Looking for Jane (18)

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On a Thursday afternoon in early March, Evelyn pauses from her sweeping. She straightens up and leans her weight on the broom handle, trying to relax her back muscles. Her belly is big enough that it’s weighing her down and causing strain. With only a few weeks left in her pregnancy, she’s tired all the time now, and her hips ache constantly. After a moment’s rest, she returns to her task.

She’s just finishing with the dormitories when Sister Mary Helen approaches her. She’s a heavy, stout young woman with dark brows and a brisk but pleasant enough demeanour.

“Could you sweep the offices downstairs as well, Evelyn?” she asks, shifting a teetering stack of linens from one arm to the other. “Lucille was supposed to, but she’s come down with a terrible headache.”

“Yes, okay,” Evelyn says, sighing. Lucille has a notable talent for coming down with all manner of ailments when she’s keen to avoid work.

“Thank you,” Sister Helen says. “Once you’re done, feel free to do what you like before dinner.”

“Thank you, Sister.”

Sister Mary Helen scurries down the staircase with the linens, muttering to no one in particular. Evelyn takes a moment to steady herself on the broom again before she follows the nun down the creaky stairs to the main floor. She hates going downstairs, since it means she’ll have to heave herself all the way back up again.

On the first floor, she starts sweeping at the end of the long hallway that runs beside the kitchen wall, then makes her way toward Father Leclerc and Sister Teresa’s offices near the storage closet. With a grunt, she kneels to coax the grit into the dustpan, catching a snippet of conversation through the open door of the Watchdog’s office.

“… adjust the pricing, Father. There is greater demand since last year.”

“But this system is not intended to gouge the pocketbooks of good families, Sister.”

Evelyn stops her sweeping and cranes her ear toward the office.

“Not gouging, Father, no. We would never do that, of course. All I am saying is that I think it would be prudent to… reflect the current market in our pricing scheme. Other homes are doing the same. They are charging what the market will bear. Babies are beginning to be purchased from overseas, and families will pay double for a white, Christian-born, local child. This home is a source of income for our parish and I believe we owe it to ourselves—and our parishioners—to ensure we are generating the highest possible return on our investment.”

Evelyn’s breath catches, solidifying in her lungs like cement. After a moment, Father Leclerc sighs, and Evelyn can picture him tapping his left foot, as he does during his sermons.

“I would be comfortable with a fifteen percent increase over last year, but no more. Let us see what the response is. This will not be retroactive to the families currently on the reservation list, correct?”

“No,” Sister Teresa replies. “An increase going forward.”

“All right, Sister. Well, dinner will be served soon, I imagine. I best go prepare for grace. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Thank you, Father.”

The sound of wooden chair legs scraping against the floor shocks Evelyn into movement. Stunned, she struggles to her feet and shuffles as fast as she can back down the hallway, stashing the broom and dustpan in the hall closet near the kitchen. Her lungs fight to get a full breath as she rounds the banister at the bottom of the staircase and climbs as fast as she can to the second floor. Turning the corner at the landing, she nearly collides with Sister Agatha.

“Miss Evelyn! Oh, you gave me such a fright. What—?”

Evelyn pushes past the nun and rushes to her dormitory at the end of the hall. Maggie is on her bed and looks up from her novel in alarm.

“Evelyn? What’s wrong?”

Evelyn’s face crumples. Maggie holds her arms out and Evelyn falls into them as she cries into her shoulder.

Agatha appears at the door and gently closes it against the noise wafting up from downstairs as the girls begin to convene for dinner. “What happened?” she asks, her brows knitted in concern.

Maggie just shakes her head and rubs Evelyn’s back. A minute later, Evelyn is cried out, and she sits up and turns to Agatha. “Did you know?” she demands.

Agatha frowns. “Did I know what?”

“That they’re selling them? Selling the babies. Like puppies from a kennel!”

Agatha’s hand whips up to her mouth in shock.

“What?” Maggie cries.

“Yes! I was just—” Evelyn pushes herself up off the bed, away from Maggie, and starts to pace the room. “I was just downstairs sweeping, and the Watch”—she corrects herself,—“Sister Teresa was in her office with Father Leclerc, and I overheard them talking about pricing schemes and the market and increasing the price of this year’s…” Her throat is squeezing shut against the words. “Babies.”

“Selling them?” Agatha asks, her face aghast.

“Yes!” Evelyn says, holding Agatha’s gaze. She realizes the nun isn’t much older than she is. She had always seemed older somehow. Drained, Evelyn hacks a heavy, mucus-filled cough, then slumps back on the bed.

“I swear I did not know,” Agatha says. Her eyes are wide, darting back and forth between Evelyn and Maggie, who sit in stunned silence. When she speaks again, her voice is thick with emotion. “But I confess I don’t know what to do with this information.”