What Peter said is true. She came here to start anew, to recast herself—not as some tragic failure and disappointment to her family, but as a self-reliant working girl. Maybe even to win back her father’s affection.
The way they parted left her heartbroken. When she got back to Dunham after having the baby, Vi had already replaced her at the seed store. Maggie understood it was her punishment for having let her father down. She went back to school, caught up, and graduated on time. She knew better than to ask for her job back, let alone a chance to work on the floor, selling. There was a cloud over her now, and there always would be in Dunham, particularly in her parents’ home. Even the locked file cabinet drawer in her father’s office, which she knew contained all the information about her daughter’s birth and whereabouts, taunted her. Finally, when school was finished, she felt she had no choice but to leave.
She stood outside Superior Seeds the day of her departure, staring at its facade with a mix of nostalgia and despair. She was nineteen. A woman. Yet being there still made her feel like the little girl who used to count seeds in the attic. It was Violet’s job now, and one day Geri would take over, and then Nicole. How simple life had been on those Saturdays at the store, when she’d been her happiest and had known exactly how her life was going to unfold. Now it was a legacy from which she was excluded.
Her father was standing at the cash register, delivering one of his ubiquitous sermons to a young farmer. “You’ll want to dust right down to the whorl with rotenone when the plants are young,” he said with authority. “And try tying the tips of the ears together for the earworms.”
“What about DDT?” the farmer asked.
“The great insecticide debate rages on,” her father said. “But it’s a remarkable insecticide as far as I’m concerned.”
“Is it really a cure-all, though? How does it affect the birds and the fish . . . and us?”
“Pesticides are the only solution to the insect problem,” her father countered. “They preserve the seeds.”
Maggie wasn’t sure if her father was sad or relieved to see her go. In any case, he did not try to stop her. She handed him a bouquet of bright yellow rosinweeds. “I picked them for you on the way.”
He put them down on the counter. “Would you like some Bountifuls to get a garden started in the city? You always loved having your own.”
“Sure,” she said, knowing there would be no garden.
He handed her a brown paper bag. “I knew this time would come,” he said. “You always were my wildflower.”
Chapter 14
It’s autumn, and the Townships are fully immersed in a kaleidoscope of orange, red, and yellow as the leaves migrate purposefully from branch tips to earth. Maggie, Roland, Peter, and his girlfriend, Fiona, are on their way to Dunham to visit her parents. It will be the first time Roland meets her whole family, even though it was her father who set them up.
Roland Larsson used to be the branch manager at the Business Development Bank in Cowansville, where her father does his banking. Roland has since been transferred to Montreal, which prompted her father to arrange the blind date with Maggie.
Her first impression of Roland was that he was extremely smart and sophisticated. Physically, he’s tall and well-groomed, with perfectly straight white teeth and a long chin. He’s half Scottish and half Swedish, which is something they have in common—they’re both half-somethings. His blond hair is already beginning to thin and he wears bifocals, which makes him look much older than he is. Maggie would have put him in his forties, even though he’s only twenty-nine. But what drew her to him was his mind. He’s traveled places, and he reads textbooks for pleasure and knows interesting facts about many different subjects.
On their first date, he wore a suit and shiny black shoes that squeaked when he walked across the room to greet her. He smelled of cologne, something grown-up and fatherly, and he seemed very refined and worldly to her. Their first kiss was a little awkward, but that was probably her fault. She compared it to the way Gabriel used to kiss her, back when she was just a teenager, full of swirling hormones and erratic emotions. And although she’s not that much older in years than she was with Gabriel, she’s much older in spirit. It’s probably a good thing Roland is nothing like Gabriel.
After that first date with Roland, she found herself hoping for another. She felt there was more to explore beneath his surface—some interesting texture or tender wound that might give him a bit more complexity and intrigue. She was thrilled when he called her again and invited her to see a show at the Palace Theatre. They’ve been together ever since.
“Did I mention there’s an opening in the secretary pool at the bank?” Roland says, taking his eyes off the road to look at Maggie in the passenger seat.
