Dear Maggie,
Here I am in Our Lady of Perpetual Help Home. Lots of pregnant girls here (obviously). I’m the only one who isn’t showing, which makes me wonder what I’m doing here. All they talk about is “relinquishing” or “keeping” and their due dates, and if they’re carrying high or low, whatever the hell that means, but it’s supposed to tell you if you have a boy or girl, but who fricking cares since almost everyone is “relinquishing” anyway, which means putting it up for adoption, though some are still “undecided.” Kind of like the dating game, bachelor number one, bachelor number two or bachelor number three. Except sadder.
If you ask me they’re pretty obsessed about the whole thing. Some girls are even knitting stuff, like little hats and blankets. Remember when we used to play house with our Barbies? It’s kind of like that, except no Barbies. I just want to get it over with.
But in case you’re worried about me, there are no bars on the windows or anything and the food is pretty good. I have a nice room, too, all to myself. There’s a bed (obviously), a dresser, a bedside table with a ceramic ballerina lamp on it, and a desk in front of the window that looks out onto the back lawn and gardens. It’s pretty decent, even in the rain. It hasn’t stopped raining since I got here, which was exactly twenty-five and a half hours ago. I know that because I didn’t really sleep last night and I could hear the rain all night long, that and a sound like wind, which I figured out today is actually traffic. This house is in a nice neighbourhood, though. I was surprised when the nun who picked me up at the bus depot drove up to this big old house surrounded by trees. It’s like a mansion, actually. You might like it. But don’t go getting any ideas. If I have to get a freaky, disgusting stomach like these other girls, that’s my punishment.
Oh yeah, you might ask yourself why I have a desk in my room. Homework. Yes, they have classes here. The nuns teach them. I met the English teacher today. She’s a nun, but really young and she doesn’t wear a habit. She’s a writer. Her name is Sister Anne. She said we’ll be doing lots of creative writing in class. So I plan to work on my poems.
Also, I guess the idea of Our Lady of Perpetual Help is that you’ve made this mistake but you’re supposed to learn from it and learn to make better decisions and improve yourself. Which is where typing comes in. Maggie, if you want to learn a skill, which you do if you don’t want to be a DRAIN ON THE SYSTEM, you can’t go wrong with typing. Apparently, if you can type, you’ll always have a MARKETABLE SKILL. Do you think Mom could type? I don’t think so, but I doubt there’s a big demand for it around Williams Lake anyway. I could be wrong, though, since I am only an unfortunate girl who made a BAD DECISION.
Try not to worry, Maggie. I don’t know what the point is of telling you that, but actually I’m okay here and it’s better than staying with the double-crossing Beatrice Edwards. Actually, it’s probably worse for you right now. Did you apologize for calling her a cow yet? Tell her, “I’m sorry that you’re a cow.” Please don’t run away or anything stupid like that. I need to know you’re in the same place I left you.
Love XXOO Jenny
P.S. We are allowed to make phone calls out, but only collect calls.
Bea didn’t speak to me for several days, and I kept away from her. I went to school, went to work and wore a path from my bedroom to the bathroom and back. I kept my door closed and Bea kept the TV up loud, as if I wasn’t there.
The snow had started. I tried to think of where else I could go. There were people Mom and Dad used to know who lived in tents all winter long, usually while they were building their cabins. They had special stoves and fitted the stovepipe through a canvas opening in the tent. They kept a hole open in the ice to get water. But if you couldn’t keep in a wood supply, you’d freeze. I remember spending a few days in the fall with one family so Mom and Dad could help them with the wood. The two kids ran around wearing only shirts, no jackets. Mom said they were used to it and they weren’t cold.
At the gas station, Bob was more cheerful than usual. When Vern came in, Bob said, “Hey Chief! How’s it hanging?” which bugged me. “Chief” was the same thing he called the man who came in selling salmon and smelling of alcohol. Outside, I asked Vern if it bothered him. He said, “Maggie, if I got my shorts in a knot every time some dickhead called me Chief or Tonto, I’d have really knotty shorts.”
