CHAPTER 17 Nancy

SUMMER 1983

Nancy hikes her purse and canvas bag up onto her shoulder and strides across the nursing home lobby toward the big wooden staircase. She climbs the stairs, her steps creaking on the bare floorboards. The sound is magnified in the quiet of the afternoon. The house is nearly silent at this hour; most of the patients will be napping before dinner, sinking into the dense, foggy dreams of loved ones both present and past, the place where time becomes meaningless and they can be young and whole again.

Her assignment for this evening is Sister Mary Agatha. She isn’t old, but was declared palliative the day before yesterday. Bone cancer that spread everywhere.

When she enters the nun’s room, she sees it’s dimly lit by a lace-covered lamp on the small bedside table. A narrow single bed juts out from the wall, where a crucifix hangs above the sleeping woman’s head. Nancy creeps over to the small wooden guest chair. It’s stifling in here. She unlatches the window and pushes the casement outward, locking it in place. A merciful summer breeze wafts in. This room looks out onto the back garden, which is much quieter than the street side. Nancy can smell the roses on the air, still fragrant from the afternoon heat.

It’s her last day volunteering at St. Sebastian’s. After some dedicated effort to get her grades back up where they needed to be, she was accepted to library school and was offered a position in the university archives. Between her studies and the job, her schedule won’t allow for overnight visits to the nursing home, but Nancy is ready to move on, anyway—she has other emotional burdens to bear right now.

Her mother was diagnosed with brain cancer three months ago, though she didn’t tell Nancy until last month. Well, I didn’t want to worry you, dear, she said. It’s unclear whether her history of migraines played any part in it, but regardless, Frances is undergoing chemotherapy, and sitting with palliative patients will do nothing to alleviate Nancy’s dread.

One bright spot is Michael. She met him at the hospital the first time her mother allowed her to drive her there for treatment. He was slinging coffee in the cafeteria and he made her laugh. With how miserable Nancy was feeling at the time, that’s all it took to get himself a date. They’ve only gone out twice, but she likes him.

Nancy turns her back to the window now and sits down, extricating a book from her satchel—The Stone Angel.

Sister Agatha’s face is pale and thin, and much younger than most of Nancy’s charges. Her hair falls in a neat braid down her shoulder, rests delicately on her sunken chest. Nancy suspects a nurse has kept Agatha’s hair tidy. It’s the little things that add up in these last few days, the seemingly minor details that help a person maintain their dignity and remember who they are. Or at least, who they once were.

Nancy lets out a sigh of sympathy and settles in to read, setting her bookmark down on the bedside table.

“What are you reading?”

Nancy’s eyes flash up to meet Agatha’s, whose lids are heavy with sleep.

“Oh, hello,” Nancy says, closing her book. “I thought you were asleep. I’m so sorry. I’m Nancy.”

“Hello, Nancy. I’m Sister Agatha.”

“It’s nice to meet you. How are you feeling?”

“Oh, you know. It’s cancer. They tell me I haven’t long. My priest has been here already for the rites. But I don’t mind, my dear. God comes for all of us in his own time.”

They’re both quiet for a moment. The breeze flutters the curtains of the window. Nancy can smell fresh-cut grass in the heavy haze of summer air.

“What are you reading?” Sister Agatha asks again.

“Oh, it’s, um…” What a stupid choice.

Sister Agatha waits, unblinking.

“It’s The Stone Angel by Margaret Laurence. It’s about, well…” Nancy can feel her face growing hot as she stumbles on the words. “A woman at the end of her life—”

“I know what it is, child.”

Nancy slides the book back into her satchel.

“You needn’t hide it. Don’t be silly. I know I’m dying.”

“How about we talk? Or I can just sit with you, if you want to go back to sleep, Sister. I’m here for whatever you need.”

Sister Agatha considers Nancy for a moment. “Let us talk, then, my dear. Come sit closer to me. My eyes are not what they once were.”

Nancy obeys, shifts the chair closer to Agatha’s bedside.

“My goodness,” Agatha says, her brow suddenly tight. “You are so young. What is your name, child?”

“Nancy.”

“Nancy…” Agatha trails off, taking in Nancy’s face. “You remind me of someone I used to know.” She thinks for a moment. “She was young, too. They all were.”

Nancy isn’t sure what to say to this. “Is that so?”

“Mmm,” Agatha says, nodding. “A long time ago, now.”

A beat of silence as the intervening years fill up the empty space between them.

“Where did you meet her?” Nancy asks.

“Here,” Agatha says, waving a papery hand at the walls. “It was full of girls for years. The home, you know.”