“I like my job,” Maggie says. She works in women’s undergarments at Simpson’s department store. She’s a good salesperson, as she always knew she would be.
“But you might prefer secretary work,” Roland says. “And you could eventually move up to credit officer.”
“I’d hate taking dictation, sitting at a desk all day,” Maggie says. “I like selling.”
“We help people start businesses,” Roland tells her. “It’s really quite gratifying.”
“Has a woman ever started her own business?” Maggie asks him.
“Not that I know of,” he says. “Not in Cowansville anyway. Unfortunately, no bank would ever issue a loan to a young woman with no collateral, no credentials, and no one to cosign.”
“It is the fifties, though,” Fiona says from the back seat. “Things have improved since the war.”
“It’s more like the eighteen fifties in the Townships, though,” Peter says.
“I suppose it’s possible for a woman to get a loan,” Roland reflects.
“It’s a miserable life, owning your own business,” Peter interjects. “Our father never has a moment to himself. He has nothing but worry and stress. It’s a great big burden, is what it is.”
“Daddy’s happy at work,” Maggie counters. “That’s important. Enjoying what you do.”
“What am I going to do with this girl and all her ambitions?” Roland says, squeezing her knee and smiling. He has long teeth and the bluest eyes Maggie has ever seen. “I think it’s charming.”
“I just want to do more than cook and clean and change diapers,” Maggie says. “I want to contribute.”
She heard recently that Audrey is engaged. Soon she’ll be one of those housewives—grumpy and irritable, with her husband, Barney, hiding in his workroom, building things and smoking cigars to avoid her. Maggie would never tell any of the girls at work—who talk of nothing but babies and husbands—that eventually she wants to be promoted to women’s apparel on the third floor, and manager after that. She’s promised herself that no man will ever lock himself in a room to avoid being with her.
“Motherhood is the greatest contribution a woman can make,” Roland says. “Don’t you think so?”
Maggie grows quiet. She avoids looking at Peter.
“Can’t a woman want both?” Fiona asks. “A job and a family?”
“One or the other would suffer,” Roland states with certainty.
“Not with the right man to help out,” Maggie says.
Roland looks at her sharply. “Most men want their wives to be home taking care of the children. And I should think most women want to do just that.”
“My mother has five children,” Maggie says, nonplussed. “And she’s the unhappiest woman I know.”
“That doesn’t mean you will be.”
Maggie turns away and stares out the window.
When they pull up, Roland comes around to Maggie’s side, opens the door for her, and helps her out. She holds on to him for support, her heels getting stuck in the gravel as the four of them make their way to the house.
When they enter through the mudroom, Maggie can smell the simmering meat and spices from the kitchen. She finds her mother at the Commodore, pull
ing out a large casserole dish of rabbit potpie, one of her grandmother’s recipes from Rivière aux Rats. Most of Maman’s meals are traditional Mauricie specialties—cretons, roast pork, freshwater perch, venison, and hare stew. Under duress, Maggie’s father can often be heard muttering, “If it wasn’t for her cooking . . .”
Maman turns around and rushes over to Peter. “I forgot how handsome you are!” she gushes, tousling his hair. She’s always boasting about how he won the Goutte de Lait Healthy Baby contest for being the cutest baby in the region; she still keeps the yellowed clipping from the twenty-two-year-old Missisquoi Herald in her pocketbook.
She completely ignores Fiona, whom she hates, and turns to Maggie. “What a pretty dress,” she says.
“It’s robin’s egg blue,” Maggie tells her, shocked by the compliment. Maman still smells of Yardley soap, which is somehow comforting.
“Linen after September, though?” Maman says.
Maggie ignores the remark and hands her mother a wad of crumpled dollar bills. “Here. For you.”
Maman wordlessly slips the money in her apron pocket. “Your father’s in his closet,” she says. “Nothing’s changed.”
“This is Roland,” Maggie announces, remembering Roland standing behind her, halfway between the mudroom and the kitchen. He’s wearing a brown plaid sports jacket with a monogrammed white hankie neatly folded inside the pocket, which is begging for a snide remark from Hortense—either to his face or, later on, behind his back.
