The Quintland Sisters(40)
Dr. Blatz believes they should be given total freedom in their play, so long as they are not putting themselves or others in harm’s way. Mme. Dionne clearly disapproves of this and scolds the girls in a loud voice if she sees them doing something she doesn’t like. Last week they’d made up a game that saw them twirling one another around and around until they all fell over in a heap, giggling and rolling about. Cécile, who typically does anything she can to please her mother when she visits, unwittingly performed a floppy somersault that left her upside down with her skirt over her head. The others found this immensely funny and immediately started trying to imitate her maneuver. Mme. Dionne was not amused, however. She marched over to Cécile and yanked her upright, tugging her skirt back down over her knees and calling her a naughty girl. I could see Ivy’s face flushing, and a minute later she had Cécile in her arms and announced it was time for a snack, which meant the visit was over.
Perhaps it’s Mme. Dionne that’s causing Ivy to look so piqued.
November 5, 1936
NURSE NICOLETTE IS not coming back. Dr. Dafoe gave us the news this morning after he’d been through the daily charts with Ivy and had his visit with the girls. They can all say “Doh-Doh Dafoe” and will rush to the windows when they hear his car crunching on the gravel outside. He delivered the news about Nurse Nicolette as if he were telling us the day of the week, his expression blank, his voice flat, giving no reason or explanation. I shot a glance at Ivy, and I could tell right away that this wasn’t new information for her.
Ivy managed to avoid my questions all morning, sequestering herself with Dr. Dafoe to review applicants for the open position—only Francophones, of course. The Association Canadienne-Fran?aise d’éducation de l’Ontario has waded into the fray at the request of the Dionnes, demanding assurances that the girls would be raised as French Catholics.
And of course the girls don’t actually need nurses anymore. They are all robust and healthy. I can’t help but worry that this means they might be returned to their parents sometime sooner than we’d hoped, but, on the other hand, why would the government have spent the time, effort, and money to build the observation area if the children might soon be living with their parents again?
When Ivy finally joined us in the playroom, we were doing “art” with the girls, which means colorful handprints all over their tables, chairs, smocks, and faces. Ivy smiled to see the mess they were making, but I could tell her thoughts were elsewhere.
Only after the girls were all tucked away for the night did I tap on the door of Ivy’s room. Fred had given her a windup gramophone for her birthday and it was playing “I’m Putting All My Eggs in One Basket” from a film they’d seen together.
She opened the door, making a face. “I knew you’d come.”
She beckoned me in and closed the door behind me, then went to her machine and gently lifted the needle, placing it back at the beginning of the record.
I plunked myself on her bed while she fussed with things, pulling a pair of stockings from the radiator and bundling them into a drawer. Fred Astaire crooned into the silence.
I couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “Ivy.”
She sighed and pulled the chair away from the desk and sat down.
“It’s Inès,” she said. “Nurse Nicolette.” Ivy’s eyes flickered. She looked tired, and sad. “She’s pregnant.”
I thought I’d misheard.
“Pregnant?”
Ivy watched it sink in.
Nurse Nicolette almost never went anywhere; she certainly had never mentioned having a beau as far as I knew. There are so few men in our sheltered lives, other than the visiting doctors, the handyman, the groundskeeper, and the police constables charged with protecting us. Then there’s Fred, who is spoken for, and Dr. Dafoe, of course. But Dr. Dafoe seems ancient—more like an avuncular antique than someone who could sire a child. I realize, writing this, that he’s likely not much older than my own father, who now has an infant daughter at home. But Inès Nicolette with a lover? Inès Nicolette, with her lumpy uniform and twitchy face, always starting like a rabbit?
“Who is the father?” I asked finally.
Ivy shrugged and said nothing.
“How far along?”
“I don’t know.” She sighed. “I bet Dr. Dafoe doesn’t know either. She was back in Quebec City, or whatever the name of her village is, over Easter as you’ll recall, but who knows.” She looked down at her hands.
“My best guess is she has someone back in Quebec or”—Ivy paused—“or it’s someone she’s met through the Dionnes. They seem to be related to half of Corbeil.” I thought back to all the Sundays Nurse Nicolette had spent having dinner across the street.
Ivy was quiet for a moment, then said: “Whatever it is, we’re not going to hear it from her.”
“My word,” I breathed. The song had ended, and the needle was making a swish-bump, swish-bump sound at the center of the player. Ivy stood again and lifted the needle back to the edge of the record. She wanted the music to muffle our conversation, I realized.
“Nurse No?l doesn’t know,” I said.
Ivy shook her head.
“But Dr. Dafoe does?”
Ivy nodded. “And he’s adamant that it stay quiet, that nothing be done.” She lifted her hands to her face, covering her eyes and shaking her head. “I told him Inès may need some help, there may be something we should do, especially if someone in Corbeil is the father, not someone out East. A young woman, with child, unmarried—in small-town Quebec, no less. Who knows what will happen to the baby, let alone to her. Her family might take in the child, but—” She didn’t finish, didn’t need to. We’d both grown up hearing the same wide-eyed tales of unwed mothers—all scandalous plots with no proper endings.