When Vern had gone, Bob looked up and said, “How’s life treating you, Maggie?”
“Fine,” I said.
One day he asked, “How’s that sister of yours? I haven’t seen her around lately. I hear she’s not at Frank’s anymore. Frank said that’s a big loss. The customers really liked her.”
I thought about making some excuse. Bob was a gossip. In fact I think some of the customers preferred that I pump their gas because if Bob got going, they could be there half an hour. But something made me not give a shit. I was tired, and besides that, I just wanted to tell somebody.
“Jenny’s in Vancouver,” I said.
He gave an exaggerated recoil and so I knew that he already knew. News got around that town. I had only told Vern, but of course she’d taken the bus, people had seen her, and they could put two and two together.
But Bob wanted me to tell it. “What’s she doing there?”
“She’s in a home for unwed mothers. Beatrice sent her there.”
Bob shook his head, looking at the floor. I suppose he hadn’t expected me to tell him the truth.
“I’ll tell you what I think. Can I tell you what I think, Maggie? I mean, I know it’s none of my business, but if you want the opinion of someone who’s been around the block a few times, I’ll give it to you.”
I smiled.
“You want it?”
“Yes,” I said. He was my boss. What else could I say?
“My thinking is, where the hell is that woman’s head at? Beatrice Edwards, I mean. This is 1974.”
“That’s exactly what I said.”
“This isn’t the dark ages we’re living in. We’re not some backwater town here. Where does she get off sending that poor girl to Vancouver? Her friends are here. And just so you know, Frank feels the same way.”
I smiled at him.
“Ah, shit. You can’t keep a secret in this town,” he said.
Dear Maggie,
Today I made an ashtray. We do crafts here. I’ll keep it so when we get our own house, we’ll at least have an ashtray. Most of the girls smoke. They’re allowed, which is weird, don’t you think, considering all the other things we’re not allowed to do, including “loitering” in the front yard. We are allowed to sit out in the backyard if it’s nice, which as far as I can tell is never.
I have a social worker. She asked me all kinds of questions about our family and wrote the answers on a clipboard and wouldn’t look at me for some reason, and seemed pretty bored. (She looked at her watch twice.) But then she suddenly put the clip board aside and gave me this “poor you” kind of look which really bugged me—she has these glasses with big thick frames and she’s got a huge, wide mouth, she looks like some kind of bug—and then she said, “Well, in some ways it’s easier for you. Your choice is clear. You don’t need to spend a lot of time worrying about your options because clearly you have no support and no means of keeping a child.”
Which may be true, but still.
“You don’t seem too upset,” she said and sat there looking at me with her stupid bug eyes. I shrugged, which I assume was the wrong thing to do. I think she wanted me to cry. She had a box of Kleenex sitting in the middle of the table. Which also seemed wrong. Sort of like “Everyone cries, you’re not so special, so get it over with.” I think they could at least have the courtesy to put the Kleenex away and then take it out if you do cry, because you feel like some kind of cold fish if you don’t cry. I have too much time to think, don’t you think? Though they do try to fill up our idle hands with “activities.” Typing, for example. One girl here can type 80 words per minute, that’s 80 wpm, like a speed limit. She’ll be able to go anywhere, apparently. She wants to be a legal secretary. Who wants to be a legal secretary? Well, this girl does and she’ll win some award for Most Improved Typist, aka MIT. Which I, too, could aspire to! Sister Anne says in this very dry voice that typing is useful for writing papers in university, too. She says I should try to learn it, since I want to be a writer. I might type you a letter, except it probably won’t be done until I’m ready to pop.
Miss Bug Eyes wants to know who the father is. I said I didn’t know. Her pen stopped in mid-air. She was waiting to write something down. I figure there must be an “unknown” box to check off. She did not like my answer. I said I had a couple of different boyfriends and I didn’t know their last names. She knew I was lying.
