The Quintland Sisters(56)
I had thought Ivy would stay for lunch, but she said she was too upset. We scarcely had time to visit at all.
September 17, 1937
IT IS NIGHTS like these I would do anything to have Ivy back here so we could sit up late and talk things through. There is no one else who’d understand.
Sometime around five this afternoon I was reading to the girls in the quiet playroom. There was a bit of a commotion at the back door, so I stepped into the hallway to make sure everything was okay. It was Simon, our policeman, speaking with Marguerite, the housekeeper, saying that a visitor was asking for Dr. Dafoe. Of course we are always having visitors seeking Dr. Dafoe, but typically the guards turn them away at the main gate or contact Dr. Dafoe themselves. Somehow this one had made it past the external and internal gates and was, presumably, waiting on the back porch to be admitted.
“She was causing some trouble across the street,” Simon was saying in a low voice. “It was M. Dionne who asked that she be escorted off the property, so I brought her here.”
Marguerite said something I didn’t catch, and Simon said: “I can’t send them away like this, ma’am. And she’s insisting on speaking with the doctor.” I heard the screen door creak open—an anxious sound, it seemed to me—as I hurried into the kitchen.
Imagine my surprise. It was Nurse Nicolette. I almost couldn’t recognize her. Her baby face was much thinner now, her hair longer and unkempt, and her eyes were swollen, her gaze flickering all over the room like the nervous flame of a candle waiting to be dowsed. No sooner had I recognized her than I realized what she was carrying: a baby, quite a good-size little chap, or at least I assume it was a boy—the soiled blanket in which he was swaddled was a pale blue.
Simon and Marguerite looked relieved to see me.
“Inès?” I said, unable to keep the surprise out of my voice.
She looked up, but if she recognized me, she didn’t show it. Instead she started crying again and saying in French, “I must see Dr. Dafoe, I must see Dr. Dafoe.”
“We’ve put in a call to the doctor in town,” Simon said to me in English. “I told him Nurse Nicolette was here for a visit, but he says he is otherwise engaged and we must convince her to go.”
I paused, wondering if I should summon Miss Beaulieu, but she had never met Nurse Nicolette and I didn’t want her to be angry with the guards for admitting Inès to the premises. Simon turned his head sideways so as to be able to murmur something more quietly, beside my ear. “She was creating quite a scene at the Dionne farmhouse, hammering on the door and scaring the other children. Some of the tourists were taking photos . . .”
I crouched down beside Nurse Nicolette and explained in French that the doctor was away and asked her if she needed medical attention, or whether there was anything I could do to help. She glared at me, then shook her head, wiping at her blotched face with her sleeve, turning her shoulder toward me, and hunching over the child. Truly it was so hard to comprehend the changes in her—she’d been so fastidious about her appearance and her comportment when she left us last year. Now she seemed older and more drawn, but also unraveled, undone. So things had worked out for her just as I’d feared.
“This must be your baby,” I murmured, trying to calm her down. I reached toward the baby, meaning only to lay my hand on his little head—he was a boy, I could confirm that now, but with curly, dark brown hair and long dark lashes, so much plumper than the quintuplets had been at this age, which I estimated to be roughly three months old.
Inès wrenched her arms to one side, away from my outstretched hand, letting out a sound that was part cry, part growl. I had a feeling in that moment that she’d already fought to keep her arms around this baby and she wasn’t going to let go of him here. She curled her gaunt frame around the boy and started sobbing again, her thin shoulders quaking in her drab and faded dress.
I stood again and said that I was going to go and get Miss Beaulieu, which I did. By the time we returned, however, Inès was gone, and Simon with her.
“She burst out the door when you left,” Marguerite said. “Sergeant Blaine went after her, and I’ve just seen him helping her into the car. He offered to take her back to the train station,” she added.
Miss Beaulieu pinched her glasses primly on her nose and gave me a stern look, which suggested I’d interrupted her for no reason, but I hadn’t. Why had Inès come back? Why wouldn’t she let me hold the baby? Now I have a million questions and no chance of getting answers. I need to write to Ivy.
September 18, 1937
I TRIED TO speak with Dr. Dafoe about Nurse Nicolette’s visit, but he brushed aside my questions, telling me it was none of my concern. But surely it should have been his?
He is completely preoccupied with the upcoming publication of Dr. Blatz’s research on the quintuplets and has been asked to write the foreword, which of course will simply mean more work for George. In fact, I’d like to talk about Nurse Nicolette with George, or Lewis maybe. But what exactly would I say? This was some private tragedy, surely, some medical secret for which she felt she needed the doctor’s help. Had Simon taken her to see Dr. Dafoe in town, or to the station, as Marguerite had suggested? Surely Dr. Dafoe could tell me something to let me set my fears to rest?
October 1, 1937
I STILL HAVEN’T sent my letter to Ivy. I don’t have her address and I don’t want to send it to her “secretary” in Toronto. Fred is meeting her back in Toronto over Thanksgiving weekend and says he’d be happy to take her a letter himself. I’m not sure what I’ll do.