I had underestimated Director Bernard’s vindictiveness, the depth of his fury. When he arrived at the orphanage at eight o’clock the next morning, Maîtresse Durand immediately reported our nocturnal transgressions. Having been confined to our room, Bridgette and I heard nothing of the encounter, but later Lucienne described the turmoil overheard outside the director’s door—raised voices, pleading, a fist pounding the desk, drawers slamming. The house buzzed with whispers as the girls speculated on what had happened and the possible penalties.
Bridgette and I had dressed for school, unsure if we needed permission to leave or if we should simply go. We couldn’t be late for exams. Surely the director wouldn’t keep us from taking them, but nothing was beyond him, and a widening canyon of distress made it impossible to sit still. Bridgette kept running to the bathroom, the only place we were allowed outside our room.
Maîtresse appeared at our door not long after reporting to Bernard. Her normally rigid shoulders had collapsed like a deflated soufflé, and her face spoke of a betrayal too great to express. “Leave for school immediately,” she said, “before Director Bernard changes his mind again. I barely convinced him to let you go, but he agreed, and you’ll meet with him this afternoon. In the meantime, try to do your best in the exams and complete your baccalauréats.”
All through the previous night I’d been too keyed up to sleep. As I lay awake, I wondered if Director Bernard and the Assistance Society had managed to hide my location from my mother, just as they had hidden the existence of my brother from me. What if all these years she had been trying to find me and my brother without success?
Bridgette and I had also fantasized about running away after exams. But how could we hide in a town as small as Vientiane? And where would we go? We toyed with the idea of escaping into the countryside but given that I spoke only six words of Lao, and Bridgette had the mostly forgotten vocabulary of an eight-year-old, it seemed unrealistic. Our features would immediately give us away, whether we hid among the French or the Lao. I tried to reassure Bridgette, and myself, that the director would calm down, that it couldn’t be as terrible as we feared.
I was wrong.
Exams offered a temporary reprieve, although we were exhausted and it was difficult to concentrate, knowing what awaited us on our return. Despite my red-rimmed eyes and fuzzy brain, the fear of failing sent a surge of adrenaline through me. I had no regrets for what I’d done and wouldn’t allow it to ruin my future.
Late in the afternoon, Maîtresse led us toward Director Bernard’s office. Placing a hand on my arm, she said, “Do not provoke him any further, Geneviève.”
“Can you come with us? Please,” I begged. “You know how he is.”
She paused. “I’ll try.”
Maîtresse walked in and settled on a chair off to one side, while we sat in front of the director’s desk.
Bernard looked over at her. “Why are you here? I didn’t invite you.”
She leaned forward. “I believe it’s best to have a neutral party present, given how high emotions are running at the moment.”
“What are you implying?” he sputtered. “Oh, fine, but don’t interfere.”
I clung to Bridgette’s hand. Sunshine and a light breeze poured through open windows, belying the gloom within. A slight flush filled the director’s cheeks, and his jaw was clenched so tight that the muscles in his cheeks rippled.
“It was my idea,” I blurted out. “Bridgette only—”
“Silence,” he thundered, holding up a hand. “I’m not interested in your excuses, Geneviève. I thought by now you would have learned that you can’t simply do whatever you please without consequences.”
He turned his gaze on Bridgette. “As for you, mademoiselle, except for meals and attending Sunday Mass with Maîtresse Durand, you will remain in your room until your emancipation in August.” A cry escaped from Bridgette’s lips. “You’ll meet with Mademoiselle Courbet three days a week in the library so she can tutor you for the mathematics course you need to repeat for your baccalauréat. Maîtresse will make sure that you receive no privileges or treats.” His eyes landed on me. “And certainly no visits from Geneviève.”
“But you can’t do that!” I cried.
“I can.”
His glacial voice sent a chill down my spine. Maîtresse folded her hands in her lap, staring at the floor. Her lips quivered ever so slightly.
Bridgette squeezed my hand. “It’s okay, Vivi.” She squared her shoulders. “I’m not in the least sorry, Director Bernard. You are a terrible person for not telling Vivi about her family. She has a right to know.”