“For wayward girls?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Sister Mary Anna told me once. The nun at the desk downstairs. She gets chatty.”

Agatha grins, her dry lips pulling against the bones in her sunken face. “She does. Sweet girl.”

“What did that mean back then, anyway? ‘Wayward girls’? I figured they were petty criminals. Thieves or something.”

Agatha holds Nancy’s gaze. “Not criminals, no,” she mutters. “Though they were treated like it sometimes. No older than you are now. I could tell you stories, my dear.”

“Why were they treated so poorly?” Nancy feels a lick of foreboding swirl around in her chest. She’s unearthed something.

“Oh, well—” Agatha begins before a coughing fit sets in. Nancy reaches for the plastic cup of water on the bedside table and waits for Agatha’s cough to subside. The woman takes a few shaky sips.

Agatha rests her head back on the pale green pillowcase. “What was I saying? I get so confused.” Her breathing begins to quicken, her chest rising and falling under the quilted coverlet. “What was her name? The one who died?”

“I don’t—I don’t know.” Nancy takes Agatha’s cold hand in hers and holds it between her own warm ones, young and strong, the fingers free of calluses and scars.

Agatha takes a moment to focus. Nancy can see the truth developing in Agatha’s eyes, floating to the surface like photographs in a darkroom. But this time she finds she doesn’t want to hear it. She doesn’t want to carry it with her.

“I can hear them crying. The girls and their babies,” she mutters.

Nancy has to lean in closer to hear the older woman, and her long brown hair swings low over her shoulder, tickling her cheek.

“We stole their babies,” Agatha whispers. “And she sold them. Even the ones who’d been raped. It wasn’t their fault. And I lied to that poor girl. I told her that her baby had died. But it didn’t. It didn’t. I thought it was best. I thought it was a mercy, she was so terribly sad, but I was wrong. I was wrong. I thought it was best…”

Nancy’s hand flinches in Agatha’s cold grip. “You… you sold babies?”

Agatha doesn’t seem to hear her. “Their faces are here sometimes. But the baby never died.”

Agatha’s glassy eyes stare at a spot behind Nancy and she whips her head around, but there’s nothing there but fading wallpaper. Of course there isn’t. She mentally shakes herself.

“Agatha.” She leans in closer so she blocks out whatever Agatha thinks she’s seeing behind Nancy. It works. The woman’s eyes focus back on Nancy’s face before flickering toward the open door.

She cries out, her lips pulling back against her teeth in fear. Nancy jumps and looks toward the door, but there’s no one there. A heartbeat later, the nurse who greeted Nancy in the hall comes running into the room.

“What’s happened?”

“I don’t know,” Nancy says, making room for the nurse. “She got really confused, she started talking about—she looked at the door and screamed. I don’t—”

“I still see them sometimes,” Agatha whimpers up at them both, her eyes swimming with tears now. “But I never know. I can never tell if it’s all just in my head. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. The baby never died. I need you to tell her. Someone needs to tell her, but the others don’t listen.”

“Shh shh shh,” the nurse coos at Agatha. “Hush, now, Sister. It’s all right. No one’s going to harm you. It’s okay. You’re safe.”

Agatha’s face crumples, giving way to tears. Nancy reaches out to take her hand once again. Agatha starts as though surprised to be touched, but grips Nancy’s fingers.

“Sister,” the nurse says softly, “I’m going to give you something to make you more comfortable, okay?”

Agatha nods her understanding, her eyes closed.

The nurse turns to Nancy, her voice low. “I’m going to go get her something that’ll put her to sleep. It’s all we can really do for the panic and confusion. I wish we could do more, but it’s in God’s hands now.” The nurse crosses herself.

“Of course,” Nancy says.

“I’ll be right back.”

Nancy settles back down on the guest chair beside the bed, careful not to lose her grip on Agatha’s cold fingers. Her body seems to soften, the tears subsiding. Sometimes we just need a hand to hold.

A moment later, Agatha opens her eyes again. They’re foggy and a bit out of focus. “Please tell her,” she whispers.

“I—I will,” Nancy says, perplexed. She pats the woman’s hand again.

To Nancy’s relief, the nurse returns shortly with a syringe. She injects it into the IV beside Agatha’s bed, frowning.

“She should be asleep in just a minute or two, Nancy,” she says quietly. “You may as well go once she’s asleep. We’ll keep her out for the evening, I think. The confusion’s just getting worse and worse by the hour, and we don’t want her to feel afraid.”

Nancy nods again. “Okay. That’s fine.”

