1961
One afternoon in the final days of winter, when the outside world is gray and colorless through the barred windows, and all the snow has melted, Elodie is called away from her sewing machine in the middle of her shift. She gets up from the Singer and follows one of the nuns down the corridor in silent consternation. Swoosh. Swoosh. Never will she forget the portentous sound of the nuns’ habits sweeping the floor.
They go up the six flights of stairs to the main lobby of the mental ward, but instead of going through the locked doors that lead to Elodie’s ward, the nun stops in front of one of the offices and knocks.
“Entrez,” comes a man’s voice.
The nun opens the door and gently nudges Elodie into the room. “Elodie de Saint-Sulpice,” she says, before disappearing.
“I’m Dr. Lazure,” the man says, reaching for a file on the desk. Barely looking up. “Sit, please.”
Elodie doesn’t move. As she realizes what’s happening, her body goes numb.
“I won’t bite,” he says.
She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes. She’s frozen. Whatever she says and does in this office will decide her fate. She messed up last time. She said the wrong things, and they thought she was dumb or retarded or difficult. Whatever mistake she made, it ruined her life. She can’t let it happen again.
The doctor is watching her. She feels herself trembling. Still, she can’t budge.
“There’s nothing to be scared of,” he says. He seems kind enough, but she knows better than to trust him. Twice she’s been fooled by doctors; both times she paid dearly for her poor judgment.
“Sit,” he repeats, more firmly.
Finally, her legs move and she does as she’s told.
“I’m part of a psychiatric team investigating institutions like Saint-Nazarius,” he explains. “We’re examining hundreds of children like you—”
“Why?”
“Because we’re part of a commission tasked with determining whether or not you and others like you belong in a place like this.”
“What’s a commission?” Elodie asks, and then regrets it immediately. Terrified he’s going to think she doesn’t know anything; that she’s retarded or ignorant, like Sister Camille said.
“It’s a duty or a project assigned to a group of people,” he answers neutrally. “I don’t work at this hospital, you see. This isn’t my office. I’m just visiting. I’m here to ask you some questions.”
She nods, taking a nervous breath. She notices the file in front of him and can’t help but stare at it. It’s her file. She can see the numbers 03–06–50 on the front cover and recognizes them as her date of birth.
“Shall we start?” he asks her.
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Remember, I’m here as an ally.”
She has no idea what that means—ally—but this time she doesn’t dare say so.
“How long have you been here, Elodie?”
“Four years,” she says.
“And before that?”
“The orphanage.”
“And you’re now . . . ?”
“Eleven?” she says tentatively, wondering if it’s a trick question.
“It’s not a test,” he says, reading her mind. “Elodie, do you know why you’re here at Saint-Nazarius?”
“No, sir.”
He scribbles something in her file.
“Because the doctor from the orphanage thought I was retarded?” she ventures. “Or crazy?”
Dr. Lazure continues scribbling in her file.
“On Change of Vocation Day,” she explains, “Sister Tata told us we were all mentally retarded, but me and Emmeline and a couple of other girls, we were the only ones sent here to Saint-Nazarius. So we must have done something wrong—”
Dr. Lazure looks up at her, but doesn’t say anything.
“I’m not retarded,” Elodie says, her voice rising. “I don’t belong in here.”
“I don’t disagree with that.”
“I’m an orphan,” she tells him. “Not a mental patient. Sister Camille says I’m backwards from being here so long, but that doesn’t mean I’m crazy.”
“Indeed not.”
“So I may not know all the answers to the questions you’re going to ask me,” she says. “But I’m not crazy.”
Dr. Lazure nods, frowning. She can’t tell if she’s displeased him or said something wrong. Shut up, she silently reprimands herself. “I didn’t know the answers to the other doctor’s questions and that’s why they sent me here. But I was only seven—”
“This isn’t a test you can fail.”
“Isn’t it?” she says. “I want to get out of here. I have to.”
“I understand.”
She shakes her head. “No, you don’t.”
“Tell me,” he says.
“They killed my friend,” she blurts. “Emmeline de Saint-Sulpice. We came here together. She wasn’t the first one they killed either.”
Elodie stops and covers her mouth with her hand. She’s done it again. Said too much, the kind of reckless babbling that already got her into terrible trouble with Sister Ignatia. What if this doctor tells on her like the last one did?
“That’s a very serious accusation,” Dr. Lazure says.
