The Quintland Sisters(96)
Mind you, she may yet get her wish. All the papers now say the government is moving ahead with plans to build a large home on a nearby property where all the Dionne family can live, plus apartments for the nurses and staff. George says Dr. Dafoe has told the other guardians that such a house will be built over his dead body. I don’t know who to believe. For years we’ve heard that our fragile girls simply couldn’t survive crammed with a half dozen siblings into the ramshackle farmhouse across the road. The fact is, the girls are now as hale as can be; they’re simply not accustomed to that style of life. I might feel differently if the Dionnes themselves were different: if Maman and Papa were kinder, sunnier, less pious folk, and their other children weren’t so jumpy and fearful. If they seemed more loved.
And you, Lewis. You are building warplanes! So will Canada join this war? Who will fly these fighter planes of yours?
Best wishes,
Emma
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
*
September 28, 1938
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
Dear Lewis,
Politics is not my strong suit, but I must say: it’s refreshing to hear you say something that’s not 100 percent polite for a change. My news: I had a strange run-in with M. Dionne. He came into the room where I was painting and I didn’t notice him until he was standing right behind me. You know, he’s never actually spoken to me directly? Nor have I ever been alone in a room with him. I just leapt out of my seat and started busying around trying to clean up my things and left him planted in front of my painting. I didn’t like doing that. It felt like I’d left one of the girls in some state of jeopardy, which of course is ridiculous.
But all of us feel such constant pressure to keep them safe. In my nightmares, Yvonne finds a door left unlatched or Marie jimmies open a ground-floor window and the five of them blithely amble out into the bustle and roar of the crowds, where they are trampled, struck by a car, whisked away, held for ransom, or worse. One day, I know, our girls will be young women who will want to see the world and to come and go as they please, but how do we get from here to there, Lewis? When will it be deemed safe enough for the gates to swing open? It’s hard to imagine the world letting them lead a normal life. Because where would that be? Would there be a place for me? Every entrepreneur within ten miles around is crowing like a rooster about the necessity of keeping the quintuplets in Callander, whether they move to this Big House or not. George on the other hand says the government will probably move them to Toronto or Ottawa, which are easier for tourists to access. I think George is pulling my leg, but I can’t tell.
Have you sorted out your upper gull wing problem? Flying has always sounded rather romantic, but not being able to see the ground when you’re trying to land strikes me as a good deal less alluring. And speaking of romance, I keep meaning to ask about your rock doves. Have they had their young? I read in the papers that the human Mr. Hughes has moved on from Bette Davis to a different bird altogether. I hope your Bette fares a bit better.
Sincerely,
Emma
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
*
November 13, 1938
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
Dear Lewis,
We are all recovered from the Great Tonsil Adventure—everything went just fine.
Why can’t Britain build her own planes? And how on earth would you even get the planes over the sea to England? Where would you put down for fuel?
You asked me whether M. Dionne loves his daughters. My first thought is: of course he loves them. Even the coldest hearts have melted at the sight of them trundling around in the public playground or mugging for the cameras. And yet my next thought is, How can he love them when he doesn’t even know them? How can anyone? We played a little trick today that proves my point. As you know, each of the girls has her own special color that she’s supposed to wear, but this morning I proposed that each swap outfits with one of her sisters. At first they were anxious—a new look on their sweet faces and I can’t stand it—but after a few minutes they realized what a great joke this would be and they were back to being the clowns I know and love, each of them trying to out-silly the other. Marie is a clever little mimic, and after plucking a pink hat from the shelf did a deadly impression of bossy Yvonne scolding her sisters. I burst out laughing, and the others followed, even Yvonne, and I realized how long it’s been since we’ve all laughed like this together. Still giggling, they raced into breakfast and took their seats in their regular places, then scuttled gleefully from one chair to another, each trying to remember who she was supposed to be and where she ought to sit. I could see Nurse Corriveau’s nostrils working like a bellows, worried she might be the butt of the joke, while Miss Callahan carried on in her sunshiny way, unaware of anything amiss. Then Dr. Dafoe arrived, and they charged over to him announcing their borrowed names amid squeals of laughter, but he just called them his “funny little monkeys” and tottered off to his office. These are the quintuplets the world knows and loves—miraculous mirrors of one another, sweet as a consequence of being indistinguishable. What I’ve realized is that these are the girls Dr. Dafoe and the other guardians want the world to know and love, so that the advertisers keep knocking and the tourists come in droves. I know and love something different: five unique and headstrong little girls. One who loves bumblebees and bath time; one who loves thunderstorms but is scared of the dark; one for whom the only thing better than building sand castles is getting to knock them all down; one who loves to finger-paint and knows how to tie her shoes; one who hates beets but is not the least bit squeamish about blood. Now who are the girls that M. Dionne loves? I can’t say. You’ll tell me he hasn’t been given the chance to know them, that he was stripped of a father’s natural right to learn how to love his own daughters, and that’s certainly true. But there are also chances he’s squandered. These last four years, he’s wasted more time shouting over books and payments in Dr. Dafoe’s office than he’s ever spent with his girls.