The Daughters' Story Page 3

  “Demonstrations, protests—become political bulldogs. Focus on our language. That’s how they got the upper hand in the first place. They forced everybody to speak English and made us second-class citizens. Only the Church, the farmers, and the poor speak French. When you don’t speak the language of your ancestors, you lose your soul. That’s how they win. You lose all connection to your past and end up wanting to be like them.”

  “Yes Prof… This sounds like a political science class. We don’t have another hundred years. If we don’t act right now, our great grandchildren will be singing the same song as you are today. Einstein even said it—nothing happens if nothing moves.”

  “At least my way doesn’t involve blowing up the ordinary Joe.”

  “Hey, hold on there. I had nothing to do with that.” He pulled himself up and looked her in the eye. “Accidents happen all the time. Nobody planned for anyone to die. I hope you believe at least that.”

  Lisette reached up for his hand. “I know they were accidents, Serge. But when terrorist acts happen, people get hurt. You weren’t at the crime scene, but it doesn’t mean you have no responsibility in all this. You’re a facilitator, and that’s more than enough reason for them to arrest you. I’m sure you’re under surveillance. The city is crawling with cops and soldiers with their noses to the ground. You don’t have to be a bona fide member of the FLQ for the cops to go after you.”

  “No way. We’re careful.” He paused. “Unless somebody ratted on me.”

  Lisette bit her lip and fell silent. A recurrent worry had taken over her after the James Cross kidnapping. Pierre Laporte’s abduction followed shortly after. Her unease now turned to alarm each time she saw Serge go out with Pit. She asked no questions and they kept her in the dark about their activities.

  “You’ve got to keep a low profile, Serge. They’ve only just slammed us with the War Measures Act and over two hundred people have already been arrested. They’ll pick up anyone that speaks up for the FLQ. Even members of the Parti Québécois are being picked up. You have to think of our child.”

  “Bloody fascists.” His jaw clenched. “I’d love to sneak up on them while they’re sleeping and put a stick of dynamite up their ass.”

  She grabbed the metal railing and pulled herself up. “Talking like that will get you thrown in jail. Each time you leave the apartment I figure you’ll never come back. You’ve got to lay low. I don’t want to lose you over this. When this is all over, nobody’s going to call you a hero.”

  “Get serious, Lise. I’m not trying out for a stupid medal.” He pushed the door open a crack. “Time to get out of here. We’ll talk in the car. Let’s pick up hot dogs on the way home from your appointment.”

  Lisette stepped forward but he reached back to stop her. “Wait here. It’s better they don’t see us together. If there’s no sign of that car, I’ll honk for you to come out.”

  Chapter 3

  Nadine bolted the door to her second-floor apartment, kicked off her pumps, and dropped her purse and briefcase on the floor. Her brief stay at this morning’s meeting had been a complete waste of time. She had taken zero notes and had no recommendations to bring back to the workers. She’d have to shape up for tomorrow’s wrap-up meeting. The workers depended on her advice on how to proceed. She couldn’t let them down, especially when their livelihood was on the line.

  Papi’s presence occupied her thoughts the whole time she sat at the meeting. Each time the person beside her leaned forward, Papi came into full view across the table and she’d steal a glance in his direction. If Papi was aware of this, he never let on, jotting down copious notes the entire time. Instead of following his example, she spent her time decorating her agenda with sad faces and stick figures. Her doodling had triggered a happy memory of her eighth birthday, sitting on the linoleum floor with the new crayons and colouring book he had just brought her. A steady eye on her colouring and attentive to every word coming from Aunt Jan and Papi at the kitchen table.

  She had jammed her agenda into her briefcase as soon as the director closed the meeting. Most of the participants had gotten up from the table before she slid her chair back and weaved her way through the group. Glad to see the elevator door was still open, she squeezed into the already crowded space. Papi hadn’t approached her, which must mean he hadn’t recognized her.

