The Home for Unwanted Girls

by Joanna Goodman

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” Maggie asks her as she gestures to the couch. “Or a Pepsi?”

  “Pepsi, please,” Elodie says, sitting down.

  “Yes, of course,” Maggie says. “I’ll be right back.”

  She goes to the kitchen and splashes water on her face. She’s trying hard not to hyperventilate. She throws open the back door and calls out to Gabriel. He stops hammering and turns to her, his face ghost-white. He approaches slowly.

  “It’s her,” Maggie says, before he can even ask. “See for yourself.”

  Gabriel takes a long breath, bracing himself, and they go inside together.

  “This is my husband, Gabriel,” Maggie says, returning to the living room and handing Elodie a glass of soda. “Gabriel, this is Elodie.”

  Tears come to Gabriel’s eyes the moment he sees her. He knows he’s her father, Maggie can tell. She sees it registering in his eyes. He pulls her brusquely into his arms and squeezes. He never was one to hold back.

  “Let her breathe,” Maggie says softly.

  Gabriel releases the girl and stands back, gawking at her. None of them can stop staring at her. Maggie can’t quite believe this is the infant she first laid eyes on in an enamel basin more than two decades ago. And in some ways, she isn’t. She looks a little malnourished, like she doesn’t eat well. She doesn’t have good teeth or skin, a sign of poverty. There’s a scar over her eye.

  “I can’t believe I’m here,” Elodie says, echoing Maggie’s thoughts. “That you’re my aunt.”

  “The ad’s been running for years,” Maggie says. “How did you finally come across it?”

  A shadow passes over her eyes. “There was an article about me in the Journal a couple of weeks ago,” she explains. “The journalist who wrote it recognized my story in your ad. He told me to buy the paper and read the classifieds.”

  “A miracle,” Clémentine whispers.

  “We read that article,” Maggie says. “I thought there were a lot of similarities.”

  “It was all lies,” Elodie states, her tone turning harsh. “He left everything important out, like all the facts. He made it sound like a fairy tale, which it wasn’t. I don’t exactly lead a ‘normal, quiet life.’”

  Maggie feels heartsick. She had her suspicions that the article made Elodie’s life sound too good to be true, compared to some of the other accounts she’d read.

  “The article said you work as a seamstress?” Clémentine asks her, changing the subject.

  “I used to,” Elodie clarifies, biting her nails. “When I first got out of the hospital. I’m a waitress now.”

  Maggie suppresses disappointment, reminding herself she has no right to judge. She glances over at Gabriel and can tell by the pulsing vein in his forehead and the set of his mouth that he’s holding back a deluge of emotion.

  “Sewing sheets was the job I had at Saint-Nazarius,” Elodie continues. “It was pretty much all I knew how to do when I got out. But I’m much happier at the deli.”

  Maggie shoots Gabriel a look, but he doesn’t meet her gaze.

  “I have so many questions,” Elodie says, turning to Maggie. “Were you close to my mother? Did you know about me?”

  “Yes, I knew about you,” Maggie answers, uncomfortably.

  “What was she like?”

  “She was very young.”

  “Her parents made her give you up,” Gabriel adds.

  “They thought you’d be adopted right away,” Maggie says. “Everyone did. But that was before they converted the orphanages.”

  “That part of the article was true,” Elodie says. “Change of Vocation Day was the day my life may as well have ended.”

  They all fall silent. Maggie has to squeeze back tears.

  “They told us we were crazy,” Elodie tells them. “And that was it. From then on we were.”

  “What made you go to the newspaper with your story?”

  “It was my friend Marie-Claude’s idea. She thought it would help me with my anger.” She laughs out loud then, not a happy laugh. “Instead that stupid article made me angrier.” She takes a cigarette out of her purse. “You mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  She lights up and inhales deeply. “Marie-Claude meant well,” she says, waving a cloud of smoke away from her face. “And it turned out all right in the end because you found me.”