She said, “The father’s family is your only chance.”
“Chance of what?” I said.
“Of keeping the baby.”
“I’m relinquishing,” I said. She kept her big lips pursed tight and wrote it down on her clipboard.
I don’t want them to go looking for him. If anyone comes around, promise me you won’t say anything. I have a good reason, but it’s nobody’s business.
Hi again,
It’s Wednesday. Last night I talked to a girl who I’ll call Ginger, because that’s her name, ha ha. She’s called Ginger because she has red hair. So she said she’d call me Ginger #2. I told her I didn’t like the bodily function sound of it, so she came up with Ginger-B, which I like. She has a bit of an English accent. She lived in England until she was ten, then her parents divorced and she came here with her mom. They were living with her aunt and uncle. The uncle was a real creepo and was always giving her the hairy eyeball. Her mom knew it, but never did anything, because she didn’t want to upset her sister. Creeps come in many different types, right? But he was a special type of creep.
They had these parties all the time, even on school nights. The music was so loud the floorboards under her bed vibrated. The uncle had some fabulous stereo system he was awfully proud of. That’s how she put it. Awfully proud. I love the way she talks. She says trousers instead of pants. Funny eh?
Sometimes a record would skip for an hour. She says you haven’t lived till you’ve heard “Break on Through to the Other Side” skipping for a whole hour. “You ever listen to people getting drunk?” she asked me. “It could be quite interesting if it wasn’t so goddamn pathetic. First they’re all jolly and oh, the larks and the raucous laughter over who the hell knows what, but everything, apparently, is very, very funny when you drink, until it isn’t. Then comes the snarking and the shouting and the personal attacks. Then things start to crash around. There are eerie moments of silence. You wonder if someone has cut someone else’s throat and is suddenly aghast and sober. Once, my uncle took after his best mate with a hatchet. I saw it with my own eyes; the sound of splintering wood got me out of bed finally. Sometimes I put tissue in my ears, but that’s almost worse, not knowing what’s coming.” She said her house in England was in a quiet village and the only thing that ever disturbed her sleep was the peacocks shrieking. Her dad was nice too, and she missed him. Makes you wonder what happened.
Anyhow, one night Ginger snuck out of the uncle’s house and broke into a shed on the school grounds. She brought a blanket and slept in there for a week, until one morning the janitor found her. The principal called the uncle’s house and she got in a shitload of trouble. The uncle said, “If you’re so high and mighty that you can’t sleep in my house, then you can bloody well find somewhere else to live.” Her mom told the principal that Ginger had been acting up since the divorce and it was nothing serious. Then she actually put her hands together like she was begging her and said, Please dear, don’t rock the boat.
About a week later there was another party. Do you know the Cream song, “White Room”? She said she can’t hear it now without being sick. I mean really vomiting. It was playing when her uncle pushed her door open. He had to push hard enough to break the lock. He grabbed her by the throat, lifted her out of bed and threw her across the room. Ginger said she can’t figure out how no one heard. He picked her up and threw her again and again. She hit the dresser and the window and door. She remembers slamming into the wall between songs. She said someone had to have heard it, but no one came.
Another song started. “The album was Wheels of Fire, if you’re interested,” she said. “Kind of a bluesy feel to it. Before I left his house, I took a candle and melted patches in the vinyl. Then I put it back in the sleeve. Should give him a nice surprise next time he listens to it.” He raped her for the length of time it took to play the whole album. “Slapping and punching, that’s what gets him off. You don’t even want to know the details.” I think I really don’t. She said nothing was so disgusting as the smell of him. “I’ve tried to name it, I don’t know why,” she said. “Beer breath and fish that’s gone off. But then there’s something that’s only itself, as rank and rotten as he is.”