Maîtresse glanced up, shaking her head. I’d never heard Bridgette talk back to the director in all our years at the orphanage. I wanted to stop her, but I was proud of her courage.
The director drew a deep breath as his face turned a shade of purple. “Bridgette, go to your room. Now!” he roared. “You will never speak to me like that again.”
I nodded to Bridgette and whispered my apologies. Guilt weighed on me for how she would suffer without any freedom or outings, but most of all for the withdrawal of the cook’s bonbons and cakes that she adored. She strode from the room with her head held high, slamming the door shut.
“How could you look me in the eyes and lie like that?” I exploded. “To let me go through life, not knowing I have a twin brother. It’s monstrous.” I glanced at Maîtresse, hoping for support, but she was hunched over, her eyes on the floor once more.
“The Assistance Society doesn’t allow us to give out private information. We find it better for our charges to move forward, rather than pursuing an unhappy past. It’s not your place to question what I do.”
“It’s my life, my past, not yours.”
“You’ve always been a willful, stubborn child. Now you’ll pay the price.” His threat hung in the air.
My breathing grew shallow, waiting to hear what diabolical way he’d found to punish me. His parting gift.
“I paid a visit to Madame Moreau this morning and informed her of your reprehensible behavior,” he began. His lips curled into a satisfied smile. “Her offer for the teaching assistant position has been withdrawn. She cannot allow someone of such low moral character to work with her young students.”
Maîtresse started and looked up, her eyes wide. Clearly she had not been privy to this decision. “Is that really necessary?” she said in a low murmur, but the director ignored her.
I swallowed hard, trying not to give him the pleasure of seeing my shock. What in the world would I do without a job, an income? How would I get by?
“Against my advice, Mademoiselle Courbet is still willing to have you live temporarily with her. But you will have to find employment on your own. Don’t bother asking me or Maîtresse Durand for a recommendation.” He sat back in his chair, taking off his glasses and rubbing his temples. “I’m deeply disappointed, Geneviève. For someone with such potential, you’ve continually chosen the wrong path and done nothing but cause trouble at the orphanage. Be ready to leave first thing tomorrow morning.”
There was no room for discussion. But I wanted nothing more than to leave, to walk out and start anew.
It was nearly mid-morning when I woke to finish packing my belongings. I’d spent half the night awake again, tossing and turning, trying to quell my panic. Whatever would I do? I had less than two piastres saved from our meager allowance, and no idea how to find a job. What if Mademoiselle Courbet told me I had only a few days to find other lodgings? Where would I go? I only knew a handful of other teachers, none of whom would help, particularly if Director Bernard had his way. How far would he spread stories about me to ruin my chances for other job offers? I wouldn’t put anything past him.
The larger French community remained an unknown to me. Twice a year, on Christmas Day and Bastille Day, the Resident Superior of Laos invited the hundred or so French residents living in Vientiane and surrounding provinces to his home for celebrations. Director Bernard and Maîtresse Durand would march the orphanage girls—freshly scrubbed, ribbons tied in our hair, and wearing our best outfits—to the festivities and line us up like a regiment of the French army ready for inspection. With pasted-on smiles, guests patted the little ones on the head and murmured how adorable they looked, then nodded indifferently at the older girls, as if we were mentally deficient or physically deformed. As long as I’d lived in the home, only one young girl had been adopted by a French couple. We were inconvenient reminders of the illicit affairs no one wanted to acknowledge. The guests soon turned back to their cocktails, chatting with friends, their duty completed, while we were served lunch at a table in the garden, separate from the other attendees. Gifts were distributed at Christmas—toys and games for those under twelve and notebooks, pens, or jewelry for older girls, along with bags of used clothing. I always thought I heard a communal sigh of relief as we left the parties and returned to our cloistered world.
