“But this baby, my baby… it was conceived in love. Surely that must mean something. I was going to marry the father. I loved him.” Evelyn’s voice cracks. “I lost him. Must I lose his baby, too?”
“The house rules are thus,” Sister Teresa continues at a gallop, as though Evelyn hasn’t just borne her heart to the woman. She plows through the policies in a well-practiced monologue. “You will use only your first name within these walls. Only your first name. I cannot stress this enough. Our girls and their families value discretion while the girl is housed here. As you are no doubt aware, most families feel a great deal of shame about their daughters’ predicament, and we promise as much privacy as possible. Mind your own business, and do not ask questions. You will not discuss your home life, family, friends, past experiences, or other details with your roommates or any of the other inmates. Each of you is here for a reason. Keep it to yourself.
“You will not leave the house without express permission, nor will you go near the windows or open the curtains. We do not have a telephone on the premises. You may write letters to your loved ones, but not the putative father, though in your case, of course, that rule is moot. We will review all incoming and outgoing correspondence for the sake of your own privacy and safety. You will do as you are told by any of the sisters on our staff, or by Father Leclerc, your new priest. You will attend his mass here in the sitting room every Sunday morning. You will also attend various lessons to provide you with the set of skills you will require to be a good wife and housekeeper once you have reformed yourself. They include cooking, sewing, cleaning, knitting, and of course religious study. After you have given birth, you will move into the postpartum dormitory. Once our physician has agreed you are fit to return to work, you will continue to work off your debt for a three-month period until you are released back into the care of your parents. That is standard practice in every home of this kind.”
Three months?
Evelyn clenches her fists in her lap as Sister Teresa finishes her pronouncement and stands up.
“Come along, then, Miss Taylor. Or Evelyn, I should say. That’s the last time you’ll be using your surname for a while. Supper is nearly ready, and we run a tight schedule. Pick up your case and I will show you to your dormitory. You’ll be sharing with two other girls for now: Louise and Anne. Your third roommate, Margaret, is due to arrive tomorrow.”
Evelyn forces herself up from the chair.
“Yes, Sister Teresa,” the nun prompts her.
Evelyn drops her gaze to the handle of her travelling case. “Yes, Sister Teresa.”
CHAPTER 3 Nancy
TORONTO | SUMMER 1979
Nancy Mitchell pulls on her red rubber boots and navy rain jacket in the front hall of her parents’ house as butterflies flutter in her stomach. She doesn’t like lying to her mother, but she has to extract herself from their argument in time to meet her cousin Clara.
“We’re already late for Susan’s birthday party, Mum,” Nancy says. “I have to go.”
Her mother exhales irritably. “I don’t think it’s appropriate for two young girls to be out at parties in the dead of night unescorted.”
Nancy tries to shake off her mother’s admonitions. Frances Mitchell was born and raised in England until her parents moved her and her sisters to Canada when she was only fourteen. But she’s clung to the cultural values of decorum and propriety her entire life. They ground her. They make life stable and predictable. A set of rules to live by.
“We’re not girls, Mum, we’re old enough to vote now, remember?”
“Well, where is this party, anyway? You haven’t said.”
“Oh, leave her be, Frances,” Nancy’s grandmama croaks from the rigid-backed chair beside the living room window.
“Well, I worry,” Frances says.
“Yes, but all of motherhood is just chronic low-level fear at the best of times, dear. You know this. And besides, a woman is entitled to a few secrets, after all, now, isn’t she?”
Frances shoots her mother a withering look and storms off into the kitchen. A few seconds later, the smell of Comet cleaner fills the air. Every time she and her daughter have an argument, Frances vents her frustration by donning a set of rubber gloves and scrubbing her kitchen to within an inch of its Formica-topped life.
Tonight’s argument was—once again—triggered by Nancy’s need for independence. The fact that she’s decided to move out of her parents’ home to attend university in the same city has caused Frances to cling to her with even more vehemence than normal, and Nancy doesn’t have the patience for it anymore.
She plants a kiss on her grandmother’s papery cheek. “Thanks, Grandmama. I hope you’re feeling better. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Flipping the oversized hood on her rain jacket, Nancy shuts the door behind her with more force than she intended and ventures out into the rainy night. She knows she did nothing to help avoid tonight’s argument, but she’s been on edge all day in anticipation of her appointment tonight with Clara.
Unlike her mother, Nancy isn’t one to shy away from bending the rules—or, if the occasion calls for it, outright breaking them—but sneaking out to see an illegal abortionist isn’t exactly within her comfort zone.
She agreed to it without really thinking, but her misgivings have increased since she first said yes a week ago. Clara called last Wednesday night and begged Nancy—choking on her words with sobs that became more and more fractured as her panic rose—to come with her as she gets an abortion. She had heard about a man who would do it for eight hundred dollars, she said, and no one ever needs to know.
“Does Anthony know?” Nancy asked her. Clara’s boyfriend Anthony has a temper like napalm; it sticks to anything he throws it at and burns everything in his path.
“No, of course not. He wouldn’t let me. You know that.”
That’s exactly the answer Nancy expected. She sighed and dropped her voice. “Are you sure about this, Clara?”
“Yes!” Clara wailed. “Mom and Dad’ll kill me. This isn’t a choice. There’s no other option, Nancy.”
“But, I mean, is this guy legitimate? You hear horror stories, you know? What if he’s some quack?”
“I don’t think so. The friend of a girl I work with at the diner used this guy, and everything was fine. That’s who told me about him. He’s out in the East End.”
“Is there…” Nancy hated herself a little for asking it. “Is there anyone else who can go with you?” She held her breath for the answer, curling the phone cord around her index finger.
“No,” Clara said. “I need you. I need a girl with me, and you’ve always been the closest thing I have to a sister.” An overstatement. “I can’t do this by myself. Please help me.”
And so Nancy waits underneath the misty glow of a streetlamp outside Ossington Station at nine o’clock on this rainy Friday night in August. She can’t see much through the downpour, but as a small silhouette emerges in the darkness, she suspects—given the hunched shoulders and harried pace—that it’s Clara. Nancy raises a hand and the figure hurries toward her. Her eyes are wide, the grey-blue standing out against her pale face. She throws her wet arms around Nancy’s neck, and Nancy can feel her shaking.