Roland hands her a bouquet of pale pink roses and a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé. “Por twa,” he says, in appallingly bad French.
Maggie’s mother takes the flowers and wine without so much as a thank-you. She looks him up and down, probably noting with disdain his shiny tasseled shoes, his expensive gold watch, his impeccable posture, and his no-nonsense cologne.
Her sisters come rushing into the kitchen then, and Maggie hugs and kisses them all. She’s only been gone about six months, but they seem so old to her all of a sudden. Nicole is almost eight now, with waves just like Maggie used to have at that age. Geri is as adorable as ever, even in the unforgiving vortex of puberty, with those scrawny legs and the blunt bowl haircut that Maman has given her. Violet still looks the same, only slightly glummer. Maggie hands them each a brown paper bag filled with cashews and Belgian chocolates from Simpson’s.
Her father finally emerges from his office in a cloud of smoke. “You remember Roland,” she says, secretly thrilled to present him as her date. The two men shake hands, and Maman bullies everyone to the table.
Sitting between Roland and her father at supper, Maggie can’t stop smiling.
“I’ve never had a meal like this before,” Roland raves, polishing off his plate. The wine is flowing and all the adults are flushed and jovial. Maggie translates for her mother.
“It’s just an old family recipe,” Maman says, her face pink with pride.
“I grew up eating haggis and herring,” Roland tells her. “This is heaven.”
He looks over at Maggie, grinning. Probably thinking she’ll cook for him like this one day. She knows he’s always tallying up her good points, contemplating her for marriage. He’s almost thirty. His readiness for settling down is palpable. It makes as much of an impression as his soapy smell and his tasseled shoes.
While Maman and Vi clear the table for dessert, Maggie’s father and Roland launch into a discussion about the federal election. The Liberals are in again, which means another term with St. Laurent. “He promised equal opportunities for all the provinces,” her father gripes. “Where’s he been throughout Duplessis’s reign of terror in Quebec, eh?”
Every time Duplessis’s name is mentioned, Maggie feels sick. She can’t help think about what he’s done to all those orphans—possibly to her child. Once again she can taste the old shame like bile in her mouth, sabotaging what could be a perfect night. She squeezes her eyes shut against the “if onlys”—if only I’d kept her, if only I could find her—and hopes they’ll change the subject.
“We spend more time talking about Maurice Duplessis than anyone else,” Maman complains. “What are you going to talk about when he’s dead?”
“The idiot who replaces him,” Maggie’s father answers, his cheeks ruddy from the liquor, his blue eyes bright and cheerful.
He instructs Roland and Peter to wait for him in the family room, and then he gets up from the table and retrieves his bottle of gin. With a sly grin, he comes up behind Maman and grabs both cheeks of her behind, squeezing hard. He does it right in front of Maggie, which makes her blush. Maman shoos him away, giggling in spite of herself. “You want coffee in there?” she asks him, knowing his answer.
“We’ll be fine with this,” he responds, holding up the bottle.
Maggie joins the men in the family room, only half listening as Roland, Peter, and her father drone on about small business, CBC’s poor programming, agriculture, architecture, railroads. Fiona is reading a fashion magazine. Maggie’s lids grow heavy as they talk and talk into the night, but she’s glad to sit back and let them entertain one another. She feels no pressure to vouch for Roland or try to win anyone over on his behalf. Before long, they disappear for a Scotch and cigar in her father’s private sanctuary and Maggie returns to the kitchen.
She finds her mother alone, sweeping the floor. Her sisters have all gone upstairs to bed. She sits down at the pine table and her mother joins her. She’s comfortable here, surrounded by all her mother’s things. Maman likes order in her kitchen. She has a permanent spot for each utensil, pot, dish towel, and decoration. Whether it’s an antique enamel pitcher or the framed picture of Peter as a baby, she’s compulsive about keeping everything in its proper place. The room is filled with her—her scent, her style, her cleanliness, her perfectionism. The floor gleams. The stove sparkles. The windows are spotless. The curtains in the window are as pristine and crisply pressed as the day she hung them. Her world is as orderly as her father’s sanctuary is chaotic.