  Tomorrow’s all-day meeting was an important one, ending with a final vote to decide on the strike. Negotiations promised to drag on. It was a tug of war between poor workers and rich bosses. If the workers gained anything, it would be minimal. Big bosses came out winning no matter what concessions they made. That might involve a lot more meetings to come. If Papi was still on tomorrow’s list of participants, she’d better prepare herself to come face to face with him. The workers were counting on her report. Disappointing them wasn’t going to happen.

  Years of experience slaving on the shop floor of women’s clothing factories had made her sensitive to the pressing needs and issues of the garment workers. Fluent in both French and English, she stood her ground in the male-dominated meetings, and conceded that her English upbringing with the Pritcharts had allowed her some benefits. She spoke French with the workers, making it possible for them to follow the bargaining process. Sending a representative that spoke only English was useless to them.

  Her work wasn’t limited to attending union meetings. Studying the employer’s policies and settling grievances took up a good part of her time. If she missed the important meeting tomorrow, she’d be letting the workers down. She’d have to be there whether Papi attended or not. If the representatives who were arrested this morning were released right away, he might not have to come back. If he did, she’d have to sit as far away from him as possible. It’d be hard not to listen to her heart and walk up to him for news of Aunt Jan and Grandma Stella. Just thinking of them brought back her old self and the wounds that came with it. Did she even have the right to ask about them after neglecting them all this time? Papi just might decide to ignore her if she ever decided to approach him.

  She flopped down into her armchair, leaned her head back, and waited for the onslaught. It wasn’t long in coming. A short meow. A loud crash on the wooden floor and her orange tabby plumped down into her lap.

  “Bad cat. What did you do this time?” She stroked him as she surveyed the floor. “Ah, Peaches. Look at the mess you’ve made. Bad, bad cat. Try to stay out of trouble while I clean up.”

  Peaches had knocked down the wooden document box from the top shelf of the pine hutch beside the couch. The lid had broken off, scattering all her important papers on the floor around her: lease, insurance policy, birth certificate, tax forms. She gathered them up and was about to reach for the broken lid when she spotted a man’s black leather wallet sticking out from beneath the skirt of her armchair. Maman’s old wallet, tucked and forgotten years ago in the bottom of her wooden box.

  Her mother, Claire, smiling, tall and blond, had tossed her the wallet while she was playing with her dolls under the cover of the kitchen table. This old man’s wallet, she’d said, squatting down to tousle Nadine’s tight curls, was my ticket to the big city lights.

  She reached under the armchair and pulled the wallet towards her. The cool smoothness of the soft leather dredged up another memory. Painful, even now. How determined she had been as a child to discover any hidden flaps or secret pockets in the silk lining of the square flat wallet. Anything that might hold clues to her mother’s life before ‘the incident,’ as everyone called it. The muscles of her throat contracted and she swallowed hard. No one ever mentioned Claire’s name after that. In her little girl’s mind, her mother had taken cover somewhere in a mysterious crevice of the wallet.

  She had kept it all these years, enclosing under the inner folds all that she held sacred. She opened it and pulled out the two black and white pictures Aunt Jan had given her when she was old enough. One was a high school picture
of herself, shoulder-length wavy curls that Aunt Jan had put in tight rollers the night before. Unsmiling. Round-collared white blouse and navy blue cardigan imposed by the Nuns. A fragile look of not belonging.

  The other picture, folded in half, showed Claire on one side. Glamorous with her long blond hair flowing from a soft turban hat, staring straight at the camera, sensuous mouth open as if to speak. Or was she singing? She loved loud cabarets and knew the words of all the popular jazz songs she heard on the radio.

  On the reverse side was a picture of John, her father, a handsome boyish look with pensive eyes and hair slicked back from his forehead. Looking away from the camera. Was it Claire he was staring at? Aunt Jan claimed he had eyes only for her. Nadine had always kept his face hidden from view in the dark folds of the wallet.