I didn’t want to believe her, but I could tell she wasn’t lying. Some girls here do lie, which you can also tell, but I don’t blame them. Everybody has their reasons. I think maybe if I was Ginger, I would lie. She says everybody’s afraid of her uncle, but she’s not anymore. He’s a pathetic lowlife pig, she said, and then we chanted it, pathetic lowlife pig, pathetic lowlife pig.
She doesn’t know where her mom is right now, if she’s still living there or if she’s found another place. And she doesn’t know where her mom was the whole time that night, which obviously really bothers her.
But here’s the weirdo part. She wants to keep the baby. She said she once had a kitten and her mom wouldn’t let her keep it in the house because it scratched the furniture, and she had to put the kitten outside and it got sick and died. I don’t know what that has to do with anything, but she says no one is going to take the baby away from her. She’s not a stupid girl at all—she’s really intelligent—but I don’t see how she plans to take care of it.
Also, she hasn’t told the social worker or the nuns about the uncle. She says they suspect something, partly because she came in here looking like she’d been run over. But she doesn’t want to tell because she thinks they might take the baby away if they know. And, she said she can just picture her uncle waiting for the axe to fall. “He’ll never know when I might strike and ruin his pitiful excuse for a life. It seems like a kind of justice.”
Well, sorry for the el-depressing story, but I wanted you to know that even though I make the nuns sound strict, they’re actually more like angels. They call Mother Mary “Our Lady” and they say, “Our Lady was once a mother in trouble, too.” Kind of beautiful when you think about it.
What kind of person spends her days feeding pregnant girls chicken for supper and putting pretty little soaps in the bathroom and ceramic ballerina lamps in the bedroom to make a lonely girl feel better? I would never say anything too snarky about that kind of person. It’s not their fault I ended up here.
Love xxxooo Jenny
Bea must have heard the talk around town. She had begun to speak to me, with a ridiculous courtesy that she had never used before.
“I’m making tea. Would you like a cup?” was the first thing she said. I was so startled I turned her down before I even thought about it, then realized I did want some. I made myself wait about an hour, then went and made my own cup. I wanted her to think that nothing she did could rattle me.
“Your dinner’s still warm in the oven,” she said another night when I got home from the gas station and was brushing snow from my gasoline-scented jacket. She had asked me to leave my jacket at the back door by the basement, so it didn’t stink up the front closet, and that night she took it from me and carried it out there herself, as if it was something she always did, and as if keeping my dinner warm in the oven was our usual routine. It was spaghetti, an exotic food to Bea and usually when we’d had it, it was Jenny who had made it. Bea had even made meatballs and, as I ate in silence at the table while Bea watched Mary Tyler Moore, I knew that she had spent a portion of her day mixing up the ground beef and egg and breadcrumbs.
When a letter from Jenny came, she left it at the end of my bed. One afternoon, I found my clothes from the dryer all neatly folded, too, along with another strawberry-scented envelope from Jenny.
Dear Maggie,
Today Ginger and I put on wedding rings and went out walking. Believe it or not, there is a box of fake wedding rings in the TV room, and when you go out, you slip one on, kind of like a charm to protect your dignity. I chose a tasteful gold band, but Ginger went for a glass rock the size of a pea, nestled between two red rubies. There is also a closet full of maternity clothes. I’m not that desperate yet, but you should see my boobs. I know, Mom would say that’s crude. It’s what twelve year-old boys say, etc, etc. So tits then, I mean breasts, whatever you want to call them! The girls here trade bras all the time, because their tits are always changing size, and I now have a hot pink C-cup. In the peach top I got for my birthday, I actually have cleavage. And with my white Wranglers (I can’t do up the zipper, so I safety pin it and hide it under my shirt) I look killer diller, if I do say so myself. But I wore a raincoat to hide my shapely figure when I went out, since the nuns get on our case if we dress “provocatively.” Ginger is showing but she manages to look killer even pregnant. She wore black leotards and a tartan dress that is actually a blouse but is long enough on her—barely. Did you know that when you’re pregnant you feel very—shall we say?—amorous. Or at least I do. Don’t tell anyone, because I’m probably a sicko to say so.