Reclining on her bed, Bridgette sniffled into her handkerchief as I placed the last of my belongings in the small wicker valise Maîtresse had brought me. Besides the navy skirt and white linen blouse I was wearing, my remaining wardrobe consisted of a second chemise and pair of bloomers, a nightgown, a faded cotton dress, a skirt I’d made myself, a tan cardigan sweater, and a blue voile dress. The last item, a used dress donated to the orphanage at the Christmas party a few years before, was my only good outfit. I saved it for Sunday Mass and special occasions. Lucienne would keep the sailor blouse of my school uniform. I wore my one pair of brown leather pumps, scuffed and well-worn at the heels.
“I’m sorry about your party last night,” Bridgette said for the third time. “I know everyone wanted to say goodbye.” Maîtresse had canceled the dinner planned to celebrate my birthday and emancipation.
“It’s not important. All I can think about is what I’ll do next. Hopefully Mademoiselle Courbet will help me.”
“Don’t worry, she won’t be mad, not like the director.”
“I hope not.” I sank onto my bed. “I’d feel so much better if you were coming, too. We can face anything together.”
“It’s less than three months until my birthday, although right now that feels like forever. If only you could visit me.” She looked up with the pleading eyes of a puppy begging for food. “Promise to come to Mass on Sundays. Maybe we’ll even get to speak.”
“I promise, but once you’re free, I won’t go back to Sacred Heart. You know how I feel.” The church was yet another force dominating our lives with rules and threats of punishment—sins had to be confessed and countered with acts of penance to avoid the ultimate penalty of going to hell. “If there is a God, Bridgette, he must be a kinder being than we’ve been taught.”
Bridgette’s mouth bunched up in disapproval. It was the one thing we disagreed on, as she was devoted to the church. We had agreed it was best not to discuss our views and simply to support each other in our choices.
Bridgette refolded her handkerchief. “Who will comfort me when I have a bad dream?”
It pained me to think of my friend waking in the middle of the night from nightmares, terrified and crying out, reliving her father’s rages and frequent abandonment. “Pretend I’m here and telling you to breathe deeply then think of something happy. Imagine us in Paris at university or traveling to Florence. We have our whole lives ahead of us.”
She crossed over to the dresser. “Don’t forget this.” She picked up the black-and-white photograph of the two of us standing arm in arm by the tamarind tree in the courtyard, trying to look glamorous. Mademoiselle Courbet had snapped the picture last October and given us each a framed copy for Christmas. Bridgette handed it to me with a dramatic sweep of her arm. “So you remember what I look like.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “As if I could forget.” I wrapped the frame in my nightgown and placed it in my bag next to the black velvet jewelry box, which contained a pair of brass earrings shaped like the Eiffel Tower and a delicate silver bracelet—more gifts from donors at Christmas parties.
“I wonder if your brother looks like you,” Bridgette said, brightening. “Maybe we’ll fall in love and marry. Then you and I will be family forever.”
I chuckled. “That would be perfect, but first I have to find him. I’ll write immediately to the orphanage in Pakse and to the Assistance Society in Luang Prabang, although I’m not hopeful they’ll tell me anything. Perhaps if I plead my case properly.”
“Once we save enough money, I’ll go with you to search for them.” Bridgette patted my arm. “Don’t worry, we’ll find a way.”
“Last night I thought of looking for Sylvie Bisset,” I said. “She might know of jobs and have advice on places we can rent once you’re free.” Sylvie had left the orphanage two years before.
“It’s odd she never came to visit us,” Bridgette said. “And she never goes to Mass.”
“I can’t blame her for wanting to forget this place. I plan to do the same. Maybe she feels the same about going to church as I do.”
Bridgette flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Remember the day we ran into her on the way to school? She hardly spoke to us.”
I shrugged. “I’ll ask Maîtresse if she knows where she lives.”