“It’s true, though,” Elodie continues, unable to stop herself. “They gave Emmeline an overdose of Largactil. Another girl was killed for singing. They weren’t retarded either. They were just orphans, like me—”
Dr. Lazure is nodding. There’s a deep crease between his eyes. Elodie knows she’s made another serious mistake. She looks down at the floor, trying to hide her trembling lip and tears.
After a moment, in which the crease in Dr. Lazure’s forehead softens, he says, “Can you tell me what this is, dear?”
He holds up a picture of what looks like a box with knobs.
“No, sir,” she responds.
“It’s a radio,” he tells her. “What about this?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s an accordion. And this?”
“A car,” she says, recognizing it at once.
He holds up more pictures of different objects, asking her what each one is. She knows some, but not all.
“This is a refrigerator,” he tells her, when she fails to guess.
This is a pineapple, a telephone, a present. A tractor, a heart.
“It’s just like last time,” she interrupts, her voice breaking. “I’ve never seen these things, but it doesn’t make me crazy!”
“Of course not,” he agrees.
“I’m ignorant,” she tells him. “That’s all.”
He smiles sadly and writes something in her file.
“If you’re letting us out of here,” she says, “do you think you can arrange for me to go back to Saint-Sulpice? In case my mother comes back for me?”
His expression clouds. He looks away, avoiding her.
“That’s all for today,” he says.
She sits there for a moment, not wanting to leave without something concrete to latch on to, a promise or some shred of hope to get her through the remainder of her days here. “I don’t belong here.”
He nods in response and gets up from the table.
The days trickle by lethargically, each one gloomier than the one before. Girls from Elodie’s ward start disappearing, but she remains. Sister Camille assures her that her day will come, but she’s beginning to wonder. The older girls—the ones who are eighteen, nineteen, in their early twenties—are being sent out into the world with a single suitcase and a prayer. They’ll have to find work and places to live, a mandate that to Elodie seems insurmountable given their limited skills and knowledge about the world. Elodie is grateful she’s only eleven.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Elodie’s head snaps up to find Sister Ignatia standing above her.
“I’m just sitting here rocking,” Elodie responds, her tone slightly more defiant than usual.
“The toilets and floors in your dormitory bathroom need scrubbing,” Sister Ignatia says, her black eyes hard. “Now that Yvette is gone, it’s your job.”
“I already have a job—”
The back of Sister Ignatia’s hand lands squarely against Elodie’s temple before she can finish her sentence.
Elodie clutches her head to stop the ringing in her ears. She can feel hot tears burning her eyes. “When I get out of here—”
“You’re not getting out,” Sister Ignatia interrupts.
“I’m an orphan,” Elodie says, emboldened. “That’s why the doctor interviewed me.”
“And where do you think you’re going to go?”
“Back to a real orphanage or a foster home, somewhere my mother can find me.”
“Your mother’s dead,” Sister says, her tone almost triumphant.
Elodie feels her pulse start to pound. “No, she’s not,” she says, her voice a tremor. “You’re just saying that.”
Sister Ignatia’s expression is void of pity. “It’s in your file.”
“I don’t believe you,” Elodie manages, her mouth dry.
Sister Ignatia turns suddenly and leaves the room. Elodie rocks back and forth, trying to calm down. Could it be true? Her mother dead?
The girl in the rocking chair beside her—one of the real mental patients—lets out a loud yelp.
“Shut up,” Elodie mutters.
The girl yelps again, baring her teeth like an animal.
“I said shut up!” Elodie cries, tears spilling down her cheeks. The retarded girl grunts something and whimpers.
The next thing Elodie knows, Sister Ignatia is back, waving a file in her face. “Here,” she says, holding it up. “Just so you know, once and for all.”
Sister opens the file. “‘Mother deceased,’” she reads aloud, and then she turns it so Elodie can see for herself. Elodie can make out the word “mother,” but the other word—“deceased”—is just random letters. She doesn’t remember how to read very well.
“She’s dead,” Sister says. “She died in childbirth—God’s punishment for her sins. You have no father. You’re a bastard, and you’ve nowhere else to go. You’re too young to go out on your own, and too old for an orphanage or a foster family. No one wants a pubescent girl. You’ve fallen between the cracks, so this is where you’ll be staying.”
“It’s not true,” Elodie says, her voice catching.
Sister Ignatia smirks. “It’s right here,” she says, pointing to the elegant script, permanently recorded in black ink. “‘Mère décédée.’” Mother deceased.
“But you’ve never said so before!”
“I’m saying so now.”