The Quintland Sisters(63)
The Dionnes are going to throw a fit when they learn that Miss Tremblay is gone.
February 10, 1938
THE NEW NURSE has arrived, a graduate of Dr. Blatz’s school in Toronto. Her name is Sigrid Ulrichson, a Dane, I believe, although she speaks fluent French, with an accent. She is tall and blond, with wavy curls like honey being drizzled from a spoon—the girls have taken to her right away. She spent her first day mincing around with Dr. Blatz’s book tucked to her chest or consulting it like a field guide, her plump lips mouthing the words. I myself haven’t had the heart to read the first page despite having been given my own copy, signed by the great man himself.
February 13, 1938
I HEARD THE Dionnes when they arrived at the back door, M. Dionne scraping his heavy boots like a bull about to charge. This is my cue to retreat. Whenever it snows, I notice, they’ll come over to visit the girls before Mr. Cartwright has come through with the plow so they know they won’t run into Dr. Dafoe.
I’ve taken to visiting George in the doctor’s office when the Dionnes appear. If he’s very busy, he’ll give me a stack of mail and put me to work slitting envelopes and helping him sort out personal mail from the deluge of commercial offers. Other times I bring my sketchbook and pencil. I’ve been working on some close-ups of the girls’ faces, trying to capture what sets each apart.
Most days George is chatty, often reading me some of the extraordinary advice flooding in from around the world. Today he was subdued. I glanced up from my sketch of Yvonne and saw he was watching me, which made me blush terribly. He smiled and stood, then paused.
“Can I guess who it is?” He made his way around the desk so that he was standing behind me. He put a palm down on the corner of the desk and leaned over me. Not close, mind you, but close enough that I could smell him, a clean, soapy scent. He keeps his hair rather long and parted on the side, but slicked back, which makes it look darker at the temples although it’s clearly more of a golden brown, with a bit of a wave in it. When he leaned over my book, his hair swung forward, almost like a woman’s, and he reached with his free hand to smooth it back again behind his ear. I felt as if I’d turned to glass, hot and combustible, like a Mazda lamp. I don’t even remember what George said, who he thought I was drawing, or how I responded. After a minute he straightened up again and stepped back, stretching his arms toward the ceiling and swiveling his head to stretch his neck. I was tingling as if singed. But in a good way, if that’s possible. I waited until I thought I was breathing normally again, then mumbled some excuse that allowed me to go hurrying back to the nursery.
February 17, 1938
NONE OF US were expecting Dr. Dafoe today because of the blizzard. He surprised us all by coming out with Mr. Cartwright first thing this morning in the plow-mounted truck, then slipping in the kitchen door, where the path through the yard was the clearest. I had finished off my morning notes and was heading to help Nurse No?l get the girls brushed and clothed. They are wild these days after too much time cooped up inside, and I could hear Nurse No?l scolding Annette over her latest perceived misdemeanor. Then, unexpectedly, Dr. Dafoe’s voice in the playroom, booming, “Where are my little monkeys?” A pause, then shrieks of excitement from the girls, “Le Doh-Doh!” I could hear their little feet squeaking, shoeless, across the linoleum. By the time I got to the playroom, Nurse No?l was already trying to herd them back to their rooms, Marie and Cécile wearing only their bloomers and the others in various stages of dress. It was as if Nurse No?l was purposefully ignoring Dr. Dafoe or so angry with the girls that she didn’t let his presence curb her reaction.
“Girls!” she barked in French. “Girls! This is very, very naughty. Jesus is very angry with you. Very angry! Nice girls do not run around showing themselves without their clothes.”
Dr. Dafoe had stooped to lift émilie into his arms, but he seemed to freeze at these words, standing stock-still in his damp socks, staring at Nurse No?l, no doubt laboring to translate her words in his head. After a moment, he tore his gaze away and smiled at émilie. “It is winter,” he said to her in English. “You’re going to catch cold. Go and put on something warm.” He planted a kiss on her brow, then set her down on the floor.
The girls scampered away, quiet as mice. I should have gone with them, but instead I stayed as if rooted. Neither nurse nor doctor seemed to have seen me slip into the room. The anger surging between them was like an electric current, back and forth, back and forth. I was close enough to Nurse No?l that I could see perspiration moist in the folds of her neck, her bosom heaving. She pursed her lips and jutted her chin out, then strode after the girls.
Dr. Dafoe swiftly followed, speaking in English, softly and slowly, so that I could scarcely catch the words. “I will not have you threatening my girls,” he hissed. “I will not have you threatening them with their faith. They will not be taught to think of themselves in this way.” She understands enough English, Nurse No?l, I know she does. She would not need me to translate.
Then, once again, the doctor stopped abruptly, this time just inside the doorway to the girls’ dressing room and toilet. His round head bobbled briefly atop his squat body, snow melting on his hat and his pipe clutched in his mitten. For an instant I thought of the snowman the girls and I had built last month, now smothered by the thick snow. I had the urge to laugh, but it was nerves that were driving me.