The sun came out while we were walking down Granville Street and everything shone. The streets and sidewalks started to steam. There are stores here that have flowers and vegetables out on tables on the sidewalks. This might be a nice place to live if the sun came out a little more often and if I hadn’t made a BAD DECISION.
Ginger and I stopped at one store to look at the flowers. A man came out—Italian, I think. In his elegant accent he said, “Did you two lovely girls bring this sunshine?” Then he said, “It must be my lucky day, two beautiful redheads at my store at the same time. You wait here, I have something for you.” He went inside and came back with two big bouquets of flowers. “I usually keep these for my wife, but today they’re for you.”
So now I have a vase of flowers in my room. There are some white roses and something yellow that smells fantastic. This room is painted soft pink with white trim. I actually like it. There’s a green homemade quilt on the bed and the little bedside lamp with a ceramic ballerina for the base. I think I told you.
The rest of the house is nice, but a little dark, with a lot of polished wood and blue carpets and then there’s the rain. I’m trying to be optimistic, but to tell you the truth, when you go out, the light is grey, the pavement’s grey, the buildings are grey, the pigeons, even, are grey—it’s kind of a downer. I wash out my socks and underwear and hang them to dry on the radiator, but they’re still damp the next morning. There is a leak in the English classroom ceiling and during the whole class we hear the drip-drop-drip-drop into a pan on the floor. Sister Anne says this must be symbolic, though she’s not sure of what, and that the person who comes up with the most convincing symbol gets bonus marks. I say it’s the passage of time. It sounds like a clock, and there we sit, waiting.
The most depressing thing, though, is all these girls sitting around playing cards, listening to Tony Orlando and Dawn, discussing due dates and eating snacks, which they buy with their “pocket money.” The nuns have all these funny expressions. “Pocket money” can be earned by doing chores—folding sheets, polishing floors, cutting vegetables for dinner. The girls buy cheezies, pretzels and hickory sticks, my personal favourite. I think I’m addicted. I wander down to the laundry room to fold sheets, but I’m really thinking of hickory sticks.
Some of the girls are waiting for their boyfriends to show up, marry them, and carry them off to a four-bedroom house in the suburbs where their days will be spent blissfully Ajaxing the bathtub. Speaking of symbolism, “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree,” which I’ve now heard about fifty million times, no guff—listen to the lyrics, except it’s the girls who are in prison. That’s not exactly true. Sometimes this place feels like a hideout.
I’m always chilled from the rain. Luckily there is a bathtub down the hall. I soak in there every night after supper. I’m probably going to get fat. I know what you’re thinking. Don’t even say it.
Sister Anne had us writing poems today. We had to start with the words “something changed.” Everybody was teasing her: “Subtle, Sister.” I was surprised, though, by what came out. Sister read it over my shoulder when it was done and gave me a little thumbs up. She was actually kind of choked up, I could see it. Well, I shouldn’t get your hopes up too much. It’s just a poem. (which doesn’t have to rhyme, by the way)
Something changed
When night after night
I tried to sleep
But waited
Maybe I would hear your car door slam
Maybe your footsteps in the hall
Maybe you would wake me up
Singing Sweet Caroline
Like you did when we were little
And thunderstorms were the scariest thing
Something changed
When night after night
You didn’t come.
I realized something the other day. I used to cry when I thought about Mom. I kind of even liked it, the crying I mean. I always had this idea that Mom could see me, and she would feel bad for breaking my heart and she would come. Now I can’t even cry, which is probably for the best, because if I did, I don’t know what would happen. I’m starting to show, which makes it feel more real. I guess this is my real third thing.
Dear Maggie,
I now have a psychiatrist, as well as a social worker. I went to see Miss Bug Eyes today and a man was sitting there with her. Bug Eyes said, “Jennifer, I’m concerned.” Apparently she’s concerned that I don’t seem to understand the serious situation I’m in (translation: I haven’t bawled in her office and used up her Kleenexes). So she brought in the big guns, as Ted used to say. Dr. Ruskins.
