The Quintland Sisters(18)
I don’t know what words passed between her and the Captain, who returned to the nursery this morning having missed all the drama last night. All I saw was Nurse Ellis clomping off to pack her few things, hollering like an auctioneer that she wouldn’t stay another minute. I was quite fond of Nurse Ellis. She liked to regale Ivy and me with tall tales about growing up with four brothers in St. John’s and had a colorful repertoire of sea chanteys, riddled with unsuitable English, that she’d sing as lullabies to the babies. But her leaving is good news for me: more shifts out at the nursery, at least until my classes begin.
August 25, 1934
A MILESTONE TODAY—ALL the babies are now sleeping in cots, not incubators! We have much more space, and the air is so much fresher without the kerosene smell. I did a sketch of all five of them lying side by side in their tiny berths, and I gave it to Dr. Dafoe, who looked surprised and pleased, tucking his several chins into his collar and making a purring sound.
“You do have real skills, Emma,” he said. “You must keep this up.”
I’ve shown him some of the other drawings in my scribble book but took great care that he couldn’t read any of these jottings. If he read anything I’d said about him or Nurse de Kiriline or Fred Davis, I’d want to melt into the floor.
The truth is, with so little time for doodling, I suppose I’m starting to let go of my dream of being an artist. In town the lines at the relief office are growing longer and longer, and you see more people sleeping in the streets. Father told me that a brawl broke out at the mill in North Bay after more workers were laid off. There is always a chance that they will close the post office in Callander and move Father’s work to North Bay, and, if they do that, they likely won’t need Father. I’m proud that I’ve been able to earn even a modest wage helping at the Dionne farmhouse, and I suppose it’s showed me how important it is to be able to make my own way in the world.
The girls are all filling out. Yvonne is still the biggest and now weighs a little under eight pounds—Ivy calls her the “little mountain.” My émilie is just five pounds, seven ounces, and Marie is even smaller. I still have no trouble telling them apart. Cécile is the quietest and the most obedient, while émilie is the sunniest. We all agree Marie will grow up to be the mischief maker. They had their first proper baths with soap and water today. Despite their gains, they are still so woefully tiny—funny little toads splashing in their basins.
August 28, 1934
LAST NIGHT NURSE de Kiriline overturned a lamp in the nursery while trying to pierce holes in the feeding nipples, which started a terrible fire, flames pouring across the kitchen like they’d been sluiced from a bucket. With the oxygen tanks stacked against the wall and the kerosene lamps, the whole place could have gone up with a mighty bang; I can’t even bear to think about it. I was sorry we’d ever spoken ill of the Captain or mocked her behind her back. She is truly a hero, throwing herself on the flames as they dashed toward the babies’ cots and smothering the fire with her own body. I can’t spend a moment thinking about what might have happened—to her, to the babies, to Ivy—if she hadn’t. Now Nurse de Kiriline has very serious burns. We don’t know when she’ll be coming back, if at all.
September 1, 1934
EVERYTHING IS IN turmoil. Nurse de Kiriline is still in the hospital, and while that’s meant more time for me at the farmhouse, it’s still not enough. The girls have been sickly again these past two days—crying and not taking their milk. As soon as one of them starts to seem stronger, another will decline; it’s awful. Spending any time away from them is like a punishment. I’m terrified every time I ride my bicycle out along the Corbeil road that I’ll be met with bad news. So I pedal as fast as I can, perspiring like a farmer over the final rise, just until the homestead is in sight. Then I slow to a snail’s pace because I can’t bear to arrive and get bad news. My classes at St. Joe’s begin in three weeks, and then I will have to get used to not knowing how they are doing every hour of every day. I’m dreading it.
September 14, 1934
RIBBON CUTTING TODAY for the new hospital: a media circus, with photographers and reporters jostling to get closer to the doctor and dignitaries. All this brouhaha while the girls are still so desperately ill they can scarcely be lifted from their beds, let alone be moved across the street. The new hospital is very modern, two stories high, with tall sash windows facing in every direction and fitted with electricity, plumbing, and indoor toilets, central gas heating for wintertime, a proper kitchen, dining room, and two play areas, plus dormitories for the nurses. A gleaming plaque on the door reads: THE DAFOE HOSPITAL AND NURSERY.
Dr. Dafoe himself snipped the ribbon, but even we could see that he was straining to bend his mouth into a smile. The fact is all of the babies are feverish, weak, and vomiting. These last few nights, the doctor has ordered enemas, milk of magnesia, and mustard baths for convulsions, but nothing is doing the trick. He may not say it to the newspapermen clustered around him, but Ivy and I can read what he’s thinking from the way his chin dimples and his glasses seem to sink even deeper into his face: the quintuplets might not live to make the move to the new hospital.
September 20, 1934
THE CAPTAIN HAS been cleared to come back to the nursery. Dismissing any pleasantries or questions about her own health with a brusque shake of her head, she began tenderly examining each of the girls in turn, clucking over their fevers and color. Then she inspected the nursery, offices, and nurses’ cabin, running a long finger across every sill and ledge, her nose wrinkling. From there she tramped upstairs to see that Mme. Dionne was keeping the living quarters clean and tidy—I can’t imagine how M. Dionne will react if he finds out about that. Then, summoning everyone together, she started in on Ivy, Nurse Clouthier, me, and the orderly, about all the things that we’d let slide while she was gone, putting the lives of the babies in mortal peril. Ivy and I stayed mum. Truly, we’ve done as much as we possibly could, but with Nurse Ellis gone and Nurse de Kiriline herself in the hospital, it’s been almost impossible to keep everything to the Captain’s standards. Nurse Clouthier, the most senior among us, bowed her head meekly and mumbled an apology.