  She snapped open the coin pocket and pulled out a small plastic ID bracelet. She had discovered it on the bureau beside her bed alongside her towel and glass of water. The nurse had no doubt been in a hurry to fill out the hospital documents and forgotten all about it. Pritchart. The first name left blank. The date of birth and the hospital ID number. She pressed the tiny bracelet to her heart and placed it back into the coin pocket, slipping the wallet under the papers in the wooden box.

  Peaches came into view batting a small object across the floor and pouncing after it. Nadine stretched her arm out. “What do you have there, my pesky cat?” A twinge of sadness darted through her chest at the sight of the gold wedding ring. It must’ve dropped out when the box crashed to the floor. She scooped it up and stuffed it back in with the documents.

  She got up, slumped down on the couch and pulled her knees to her chest. Adherence to her daily routines of work and home kept her sane, saving her from dwelling on the past and feeling guilty about things. Peaches jumped onto her shoulder and she pulled him down on her lap. The day had turned out to be a series of intrusions. First, the army took over the streets. Papi appeared from nowhere. And a reminder of her past came crashing down on the floor by her feet. Was this a sign? Ottawa sending the army was a major disturbance, yet it was the War Measures Act that had brought Papi back to her.

  As far as she knew, Papi still lived a good distance downstream in Saint-Roch, just below Quebec City. Maybe he had driven back home after the meeting. The pit of her stomach felt empty. Not much chance of ever seeing him again. So what if she had eased up a bit on her stubborn resolve? Papi had nothing to do with the Pritchart family. Talking to him wouldn’t have caused anybody harm. But he was Aunt Jan’s father, so he was bound to tell her he had run into her. Chances were Aunt Jan had forgotten about her by now. Better she leave things as they were and not open old wounds.

  The Pritchart family lived on the opposite side of Montreal from her. They rarely ventured outside their Verdun neighbourhood, so running into them wasn’t likely to happen. She had only met up with Uncle Peter once in the twenty years since she had left home. The encounter had left a bad taste in her mouth, erasing any idea she had entertained of ever contacting Aunt Jan and Grandma Stella again.

  She glanced down at the broken box on the floor and got up to place it back on the shelf. It seemed strange that on the same day Papi had appeared, the only connection to her past would burst open in front of her like that. What did this all mean? A sign that she give up her dream? The agent from Social Services had warned her not to get her hopes up too high.

  She sat back down on the couch and Peaches pounced on her lap again, digging his claws into her thighs. Nadine pulled the cat closer, leaned back and closed her eyes. It was quite possible that Papi had recognized her and hadn’t wanted to let on. She’d sure deserve the snub. The Pritcharts must’ve been happy to see her gone back then. But not Aunt Jan. She must’ve been worried sick when she never went back.

  She was nudging the cat off her lap when there she heard a knock at the door.

  Chapter 4

  Lisette and Serge climbed the stairs to the second floor of the Social Services building about an hour before lunch time. He took hold of her arm before entering the reception of the archives department.

  “Keep a Kleenex in your hand so they’ll think you have a cold or something.” He lowered his voice. “You know they’re not about to give you the information you need, but there isn’t only one way to skin a cat. Trust me, we’ll get what we’re looking for in the end. So keep it simple. Ask a few basic questions to get things rolling and watch for my cue. When I nudge your foot, start coughing. We’ll be out of here in no time.” He tossed his hair back. “Right, I almost forgot—” He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a wedding band. “Put this on your ring finger.”

  She smiled and slipped it on. “Is this from a box of Cracker Jack?”

  “It comes in handy when I go watch Pit sing at bars. Keeps the girls away.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t imagine you flash it very often.”

  He tugged the door open and followed her into the office.

  A grey-haired woman with dark-rimmed glasses sat behind a wooden desk leafing through the pages of a file. Tall metal cabinets lined both sides of the tiny windowless office. An IBM electric typewriter and a black rotary telephone sat on a narrow table running perpendicular to her desk. An open door on the far wall led to a hallway where more office doors could be seen. She raised her head and nodded at them when they entered.