  The whole time she’s talking, Maggie can think of nothing other than how she’s going to broach the truth with her.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” Gabriel asks her, probably hoping that the care and protection of a good man might somehow redeem her tragic life. A man would think that way, Maggie reasons. It would make him feel better.

  “No. I have a daughter, though,” Elodie says, matter-of-factly. “Her name is Nancy.”

  A daughter?

  “She’s three.”

  The same age as Stephanie. Maggie is numb. Three years of my granddaughter’s life missed, she thinks with a stab of grief.

  “Her father was going off to Vietnam when we met,” Elodie explains. “He doesn’t even know about Nancy. I’m not even sure he’s alive.”

  “Did you try to find him?”

  “No. I don’t know his last name.”

  Maggie observes Gabriel’s jaw tightening and says, “Do you have a picture of her?”

  “No. She’s very pretty and confident. She’s nothing like me at all.”

  “I’m sure she’s very much like you,” Maggie says, finding her voice.

  Elodie looks down at the floor, her knee bouncing nervously.

  “Who takes care of her when you’re working?” Clémentine asks.

  “My neighbor.”

  “And you earn enough to support the both of you?” Maggie prods, unable to stop herself.

  “We manage,” Elodie responds. “I’m on welfare, which helps.”

  Maggie nods, not knowing what to say. She doesn’t dare look in Gabriel’s direction or she might burst into tears.

  “I’m so grateful you found me,” Elodie says. “I didn’t want Nancy to grow up without any family like I did. I hoped she might wind up with some cousins or something, a nice aunt or uncle.” She looks directly at Maggie. “Do you have any children?”

  “Yes,” Maggie responds. “A boy and a girl.”

  “Wow. I have cousins.”

  Maggie doesn’t say anything.

  “So how old was my mother when she had me?” Elodie asks her.

  “Sixteen.”

  “Were you close? You didn’t say.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know my father?” Elodie pursues.

  “No,” Maggie answers, not daring to glance in Gabriel’s direction.

  “Do you know anything else about your parents?” he asks Elodie.

  “Just that my mother is dead,” she says.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Sister Ignatia. She was in charge of our ward. She showed me my file and told me my mother died of her sins.”

  Maggie’s heart clenches. She bites down on her lower lip to stay silent.

  “When did she tell you that?” Gabriel asks her, impressively controlling his temper.

  “When I was eleven,” Elodie says. “Right after the doctor interviewed me. That was when they started sending a lot of the orphans into foster care. Turns out we weren’t crazy after all.”

  Gabriel has guzzled his beer. His fingers on the can are trembling.

  “I had to stay at Saint-Nazarius because my mother was dead and nobody wanted a teenage girl,” Elodie adds, her tone flat.

  “Will you excuse me?” Maggie says, standing abruptly. “I’ll be right back.”

  Upstairs in her bedroom she sits down on the bed. Gabriel joins her a few minutes later.

  “If what Elodie remembers is true,” she says before he’s even through the door, “then Sister Ignatia must have told her I was dead right after we showed up at Saint-Nazarius looking for her.”

  Gabriel shakes
his head helplessly.

  “She told me that Elodie was dead,” Maggie goes on. “And then she told Elodie that I was dead, just to keep us apart. Why would she do that? Why?”

  “I’m going to throw a Molotov cocktail into that fucking hospital ward,” he says, sitting down beside her.

  “I don’t know what to do, Gabe.”

  “We’re going to go downstairs and tell her we’re her parents.”

  “I’m too scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “That she’ll hate me. Look at her, Gabe. She’s . . . Did you notice her eyes? I’ve never seen so much sadness in someone so young. That article in the Journal was all lies.”

  “She’s had a hard life, Maggie. We always knew that. But she’s strong. She’s a fighter, like her mother.”

  “I can’t even imagine what she’s been through. I don’t want to. She has a limp, you know. And that scar over her eye? It’s my fault.”

  “What happened to her in that place is not your fault.”

  “The fact that she was ever there is my fault,” she argues. “And you know it, and I’m sure some part of you hates me for it, too.”

