid-November, but my doctor said it might be sooner.”

  Stella turned towards the window, a wistful look in her eyes. “I never wanted a girl. I would’ve loved her, but I didn’t want to bring another girl into this world.”

  Chapter 7

  Griffintown

  September 1939

  Stella woke up with a start and strained to listen. Footfalls from the cellar. At times they’d pause for a while and, just as she was falling asleep, start over again. Some nights they climbed higher up the steps and hovered at the cellar door to the hallway a few feet away from their bedroom. She’d pull her quilt over her head and curl up tight, praying they’d think her dead—willing them to disappear. But the acrid smell of panic lured them back—where there’s fear, there’s life. If she were lucky, she’d fall asleep from sheer exhaustion.

  Her bedside lamp was still on and the bedroom door left open as usual. Even when Timothy was in bed beside her, she never fell asleep with the door closed. She stretched her neck to check down the hallway. The two bolts on the cellar door were in the locked position. Timothy had relented and agreed to install the first lock when they moved in years ago. And a second one after she insisted it wasn’t enough. Waste of my hard-earned money, he’d told her. There’s only a tiny window beside the alleyway and that’s blocked with metal bars. What you’re hearing is all between your two bloody ears.

  The footfalls stopped. Sometimes they never came and she’d have the rare good night’s sleep. She sighed and closed her eyes, knowing she’d stay awake now till the sunlight filtered through the drapes. Her time would be better spent keeping busy in the kitchen. Turning on the radio in the darkest hours of the night helped drown out those footfalls creeping up the basement steps. She’d haul out the pots and pans and scrub them till her reflection shone from every angle—from her mother’s way of holding her own. Resigned to staying awake while Timothy worked the night shifts, she juggled time to nap during the day.

  Her three boys and their wives were invited for dinner along with little Nadine. She wanted to prepare all the vegetables ahead of time to be able to sit with them while the meal finished cooking. If the conversation got too heated between Timothy and John, she’d be ready to intervene. Peter and Denis never contradicted their father, preferring to change the subject rather than argue. This was their last chance to have a meal together before Peter and Denis sailed overseas.

  She lifted her head off the pillow and listened. Silence, except for the soft rhythm of her breathing. A couple of hours of sleep before Timothy came home would’ve done her good. But those footfalls would be sure to start again as soon as her head touched the pillow. So many things to do before everybody arrived.

  She swung her legs off the bed and reached for the heavy tartan housecoat on her bedside table. Handed down to her from her late mother, it was a comfort to her on those cold sleepless nights when the footfalls came. The hem reached down to her ankles and the wide collar served as a hood. The deep pockets hid the tiny flat rocks—amulets, soft and comforting in her palm—she sometimes found on her way to and from church. Timothy, claiming the housecoat made her look ghoulish, had bought her an elegant pink satin one which she kept in its original wrapping in the bottom drawer of her dresser.

  She got up and was heading towards the bedroom doorway when a wave of cold sweat mushroomed from the back of her neck down to her knees. Her breathing slowed and she sat back on the edge of the bed. The walls pressed in on her. Something was wrong. Not footfalls this time. Her head shot around. Everything was in place. Nobody lurking. She sucked in her breath and let it out—slow and rhythmic like a summer breeze. Again, a few times. This would pass. It always did.

  Breathe in again, Stella.

  Don’t let him see you like this.

  Get yourself together before he gets home.

  She never mentioned her fears to him anymore. She had realized long ago that he had no control over them. The dark of night kept them alive. They had come with her on the day of her birth, brought
over on the famine ships of Ireland by her maternal grandmother. Passed on in greater force by her own mother who used to hide out in the root cellar for days on end. Stella’s father, fed up with taking care of the kids, would pry her out kicking and screaming. Stella had long ago accepted that these fears, rooted in the lining of her womb and the tender pulses of womanhood, would never leave her. As a young girl, they came in the form of horrific nightmares that disappeared when she woke. They mutated later to ghostlike footfalls marching straight to her in the night. She thanked all the patron saints available to her that she had never given birth to a girl.

  Timothy Pritchart was Stella’s first and only lover. Their fathers were first cousins who lived ten blocks away from each other in Montreal’s Irish district of Griffintown. Her father, Michael, was a mechanic for the CPR at Windsor Station, and Timothy had started training to be a train conductor after fourteen years working as an apprentice car man. Her mother died of an epileptic seizure seven months after her younger brother, David, came into the world. Stella stopped school at eleven years old to take care of the household chores and to be with the baby, who howled each time she stepped out of his sight.

  Timothy was a tall brawny bachelor sixteen years older than her. Michael appreciated having a male presence at home while he was on the evening shift. Timothy, being family, was expected to check on Stella and David when Michael was at work. He stepped in and out of Michael’s flat so often that the neighbours thought him a permanent lodger. He took his family obligations to heart and always had a bag of hard candy ready for his young cousins in his jacket pocket.

  Stella was a nervous girl plagued with nightmares of wild and formidable creatures pursuing her. She’d toss and turn with such abandon that she’d often tumble off her narrow cot and wake her young brother sleeping in his wooden cradle beside her. Michael recalled his late wife’s nightmares and worried Stella had inherited her mother’s sickness. He nailed shut the trap door going down to the old root cellar populated by the monsters that had tormented his wife every day. He left spoons in strategic spots in the flat in case Stella might have also inherited her mother’s seizures. By the age of two, David grabbed any spoon he found lying around, ran to his sister, and tried shoving it between her teeth.