“… adjust the pricing, Father. There is greater demand since last year.”
“But this system is not intended to gouge the pocketbooks of good families, Sister.”
Evelyn stops her sweeping and cranes her ear toward the office.
“Not gouging, Father, no. We would never do that, of course. All I am saying is that I think it would be prudent to… reflect the current market in our pricing scheme. Other homes are doing the same. They are charging what the market will bear. Babies are beginning to be purchased from overseas, and families will pay double for a white, Christian-born, local child. This home is a source of income for our parish and I believe we owe it to ourselves—and our parishioners—to ensure we are generating the highest possible return on our investment.”
Evelyn’s breath catches, solidifying in her lungs like cement. After a moment, Father Leclerc sighs, and Evelyn can picture him tapping his left foot, as he does during his sermons.
“I would be comfortable with a fifteen percent increase over last year, but no more. Let us see what the response is. This will not be retroactive to the families currently on the reservation list, correct?”
“No,” Sister Teresa replies. “An increase going forward.”
“All right, Sister. Well, dinner will be served soon, I imagine. I best go prepare for grace. I’ll leave you to it.”
“Thank you, Father.”
The sound of wooden chair legs scraping against the floor shocks Evelyn into movement. Stunned, she struggles to her feet and shuffles as fast as she can back down the hallway, stashing the broom and dustpan in the hall closet near the kitchen. Her lungs fight to get a full breath as she rounds the banister at the bottom of the staircase and climbs as fast as she can to the second floor. Turning the corner at the landing, she nearly collides with Sister Agatha.
“Miss Evelyn! Oh, you gave me such a fright. What—？”
Evelyn pushes past the nun and rushes to her dormitory at the end of the hall. Maggie is on her bed and looks up from her novel in alarm.
“Evelyn? What’s wrong?”
Evelyn’s face crumples. Maggie holds her arms out and Evelyn falls into them as she cries into her shoulder.
Agatha appears at the door and gently closes it against the noise wafting up from downstairs as the girls begin to convene for dinner. “What happened?” she asks, her brows knitted in concern.
Maggie just shakes her head and rubs Evelyn’s back. A minute later, Evelyn is cried out, and she sits up and turns to Agatha. “Did you know?” she demands.
Agatha frowns. “Did I know what?”
“That they’re selling them? Selling the babies. Like puppies from a kennel!”
Agatha’s hand whips up to her mouth in shock.
“What?” Maggie cries.
“Yes! I was just—” Evelyn pushes herself up off the bed, away from Maggie, and starts to pace the room. “I was just downstairs sweeping, and the Watch”—she corrects herself,—“Sister Teresa was in her office with Father Leclerc, and I overheard them talking about pricing schemes and the market and increasing the price of this year’s…” Her throat is squeezing shut against the words. “Babies.”
“Selling them?” Agatha asks, her face aghast.
“Yes!” Evelyn says, holding Agatha’s gaze. She realizes the nun isn’t much older than she is. She had always seemed older somehow. Drained, Evelyn hacks a heavy, mucus-filled cough, then slumps back on the bed.
“I swear I did not know,” Agatha says. Her eyes are wide, darting back and forth between Evelyn and Maggie, who sit in stunned silence. When she speaks again, her voice is thick with emotion. “But I confess I don’t know what to do with this information.”
“How can we stay here?” Evelyn says to Maggie, then turns to Agatha. “How can you stay here? How can you continue to…” She can’t find the words. “Adopting the babies is one thing, but selling them?”
Sister Agatha’s chest rises and falls with a deep breath. “I will pray on it. I hope God will guide me. Perhaps He had Sister Teresa assign me the upstairs cleaning tonight for a reason. So that I could run into you and know this.”
Maggie scoffs.
“I’m not sure I believe in that,” Evelyn says.
“You don’t have to.”
“We need to get out of here, Sister Agatha. I can’t let them sell my baby. Leo’s baby. Oh my God. Maggie? What do we do?”
Maggie’s eyes are heavy. “Evelyn, what do you mean, ‘get out of here’？ We have nowhere else to go.”
* * *
After speaking with Agatha, Evelyn goes to bed early and without dinner. With a twinge of guilt, she ignores Maggie’s concerned inquiries, muttering that she’s feeling nauseous and doesn’t want to be disturbed. The truth is that she needs time and space to think, two things that are in short supply inside the home.
She desperately wants to confront Sister Teresa about the massive deception she’s orchestrating against all the girls, but she doesn’t even know where to begin. Her heart breaks for the other girls, for Maggie, but the selfish part of her is fixated on her own baby. What would Leo think of her, if she didn’t at least try to prevent their child from being sold to some strange family?
By the time Evelyn has come to her decision, the other girls have finished dinner. She feigns sleep, holding her round belly as her baby rolls and pushes against her hands from inside. Legitimate or not, she knows this baby is a miracle. She lies awake long after her roommates are all in their beds. Maggie often has bad dreams and wakes up in a hot sweat, but the absence of whimpers in the bed beside Evelyn tells her that her friend is chasing sleep tonight, too.
The following day, Evelyn wanders down the hallway that is now filled with nothing but the damp smell of winter slush and the memory of the terrible conversation between the Watchdog and Father Leclerc.
“You may enter,” Sister Teresa calls in response to Evelyn’s polite knock.
Evelyn takes a deep breath, hitches a stiff smile onto her face, and turns the handle. She has only been in here once, shortly after the new year for her half-term health care update, which lasted less than five minutes. Now Sister Teresa is seated at her desk, surrounded by stacks of paper and a pile of addressed envelopes that catch Evelyn’s eye; she recognizes her brother’s address in her own handwriting on the top of the pile.
“Yes, Evelyn. What do you want?” The Watchdog’s round face is tucked tightly beneath the fabric of her habit. The wire-rimmed glasses perch on top of a button nose, magnifying the coldness of the grey eyes behind them.
“Yes,” Evelyn says, noting that the nun does not invite her to sit. She intends for this to be a short meeting.
“Yes, Sister Teresa.”
“Yes, Sister Teresa.”
“What do you wish to speak to me about? Make it quick, Evelyn. I am rather busy at the moment and, if I am not mistaken, I believe you should be in the kitchen right now.”
Evelyn clears her throat and rests her hands on her large belly. “It’s about my baby, Sister. I’m not reconsidering an adoption, but I—I was rather hoping my brother and his wife might be willing to take it.”