Ten minutes later, once she’s confident that Sister Agatha has succumbed fully to the sleeping medication, Nancy checks that her book is still in her bag and fastens the catch on her tote. She looks back at Agatha and reaches out for the peak she knows to be the dying woman’s right foot. She holds it with a motherly tenderness—a soft touch that her hands shouldn’t have learned yet—before she heads for the door.

She lingers outside the room, waits until the night nurse passes by again a minute later.

“Can I ask you something?” she says, hailing her.

“What is it, Nancy?”

Nancy hesitates, unsure how to phrase what she wants to ask without it sounding like an accusation. “What Sister Agatha just said—” She hikes the strap of her bag up onto her shoulder. “It was a bit disturbing. Before you came in, she told me that they used to steal babies and sell them here, when it was a home for wayward girls. What’s she talking about?”

The nun’s lips purse, and she glances over her shoulder. “There was something of a… controversy, back when this building served as the maternity home for the parish. It would seem some of the babies were sold to adoptive families. I think that’s what she’s referring to. I suspect Agatha holds a lot of guilt about her role in all that.”

Nancy refrains from swearing with difficulty. “And she said something about a baby not dying?”

The nurse shakes her head. “I have no idea what that’s about. You must understand that she’s been very confused lately. Sometimes wires get crossed in the mind, you know, toward the end. Don’t take any of it to heart,” she adds. “That’s all well in the past anyhow.”

The nurse bustles off, leaving Nancy alone. She turns left down the hallway toward the staircase. A few steps down, she hears someone on the stairs behind her. When she reaches the front door, she instinctively holds it open.

“Thank you,” the woman says, hurrying past Nancy out onto the porch.

Nancy catches a glimpse of the woman’s profile and feels a twinge behind her navel. Dr. Taylor? At the end of the path, the woman turns left down the sidewalk into the evening sun.

“Dr. Taylor!” Nancy calls. “Dr. Taylor, wait!”

The woman hustles a few more feet before she slows, stops, turns. She’s backlit in the sun, but Nancy is positive it’s her.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Dr. Taylor asks.

Nancy falters. Dr. Taylor’s eyes are bright, and her nose is pink, as though she’s been crying. “You, um…” Nancy glances around, but they’re alone on the street, save for a man washing his car several doors down. She closes the space between them. “You helped me out. You know, with a problem I had. A couple of years ago.”

“Ahh, I see. Okay.” Dr. Taylor surveys her for a moment, then nods slowly. “I remember your face now. The raid, right? March of ’81?”

“That was me.”

Nancy never would have expected to run into her, and feels a surprising sense of urgency. She needs to thank the doctor before she loses her chance. “What you did. You might have saved my life, in more ways than one. I know it sounds dramatic, but that’s how it feels.”

“I understand. I truly do.” Dr. Taylor looks back at the nursing home, her face dark. “That’s why I do what I do. And I’m so sorry, I see a lot of patients, and for the life of me I just can’t recall your name.”

“Nancy. Nancy Mitchell.”

“Nancy. Hello again.”

“What were you doing at St. Sebastian’s?” Nancy asks, curious.

“I came to say goodbye to a patient of mine. My first patient, actually. And more of a friend than a patient, in the end.”

“Oh.” Nancy frowns. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. And you?”

“I volunteer. I sit with the palliative patients. Or at least I used to. Today was my last day. I just got a job in my field.”

Dr. Taylor smiles. “That’s great news, congratulations. So, things have been good since I last saw you?”

“Yeah, pretty good. I just started dating a new guy. He’s a lot different than the guy that— He seems like an adult, and he’s sweet.” Nancy blushes and casts around for a change of subject. “Are you still with Jane?”

A breeze flutters her hair and she pushes it back out of her face, squinting into the sun.

“Yes, very much so,” Dr. Taylor says. “We’re busier than ever, which is both a good thing and a bad thing. It means word is getting around and women are more comfortable calling us, and trusting us, but it’s difficult to keep up with the demand. It’s only a small team of us, right? Just a dozen or so volunteers, and a few doctors.”

“Is Alice still with you?”

“Oh yes. Till the bitter end, I think. She’s a firecracker.”

“She was so kind,” Nancy says. “Please tell her that from me. She made the whole thing a lot easier.”

“I will.”

Nancy licks her lips, the warm moment stretching out into awkwardness. She shared one of her most intimate, emotional experiences with Dr. Taylor, yet somehow she doesn’t really know what else to say.

“I won’t keep you, I’m sure you’re busy. I just wanted to say thank you again. I don’t think I really thanked you properly that night, because of the police and everything, and I was just so distracted and upset. And I didn’t really appreciate it fully until later on. I thought about calling you to tell you that, afterward. I’m sorry now that I didn’t. I want you to know I’m grateful.”