  “Lisette Laflamme?” She gave Serge a puzzled look.

  “Husband.” Serge gave her his best grin.

  The woman motioned for them to sit down on the two black vinyl chairs in front of her desk.

  “My name is Mme Beaubien. I’ll do my best to help you, but as I explained on the phone, we have strict rules about the information we can give out. Quebec keeps adoption records sealed for the full duration of the biological mother’s life. Only general unidentifying details of the birth are available when requested by a mature adoptee. We are under a legal obligation to protect the privacy of the biological mother at all times. However, if she agrees to release information to the adoptee, we follow a different approach.” She turned to Lisette. “I’m going to need a picture ID to proceed.” She pulled a form from the file in front of her. “You also have to sign this Request for Information form.”

  Lisette pulled out the Kleenex from her purse and pretended to blow her nose while she groped for her university ID card. “So what happens after the mother agrees to release her information?

  “She has to drop by to sign another form before we contact the person making the request. Are you taking anything for that cold?” The woman folded her hands on top of her desk and waited.

  “Allergies.” Serge patted Lisette’s knee. “Plus she can’t medicate in her condition. That’s one of the reasons why it’s so important for us to have Lisette’s medical history. We might need it if our baby has any health problems. So how long does it normally take before you contact us after the form is signed?”

  Lisette placed her ID card on the desk, scribbled her name on the form and forced a sneeze. She glanced at Serge. Noticing how sharp he was at coming up with answers, a slight tenseness settled on her shoulders. They hadn’t discussed any of this beforehand. He was making it all up as he went along, as if they were playing some kind of game. This was a side of him she hadn’t seen before. He sat straight in his chair, his eyes blazing. Challenged, waiting to deflect Mme Beaubien’s next words.

  “We get back to you as soon as the birth mother gives us permission. If the mother’s permission to disclose is already in her file, it happens fast enough. If we can’t contact the mother, we don’t proceed with the request.” The woman checked Lisette’s ID card, pushed her chair back and brought the file she had on her desk onto her lap. “Is there anything specific you want to know?” She smiled at Lisette. “While we’re limited with what we can disclose, we still do our best to help.”

  My mother’s name for a start, and how I can
contact her, Lisette almost blurted out, but settled for, “Any complications with the birth?”

  “You must be getting a little nervous about the baby coming.” Mme Beaubien studied Lisette, a thoughtful look on her face. “Things were different when your mother gave birth. Doctors didn’t want women to suffer the actual birthing, so they used gas to sedate them. It was easier on everybody if the mother remained calm. Of course, that meant the mothers didn’t take an active part in the birth. Sometimes”—she paused to read something in the file—“the baby was already given up for adoption by the time the mother woke up.” She fell silent for a moment as she read, then lifted her eyes. “No complications noted here. Normal delivery. You were a healthy eight-pound girl. There’s no mention of the mother having any health problems at the time.”

  “You mean my mother went to sleep and woke up when everything was all over. Like waking from a bad dream. Did she spend any time with me at all... or was I handed over to a stranger as soon as I came into the world?”

  Mme Beaubien hesitated before answering. “I’m afraid unwed mothers didn’t have much say in the matter twenty years ago. The women entering maternity homes understood they’d be giving up their child. The homes run by religious groups made them feel almost like criminals for being pregnant outside of wedlock. Their families wanted them hidden from view until the baby was born.”

  “Still... didn’t they have to consent to the adoption?”

  The woman nodded. “If the mother was past eighteen years of age.” She flipped a page in the file, stopped to read and looked up. “In your case, your biological mother was sixteen. A guardian or a member of her immediate family had to sign the consent form.”

  Lisette wrapped her arms around her stomach and fidgeted in her seat. “Or she signed it herself.”

  “It’s possible, but—”