The Quintland Sisters(98)
Write and tell me about the flight. Did everything go smoothly? How about your landing feet? I hope they tucked up and down exactly as you expected.
Best wishes,
Emma
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
*
April 18, 1939
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
Dear Lewis,
Your letter arrived today describing the FDB’s maiden flight. I could feel your exhilaration coming off the page in gusts—a welcome distraction from the matter on everyone’s mind here: the visit to Toronto to meet the King and Queen. The girls spend every waking moment peppering us with questions about how a train goes uphill, who pushes it, how fast, and so on. They simply can’t believe they themselves will go somewhere by train just like the children in their picture books. And I was worried about your flight, I won’t pretend otherwise. But even more than that, I was happy for you. Thrilled. And proud. You’ve worked so hard—I know how much you wanted this.
Will you pay a visit to Callander this summer? I would love to talk to you, really talk—not just about all this gossip from Ivy. I can’t think of any other person who listens as well as you. Let me know if that’s in the cards.
Yours truly,
Emma
Dafoe Hospital and Nursery
Callander, ON
*
May 9, 1939
11 Rue Saint Ida
Montreal, Quebec
Dear Lewis,
Your letter inviting me to visit arrived the day before yesterday and I have read it a dozen times, probably more. I’ve decided to take a page out of your book and speak plainly in a way I could never do if you were standing here in front of me. These letters have done that for us, haven’t they? Allowed us to say what’s on our minds.
The thing is, Lewis, I can’t tell you what I “want to do,” because I don’t know what that is myself. For as long as I can remember all I wanted to do was to paint and draw, and to have the freedom to ogle the world without the world ogling me, recording everything in my scribble book. Then, in the queerest twist—because I’ve never paid much attention to children and never felt I was cut out for motherhood—I fell in love with five baby girls and for better or for worse became the closest thing to a mother they’ve ever had. My priorities shifted. Suddenly all that mattered to me was that they simply survive, that they grow healthy and strong, and that they love me the way I loved them.
And then, out of nowhere, art sauntered back into my life.
I wonder sometimes if I’d never met Mrs. Fangel or Dr. Dafoe hadn’t insisted I show her my work—if I was merely a “nurse” here and nothing more: would I be just as happy? Would I have stayed so long? I’m not sure. Being paid for my art, being admired for it and knowing it’s made a difference, however small, in the fortunes of the quintuplets has for some time been a source of real pride.
But Mr. Munro visited again the other day, showing me my current bank balance and explaining that M. Dionne has received copies of all payments made to me, which makes me squirm. Mark my words: I’ll be hustled out the door quick as you please if M. Dionne decides that I’ve profited too much off his family. What’s dawning on me now is that he won’t be entirely wrong. I’ve worried for so long about whether the quintuplets would have enough money to keep them safe forever: safe from the prying crowds, from the poverty of their parents, and from dangers I can’t even put a name to. Now it seems the only thing money has done here has been to poison people against one another, coloring their every thought, and leaving them hungering for more.
But things are changing here, we all feel it. If not later this month when we board that train for Toronto, then the next month, or the next: change is around the bend. The girls are growing up and Europe is rumbling toward war while Canada taps its feet and feigns disinterest. And you, Lewis. You are building Canada’s planes.
But that doesn’t address your question about a visit. I’ve spoken with Dr. Dafoe and received permission to take some time off after the royal visit, so getting leave is not the issue. In fact, Ivy has also invited me to stay several days with her in Toronto, so I’m feeling popular. I do need to see Ivy, not only to catch up but because Fred is photographing my portfolio—I’ve sent everything to them this evening. I could, however, spend the night of the 22nd with them, then take the train on to Montreal the next morning. I am not due back at the nursery until the night of the 28th.
So here’s my question, Lewis. Are we simply good friends? Is that why we’re writing back and forth? Over the past few months your letters have been the brightest moments in some otherwise gloomy days. You’ve made me smile while everyone around me seems to have forgotten how. When you went up in your plane I was worried, truly worried, about whether your invention would manage to bring you safely back to earth. But I’ve wondered, what grounds do I have to be concerned? Or rather, on what terms?
Let me be frank. I don’t have the best instincts and I’m a poor judge of people, men in particular. I tend to see meaning in the lightest words and gestures, but am blind to everything real, everything important, taking place right in front of my very eyes. I’ve made a fool of myself in the past with unfounded assumptions and hollow hopes, then regretted them dreadfully. I don’t want to make the same mistake here.