“I know that.”

“Well, I wanted you to hear it.” Nancy smiles at her, wipes away a tear that has slipped down her face. “I don’t know why I’m crying. It was the right thing. I’ve always known that. I knew it then and I know it now. I don’t know what this is about.” She indicates her face and splutters out an embarrassed laugh.

Dr. Taylor waits.

Nancy clears her throat. “Before I saw you, I had just found out something about my past. My family. And I think it kind of sent me off the deep end for a while. I wasn’t careful. I dated a total loser and got pregnant. I’m ashamed of it, in hindsight. I didn’t handle it well. But being able to get help from you and Alice, well…” She wipes her cheek and blinks. “It made all the difference, that’s all. I was able to turn things around instead of getting stuck in the rut I was in with a terrible guy.”

Dr. Taylor smiles, not showing her teeth. “I’m glad to hear that. Sometimes relief can be just as intense as regret. You must know that almost all the women I see shed tears at some point. And often it’s a feeling of relief. Or regret, or shame, or all three all rolled into one messy ball. The point is, it’s okay. To just feel it. To just cry.”

Nancy sniffles. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing.”

“Just seeing you, I think it’s bringing that back for me, you know?”

Dr. Taylor glances up at the house. “I know.”

“Honestly, it feels like a relief to even be able to talk about it to you. I haven’t told anyone. I’ve just been carrying it all here.” She points to her chest. “And it gets heavy sometimes.”

The two women stand across from each other on the sidewalk of the quiet side street, their private thoughts unknowingly overlapping across the sticky, shared memory of the night of Nancy’s abortion. It’s a perfect summer evening. A gentle breeze has picked up from the south, caressing the leaves of the lush maple trees. The sun is sinking in the sky, tiring out after a long day’s work.

“I know what that’s like,” Dr. Taylor finally says. “It can be really difficult to trust anyone with something that huge. It took me a while to be comfortable telling my husband about some of my darkest spots. But in the future, you might feel differently.”

Nancy watches the shadow flit across Dr. Taylor’s face, wondering what those dark spots might be for her. Her eyes flicker toward the nursing home again, then back to Nancy, who remembers she’s just come from saying goodbye to an old friend.

“Listen, I should get going,” Nancy says. “I don’t want to keep you.”

Dr. Taylor extends a hand, which Nancy shakes. “You’ve got a good, strong handshake,” she says. “I like that. Don’t lose it. None of that wet-fish nonsense some women offer. You take care, now.”

She lifts a hand in farewell and heads down the sidewalk into the sun. Nancy watches her go with a feeling of warmth that’s woven with a prickly thread of loss.

“Wait!” she calls, and rushes forward again. “How, um, how can I help?”

“Help?”

“With the Janes,” Nancy says. “You said you’re strapped for volunteers?”

“We are, yes.” She considers Nancy for a moment. “Do you think it would be doable for you? A lot of women find—afterward—that they just want to put it all behind them. But we do have a handful of Janes who started out as patients themselves. They often make the best counselors because they know what it’s like.”

“That makes sense to me,” Nancy says. “It’s just the experience I had with you and Alice, with the police raid, I mean, you saw how I reacted. I was so fed up. I shouldn’t have had to track you down like I did, like abortion is some black-market luxury. But at least I felt safe. At least you knew what you were doing, and I didn’t have to be afraid I was going to die. My cousin sure as hell didn’t feel safe. She shouldn’t have had to go through that. And it made me wonder how many other women are out there with no options. I feel like I was lucky, and that’s not right, is it? With Jane, it’s like you’ve taken it into your own hands somehow. It’s women helping women, allowing us to be at the steering wheel of our own lives for once, right?”

“That’s the idea, yes.”

“I want to help other women feel that.”

Dr. Taylor nods.

“This house,” Nancy continues, gesturing back toward the old building, “it used to be a home for wayward girls. They gave up their babies here. I can’t imagine girls like me not having a choice. Of being forced into anything.”

“A lot of them were even younger than you,” Dr. Taylor says quietly. She holds Nancy’s gaze for a long moment. “If you’re really interested, you can come to the next volunteer recruitment meeting. We do them in batches, but I have to say, Nancy, a lot of the women who think they want to volunteer don’t end up sticking around. We don’t begrudge them for it. It’s a pretty big risk. You have to accept going into it that what you’re doing is criminal activity and you might get arrested. It can also bring up a lot of tough memories. It’s pretty high stakes for a volunteer position.”

The flare Nancy feels in her gut is excitement, not fear. “I’m sure. It’s the least I can do. The Janes changed my life. I’d like to join.”