Before I go any further I have to tell you about Robert. That’s right, Robert Ruskins is his name. Cute, eh? And I’m supposed to call him Robert, not Dr. Ruskins. Speaking of cute … He has this soft blonde curly hair and killer green eyes, like a cat, and a voice like the guy in the band America, the one who sings “A Horse with No Name.” I asked him if he’s American, but he’s not, he’s from Ontario. I guess that explains the accent. How do I know his hair is soft, you ask? I don’t, but I can imagine.
Once Bug Eyes had left the room, he told me he wasn’t interested in judging me. He doesn’t believe in God, doesn’t even believe in marriage and thinks “sex is a normal healthy part of an adult life.” Ha! I couldn’t help telling him that everyone blames the boy. That’s what I said. I just blurted it out, then I wasn’t sure I really wanted to continue the thought. He said, “You mean you had sex willingly. You wanted to.” He said it like a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” I said.
“And you’re feeling guilty about that.”
I said, “I guess I am, now that you mention it.” And he laughed. Nice laugh. I continued, “Some of the girls here have been attacked or raped. One girl even told me that she didn’t actually have sex at all.”
Swear to God, Maggie, this is true. She claims she’s still a virgin. I think she thinks the sperm just sort of crawled up her leg.
The doctor, I mean Robert, smiled at me and said, “You’re a perfectly normal, healthy young woman and healthy young women like sex just like healthy young men do. People will say all sorts of things to alleviate their guilt. Only some of it is true. As good as these dear Sisters are here, they serve their mercy with a heavy helping of guilt.”
I liked the way he said that. He could be a writer. That line could be from a Bob Dylan song: They serve their mercy with a heavy helping, a heavy, heavy helping … of guilt.
Anyways, he kept saying “sex” as if it was no big deal. Then he offered me a cup of coffee, and I don’t even like coffee, but I said yes because it made it like two adults having a normal conversation. I know. I’m not an idiot. He’s probably just really good at his job, that’s what you’re thinking, but I couldn’t see the harm in it. And did I mention he’s cute? Did I mention I noticed his eyes lingering on my hot pink C-cup running over when I leaned to put my coffee cup down? Maybe he’s bored, too. Maybe he daydreams about long-legged pregnant gals who have a normal appreciation of sex. And what else do I have to do all day, besides sit around talking about my due date and knitting booties? (No! I will not knit booties!)
As relaxed as I felt with him, I’m not going to tell him the father’s name. I see Robert again on Friday.
Love xxoo Jenny
P.S. I told you about The Girl who got Pregnant Without Having Sex. Now I will tell you the story of the Prettiest Babies Get Sold to Rich People. This is true, too. I know because all the girls say it’s true. But I’ll let you be the judge.
The story goes that if you see someone taking Polaroid snaps of your baby, you should be worried. I didn’t even know that we get to see our babies after they’re born, but apparently we do. Anyhow, if you have a cute baby, especially a blonde one, especially a boy, or one with blue eyes, and you want to keep it, dream on. Even if you already decided to keep it and signed the papers, etc. They will tell you that the baby is sick. Then they’ll tell you it died. But really it got Sold to Rich People who can’t have their own baby. And that’s how the nuns keep this place going. How else could they afford to keep this big mansion and feed all these girls year after year? Not to mention the nice fresh soaps in the bathroom all the time. They don’t have jobs. Makes you think.
I asked Ginger if she believes it and she said these girls have too much time on their hands. But … she didn’t say no. Believe it or not …
P.P.S. (this means post-post, in case you didn’t know) Do you think I could call you collect at the gas station? You work by yourself on Saturday afternoon, right? We (which actually means you, sorry) could pay Bob back. But you know I’ll repay you someday when I’m a rich poet. Ha ha.