“Congratulations,” Maman says, pouring them each a cup of coffee. “You’re dating your father.”
Maggie has a sip of coffee, savoring its bitterness. She forgot how good her mother’s coffee is.
“Does he build radios, too?” Maman teases.
“Model airplanes and trains.”
“You don’t love him the way you loved Gabriel Phénix.”
“Gabriel wasn’t right for me.”
“You mean he wasn’t right for him,” Maman says, pointing to her husband’s sanctuary.
“Now you’re coming out on the side of love?” Maggie says, anger rushing to her temples. “Now you’re rooting for Gabriel? That’s ironic since you banished me from him.”
“I’m not rooting for anyone,” Maman responds. “I’m just stating the obvious.”
“I love Roland,” Maggie says spitefully, as though her mother just laid down a challenge.
“Your father sure loves him,” Maman says. “Maybe that’s enough for you.”
Chapter 15
Elodie
1955
It’s a bright September morning, and the sun is spilling inside the classroom through the open windows. Elodie is on the carpet, coloring. She uses the broken crayons that Sister Tata keeps in an old maple syrup can for the younger students. Elodie doesn’t use coloring books, which are boring. Instead, she likes to draw pictures of families. She always draws herself standing next to her mother, holding her hand and smiling, with as many brothers and sisters as space on the page or time will allow before Sister Tata rings the bell for lessons.
The mother in her drawings always has blond hair, like hers. Elodie isn’t sure why her mother left her with the nuns when she was born, but she’s confident there must be a good reason. Whenever she asks the sisters why she lives at the orphanage, they tell her, “Because you were born in sin and nobody else wants you.” Sometimes they say, “Because you were born in Scandal.”
Elodie has no idea what any of it means, or where
Scandal is, but she’s sure her mother will come back for her eventually and she’ll be reunited with her brothers and sisters. She likes to name them all in her head—Claude, Lucien and Lucienne (the twins), Linda, Lorraine, Jeanne. At the top of her pictures, she writes MA FAMILLE. Sister Tata—whose real name is Alberta—taught her how to write the letters, and now they march across the top of every one of her drawings. Sister Tata says it’s a miracle Elodie can sit still long enough to draw her families. One time she drew a family with seventeen kids.
Her best friend, Claire, doesn’t color with her; she prefers to look at picture books. Claire is six, and she almost knows how to read. They’ve grown up together at Saint-Sulpice, and if Claire is still here when her mother comes to take her home, she’s going to ask if Claire can come, too.
For now, Elodie is happy enough here, even though the nuns and the people who come to visit call it the Home for Unwanted Girls. Elodie doesn’t feel especially unwanted. Her nickname is Elo, and even Mère Blanche calls her that. She shares a room with twenty other girls, all of them motherless just like her. There used to be only ten or twelve girls to a room—never more than that—but recently they’ve begun to cram in as many as two dozen. There are many, many rules at Saint-Sulpice, but Elodie finds ways to maneuver around them. The sisters tell her she has a rambunctious nature, and she’s had her fair share of punishments for talking back—having to miss supper, losing outdoor privileges, or getting her knuckles hit with the ruler. But she likes school, and soon she’ll learn how to read, and on her birthday she got a doll, which was donated by one of the families in Cowansville. She named her Poupée.
On this day, a knock at the door disrupts their usual routine. Sister Tata claps her hands to get everyone’s attention. “At your desks,” she says sternly.
“But I’m not finished,” Elodie says, not budging from the carpet.
“At your desk now.”
Sister’s tone is enough to get Elodie up on her feet and back to her desk. Sister opens the door and a man enters the classroom. Unusual, Elodie thinks, looking over at Claire. The man is wearing a grey suit and hat, which he takes off and sets down on Sister’s desk. He has a moustache and a glum expression. Elodie decides she doesn’t like him.
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