Reaching into the dresser drawer, I pulled out my most prized possessions. They were the only things that had come with me to the orphanage fourteen years before. Giselle was a foot-tall French doll with a painted porcelain face framed by coffee-colored hair tied back in a frayed green ribbon. She wore a yellow eyelet dress with a green sash around the waist. A tag attached to the right arm read, Geneviève, Ma belle petite, Avec tout mon amour, Papa, in faded ink. For many years, Maîtresse had restricted my play time with Giselle to an hour or two on special occasions, and only under her supervision, using it as a bribe to get me to behave. It angered me at the time, but now I was grateful. She had kept me from ruining this priceless gift, the only thing I owned from a father I couldn’t remember.
I kept Giselle wrapped in the silk scarf my mother had left me. It was a long, narrow rectangle woven with silk threads of blue, the color of an early morning sky, and deep turquoise. A pattern of silver strands decorated the ends. Once when no one was around, one of the housekeepers had shown me how to hang my pha biang, as she called it, over one shoulder, around my back, and over my front again. She called the design a traditional naga pattern, after the mythical serpent spirit that protected the Mekong River. She’d promised the naga would protect me as well, and she felt sure this was my mother’s intent.
I placed my doll in the valise and attached the leather straps as Madeleine and Lucienne rapped on the door. “Maîtresse wants to speak with you before you leave,” Lucienne said.
Madeleine insisted on carrying my case, while Lucienne took my bookbag.
I gazed around the room that had been my home for the past three years. Every trace of my existence was now erased, except for the dent in the wall where I’d once thrown my bookbag in a fit of pique with Director Bernard. I wished there were more happy memories to carry with me besides those of my friends.
“I can’t even walk out with you,” Bridgette moaned, a fresh flood of tears dribbling down her cheeks. “I’ll send you letters through Mademoiselle Courbet.”
I hugged her, struggling to hold back my emotions. “I’ll do the same. And we’ll wave at Sunday Mass. Even the priest can’t stop us from doing that.”
She pulled back, smiling. “But we’ll have to confess to such a grave sin.”
“The months will go quickly. You’ll see.”
It was like having my arm torn from my body, to let go of her hand and leave her there totally forlorn.
Maîtresse was waiting for me in her office.
“It’s been a difficult set of days, Geneviève,” she said in a weary voice. “I’m sorry things had to end on this note.” She handed me a manila envelope. “Here are your emancipation papers.” She patted my hand as I took the package. “You are a bright and capable young woman, and I know you’ll find success.”
I nodded, reflecting on our many clashes over the years and her stern responses. While she had never yelled or physically hurt me, I couldn’t forgive her for the times she stood by silently, ignoring Director Bernard’s abuse. Yet, there had been moments of compassion. In my first years at the orphanage, she had held me in her lap and hugged me tight as I sobbed day after day for my mother. Once, I had adopted a baby swift that fell from its nest and tried to nourish it back to health. When the poor little thing slipped from this world, Maîtresse gave me a shoebox for a coffin and helped me dig a grave in the far corner of the backyard.
“Thank you, for everything,” I said after a moment. She blinked hard, as if surprised by these words. Her expression softened, and her lips turned up in the closest thing to a smile she could manage.
I started to leave, then stopped. “Do you happen to know where Sylvie Bisset lives? I want to visit her.”
She shook her head. “Stay clear of that girl! She’s taken the wrong path since leaving the home, one I certainly hope you’ll never stoop to. Guard your reputation, Geneviève; it’s all you have. People will judge your behavior and who you associate with, and remember rumors and gossip run rampant in this town.” Her words puzzled me. Whatever did she think I would do wrong?
She surprised me by coming around the desk and grabbing my shoulders in a brief hug. “Take care of yourself. I wish you luck,” she said, her voice tight.
Lucienne and Madeleine walked me to the front courtyard. There were tears and hugs and promises to meet up in the future. I stopped to touch the trunk of my old friend, the tamarind tree, remembering all the years I’d spent among its protective folds, watching for a mother who would never come. But I was grateful for those brief hours filled with possibilities.
My heart felt unbearably heavy as I left the only home I’d ever known and the few people who cared for me, who in some way resembled a family. With all the courage I could muster, I gathered my valise and book bag and stepped through the gate into the dusty street outside. This was my birthday present from the orphanage.
Freedom.