  Gabriel sighs, lights a cigarette. “We’ve had this conversation, Maggie. I made my peace with your choice a long time ago.”

  “She’s suffered and it can’t ever be undone. This is who she is now.”

  “You don’t know who she is. You don’t know anything about her yet.”

  “I’m afraid to know,” Maggie says childishly.

  “I’m going to get her,” he says, standing up. “It’s time.”

  Maggie doesn’t respond, but she doesn’t stop him from leaving.

  Moments later there’s a soft knock on the door frame and Elodie steps into the room with obvious trepidation. “Is something the matter?” she asks, her voice small and scared.

  “Come in,” Maggie says, forcing a light voice.

  Elodie approaches.

  “Here,” Maggie says, sliding over. “Sit.”

  Elodie blinks nervously, hesitating. She doesn’t trust Maggie. Probably doesn’t trust, period.

  Maggie stares at her for several long seconds without speaking. She would give anything to just take her in her arms and hold her. “I know this is an important day for you,” she begins. “Meeting your aunt—”

  “Not as important as if I was meeting my mother.”

  Maggie shifts nervously on the bed and looks down at the floor. “I have something to tell you,” she says, her voice wavering. “You are meeting your mother.”

  “Heh? What do you mean?” Elodie cries. “That other lady, Clémentine. Is she my mother?”

  “I’m your mother, Elodie.”

  Elodie doesn’t move. Her eyes register passing clouds of shock, disbelief, incredulity.

  They sit for a long time in silence, tears sliding down both their cheeks.

  “I don’t believe you,” Elodie says, finally. “You can’t be.”

  “I’m your mother,” Maggie states, more firmly this time. “You were born March 6, 1950. It was a Sunday night.”

  “It’s not possible. My mother died—”

  “That’s what the nun told you,” Maggie explains gently. “But it wasn’t true.”

  A strange noise comes out of Elodie—guttural, from deep inside, a tortured sound that breaks Maggie’s heart.

  “That nun told me the same thing,” Maggie says. “That you were dead.”

  “Sister Ignatia? When?”

  Maggie reaches for her daughter’s hand. It flops limply in her own. “Elodie,” she says. “First, can I just hold you in my arms?”

  Elodie nods, tears rolling down her face, and they collapse into each other. Maggie’s body surrenders wholly to the embrace, heart surging, muscles unclenching, limbs loosening with indescribable relief. There’s an instant release of tension, deliverance from a lifetime of chronic worry that’s become as natural and constant as breathing. Not since the day she gave birth to this child has she ever felt whole or fully at peace.

  “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this moment,” Elodie sobs, her voice muffled against Maggie’s neck.

  “Yes,” Maggie says, releasing her. “I do. Not a day has gone by in twenty-four years that I haven’t thought about you, my daughter.”

  “When did Sister Ignatia tell you I was dead?”

  “We went to Saint-Nazarius in ’61 to find you,” Maggie tells her. “I’d been looking for you for a long time. First I went to the orphanage.”

  “Saint-Sulpice?”

  “Yes. But it was a hospital by then.”

  “Did you speak to Sister Alberta?” Elodie asks her, her eyes filling with fresh tears. “She was kind to me. I loved her. I remember the nuns used to call it the ‘Home for Unwanted Girls,’ but it wasn’t a bad place before it became a mental hospital.”

  Maggie struggles to hold back the anger that’s stuck in her throat. That word again, “unwanted,” like she was some discarded doll.

  “Was she there?” Elodie asks. “Sister Tata?”

  “I spoke to the caretaker,” Maggie says. “He suggested I write to the government for information, which I did. I finally got hold of a document showing that two groups of orphans had been transferred to Mercy and Saint-Nazarius in ’57. Gabriel and I went to both.”

  “And she told you I was dead?”

  Maggie nods.

  Elodie reaches for the pack of cigarettes in her front pocket and lights one, fingers trembling. “She was a monster, that woman. But to tell us both the other was dead, when she could have let you take me home—”

  “I can’t comprehend that kind of cruelty either,” Maggie murmurs. “I just . . . There aren’t words.”

