1967
Elodie is lying awake on her cot, looking up at the ceiling she’s come to despise. It doesn’t matter that Ward A is called the Freedom Ward and living here is a huge improvement over Ward B; she still hates every square inch of this hospital. And although life on Ward A—where she’s been since 1964—has afforded her more freedom to come and go within the hospital, more independence and no more physical abuse, Saint-Nazarius remains what it has always been for her: a prison.
Tonight is her last night in this prison. Sister Camille has arranged for her to share an apartment with another Saint-Nazarius girl who’s been out on her own for almost a year. The girl, Marie-Claude, currently rents a one-and-a-half-room basement apartment in Pointe Saint-Charles. Elodie remembers her from Saint-Nazarius—a tall, quiet girl whose accommodating, subservient disposition spared her at least some of the torture and punishments suffered by the others. Marie-Claude and Elodie were not exactly friends, but they knew each other from Ward B and coexisted without incident.
Elodie rolls onto her side and closes her eyes. Tomorrow, she will walk out of this place into her future. As surreal as it feels, her dominant emotion tonight is fear. The truth is, she’d almost rather stay here. Almost.
She knows what to expect here, what’s expected of her. There’s a certain simple rhythm to her days, a familiarity and predictability she’s not quite ready to leave. Who knows what awaits her out there in the world?
After Sister Camille found her a place to live in the city, the medical superintendent at Saint-Nazarius invited Elodie to his office and tried to convince her to stay. “What can you possibly do in the world?” he asked her.
She shrugged; she had no idea. He offered her a private room—not on the mental ward—and a job with pay at the hospital pharmacy and the freedom to come and go as she pleased.
It was a tempting offer and Elodie promised to think about it, which she did. His question plagued her for days. What can you possibly do in the world?
She has no education, no skills, no money, no family or friends. Aside from the orphanage and a couple of outings by bus into a nearby town, she’s never left the Saint-Nazarius grounds. She’s been institutionalized since the age of five, most of her seventeen years.
At least here she has Sister Camille. Sister Camille has become her best friend, advocate, and confidante. The one who taught her to read again by practicing with the Bible, the one who got her transferred to Ward A. And now the one to set her free.
What if the real world is no better than Saint-Nazarius? Certainly she won’t be able to hide her stupidity and lack of experience, and everyone will know she’s grown up in a mental hospital.
When the sun finally rises in the west window of her dorm, Elodie rises with it. She removes the small suitcase Sister Camille gave her last night from beneath her cot and lays it on the mattress, taking care not to wake the others. Into it she neatly places her two dresses, nightgowns, undergarments, and socks—all donated over the years—and the Bible Sister Camille gave her. She pads softly to the washroom to change out of her nightgown, brush her teeth and hair, gaze at herself one last time in the chipped mirror above the porcelain sink.
The girl she sees staring back at her fills her with self-loathing. Her short bobbed hair lies flat and colorless against her scalp; her skin is sallow, her eyes lifeless. That’s the first thing people will notice—that she looks crazy.
She adds her nightgown and toiletries to the suitcase and closes it. You should be happy today, she tells herself. This is the day you’ve dreamt of your whole life.
She pulls the blanket up over her bed and has one last look around the room.
The corridors are quiet. Elodie half hopes one of the nuns will appear so she can look her in the eye and say, None of you will ever tell me what to do again. But not one of the sisters shows up to see her off. In some ways, this final display of indifference is almost as upsetting as some of the crueler punishments she endured.
She contemplates dashing over to Ward B to bid Sister Ignatia a triumphant good-bye and then spit in her face, but she wisely concludes that Sister Ignatia would probably have her thrown in a cell and locked up, left to rot. With that in mind, Elodie hurries to the stairwell.
Downstairs in the lobby, she remembers the night she first arrived, how terrified she’d been, how unsuspecting. Throwing open the doors, she steps outside into the cold morning, gasping for breath. She squints against the brightness of the sun reflecting off the snow.
I’m free.
“Elo!”
It’s Sister Camille, waving from the car. Elodie buttons her coat to the neck; she’s forgotten how cold the winter days can be. She hasn’t been on an excursion in a long time, and they were usually in the summer. How will she afford to buy a hat? Mittens?
Her chest tightens just thinking about it. The practical things of life.
She doesn’t look behind her as she walks down the steps.
“Elo! Hurry up!” Sister Camille is waving. Her brother is waiting in the driver’s seat to take them to Pointe Saint-Charles. “Are you ready?” she asks.
Elodie swallows. She knows this is Sister Camille’s day off and she’s grateful to her, but she can’t find the words to express it. She’s seventeen years old and broken. She isn’t ready to face the world at all. As the car pulls away, she weeps.
“Cry,” Sister Camille tells her, reaching around to take her hand. “Cry all you like.”
And she does, loudly and without restraint, as they drive off into the bewildering unknown.