  The pain has a suffocating quality, the kind that leaves you gasping for breath. Maggie suddenly remembers that scratchy wool blanket at Deda and Yvon’s house, the way it felt on her body when she was being raped. Like she was being smothered and couldn’t breathe. “I know this is a lot to take in,” she says. “You must have a million questions for me.”

  “Why did you give me up?” Elodie asks, her voice cutting through their shared grief.

  The air goes out of the room. Here it is, Maggie thinks.

  “I was fifteen when I got pregnant,” she says, looking directly into her daughter’s desolate blue eyes. “I wasn’t allowed to keep you. It’s not a very original story, but it’s the truth. My father made arrangements to—” She almost blurts, sell you, but corrects herself in time. “—to have you adopted by a couple who couldn’t have children of their own. But there were some complications when you were born and the couple changed their minds. You were sent to Saint-Sulpice when you were well enough.”

  Elodie stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray next to the bed. She sniffles and wipes her nose. How hard this must be for her to hear, even harder than it is for Maggie to say.

  “I named you Elodie,” Maggie continues. “It’s a type of lily. It’s very hardy . . .”

  Her voice trails off. Elodie is watching her, waiting for something else.

  “I started trying to find you after my third miscarriage,” Maggie says. “It was 1959. I blamed myself for the miscarriages. I thought God was punishing me for having given you away. I never stopped thinking about you. I never felt whole. Ever.” She dabs her eyes with her shirtsleeve. “I know how much you’ve suffered, but—”

  “No,” Elodie says. “You don’t.”

  Maggie bites her lip.

  “Who is my father?”

  Maggie takes a long, nervous breath. “It’s Gabriel,” she says, trying to keep her voice and gaze steady.

  Elodie’s back straightens. “Him?” she says, pointing to the door. “Your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “You married him?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Why couldn’t you have kept me then?” she asks, obviously wounded. “If you were together and you loved each other?”

  “It was complicate
d,” Maggie attempts, persevering in the face of her daughter’s shock. “My parents sent me away to live with my aunt and uncle in another town so I couldn’t be with Gabriel.”

  “Why?”

  “My father wanted someone else for me,” she says. “Someone educated, from a better family. I found out I was pregnant while I was living with my aunt and uncle, so I had to stay there until you were born.”

  “Did Gabriel know you were pregnant?”

  “I didn’t tell him,” Maggie confesses.

  “Couldn’t you have married him?”

  The way Elodie puts it makes it sound so simple, so logical. Perhaps it should have been. “I didn’t think I had a choice,” Maggie explains sheepishly. “I was only fifteen.”

  Elodie considers this, but the hurt and bewilderment on her face is rebuke enough.

  “They told me I couldn’t keep you and that was the way it was,” Maggie says. “It was 1950. I couldn’t go against them.”

  Elodie remains silent.

  “I broke it off with Gabriel that summer,” Maggie continues. “He moved to Montreal, and that was the last I heard from him. We both ended up marrying other people.”

  “How did you find each other? And when?”

  “Our families were neighbors,” Maggie explains. “We reconnected about ten years later. We rekindled a friendship and then . . . Well, things got quite messy for a while, but eventually we both got divorced from our spouses and started a life together.”

  “So your children are my brother and sister?”

  “Yes,” Maggie says, almost guiltily. “James and Stephanie.”

  “Mon Dieu.”

  “I know this is a lot to absorb,” Maggie says, reaching for her daughter’s hands again. “If only I could convince you how guilty I’ve felt every single day of my life since I gave you up. I wish I’d kept you and stayed with Gabriel and that we would have been together all along. I wish I hadn’t been so afraid. But I was. I was so terrified.”

  “I understand,” Elodie says, but her voice is small.

  “I hope you can,” Maggie whispers, her voice breaking.

  They sob together for a little while, Elodie’s hands locked inside Maggie’s.