The Daughters' Story Page 4

  “They didn’t throw that form out, did they?” Lisette straightened, grasping the sides of her chair. “It’d be kept in the file?” For some reason that detail seemed important to her.

  Serge nudged her with his foot.

  “I’m sorry.” Mme Beaubien folded her hands together on her lap. “Again, that’s privileged information. Please try to understand our position. Our mission is to make any possible reunion favourable for both parties. If we disclose a decision made by the mother that the adoptee later disagrees with, this could jeopardize their relationship. Is there something more specific you’d like to know?”

  “Well then... ” A knot formed in Lisette’s throat. The meeting seemed to be getting nowhere. “How about visitors? Did anybody visit her while she was at the home?”

  “That wasn’t noted. Most of the homes discouraged visitors. The girls had no contact with the outside world. They entered the home three months prior to their due date and were more or less treated like servants. Homes like the Miséricorde here in Montreal forced the mothers to stay and work six months after the baby was born. It was a way for the women to pay off their medical bills and adoption fees before they left.” She checked in the file again. “I believe that’s where you were born.” She paused. “The nuns had good intentions, but they didn’t believe in giving unwed mothers an easy time.”

  “But what happened to them after they—”

  Serge slid his foot over and nudged her a little harder this time. She hesitated a moment on whether to follow his cue, then coughed, pretending to blow her nose again.

  “I know you can’t tell me much, Mme Beaubien. But can you at least say where she was from?”

  Serge squirmed in his seat.

  Mme Beaubien gave a quick glance down to the front of the file. “She gave a Verdun address, but whether she went back there after the birth isn’t indicated. Most families refused to take them back and the girls had to fend for themselves.”

  “Did she give me a name?”

  “I can’t disclose that information. In any case, the adoptive parents always rename the child.”

  “I know it’s a minor detail—” Lisette dug her fingers into the side of her purse—“but it’s important for me to know.” She paused. “What did she look like? Or is that information classified too?”

  Mme Beaubien closed the file, removed her glasses, and gave Lisette a sympathetic look. “These meetings are never easy, dear. There’s nothing I’d like better than to see you reunited with your biological mother. People think the reunion will be a joyful occasion and that bonding is automatic. But it doesn’t always happen that way. My job is to protect the mother’s privacy as well as protect the adoptee from a possible negative reunion.”

  “I understand what your job is, and that there’s certain things you’re not allowed to tell me.” She swallowed hard and drew in a long breath. “But I still have a right to know what my mother looked like. It’s not like I’ll recognize her on the street because you’ve told me she used to have red hair, green eyes and was tall and skinny. The description you have is twenty years old. She’s had plenty of time to dye her hair and gain forty pounds. Don’t worry about me being rejected. Believe me. I can deal with it. I don’t need all this bureaucratic protection.”

  A wave of heat surged through her body. She tugged at her shirt, dampened with sweat and clinging to the roundness of her belly. Why was she being so emotional? Were all those details necessary? Not that this information belonged to her. Her mother had mortgaged her right to know with the adoption papers.

  Serge started fidgeting again. She was aware of his intention to cut the interview short, but the questions she was asking had troubled her most of her life. This visit might not give her all the answers she hoped for, but she’d leave with some kind of image of where she came from.

  A short tense pause. No one spoke. Mme Beaubien stared down at her file. Sounds of the distant whir of typewriters, telephones ringing and subdued voices floated from offices down the hallway.

  The burning twinge in Lisette’s chest and the mad thumping in her heart didn’t belong here. This was a place of paper memories and recorded facts—not emotions. They only told her what her mother did, not how she felt. There were no answers for her here. She was about to push herself up when the woman glanced up.

  “Your mother belonged to an Irish-Catholic family. She was five months shy of completing high school when she entered Miséricorde. She measured 5’10, which was considered tall for a woman. Weighed 150 lbs. Don’t forget she was six months pregnant at the time. Brown eyes and light brown hair—”

  Serge laughed. “Sounds a lot like you, Lise.”

  The woman continued. “She had a scar on her upper right thigh and another one near her left shoulder.” She slapped the file closed.

  “That’s about all the information I can disclose. Anything else will have to be obtained from the biological mother.”

  “Scars. From what?”

  Mme Beaubien adjusted her glasses. “No details noted.”

  Serge pressed down on Lisette’s foot and she broke out in a coughing fit, bending forward and grasping her neck. He reached over to slap her back. “Water, please. She’s having one of her allergy attacks. She needs water, now.”

  The woman got up and turned on her heels. As soon as she disappeared through the doorway, Serge sprang to her desk, flipped the file open and scanned it.

  They heard the sharp clicking of Mme Beaubien’s heels on the ceramic tiles soon after.

  He slammed the file closed and dropped back down in his seat just as the woman appeared with a glass of water. Lisette continued coughing. He grabbed the glass, handing it to Lisette, who gulped most of it down before straightening herself up. She handed the glass back, thanked the woman and headed towards the exit with Serge.

  “Take care of yourself, young lady.” Mme Beaubien picked up the documents and went to the filing cabinets.

  Serge closed the door behind him and led Lisette towards the elevators. “I thought you were going to go on forever with your damn questions.”

  “And you were being a real ass.” She gave him a hard look. “I came here wanting answers and all you wanted to do was leave right away. At one point I almost asked you to wait outside. The woman was doing her best to be helpful.”

  “But she didn’t give you what you wanted, did she?”

  “I still came out with a clearer picture of my mother. I didn’t get the medical history, but she wasn’t obliged to give me all those details. It’s a good thing I didn’t know about your plan beforehand. I figured the coughing thing was to cut the interview short. Now I feel like we tricked the poor woman.”

  He grinned and guided her towards the stairs. “I’m pretty sure if we had placed a few bucks on the desk in front of her, she would’ve spilled.”

  “Don’t bet on that. You’re so damn cynical at times.” She looked at him. “So, did you manage to catch my mother’s name?”

  “Not a problem. I was about to get your father’s name but the old bag came back too fast. In any case, it probably said he was unknown.”

  “So? What’s my mother called?”

  “Nadine Pritchart.” He grinned at her. “An English name. Looks like your colours are starting to show. Funny how you don’t approve of the trickery, but you’re not against taking advantage of the spoils. I’m giving you something you want and you want me to hand it over for free. You’re a real capitalist.”

  They walked down the two flights of stairs. “Don’t be an idiot, Serge. You’re starting to sound like Sylvie and Pierre. I’ll start phoning the Pritcharts in the Montreal phone book when we get home. There can’t be that many of them.”

  “If that doesn’t help, I can do a bit of digging myself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember I told you about my asshole uncle
who runs that investigative agency. He fired me when he recognized my picture in the papers. A few of us were pushing a cop car over during a protest.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Guess what? I still have the access codes to his data banks.” He grinned. “Two years working for him gave me a lot of experience on how to find people. Just give me a name and I’ll locate them within 24 hours. Maybe I can help you out with your research. If she’s on the radar, I have a good chance of finding her. An address and a date of birth would’ve helped. So far we know she was born sometime in 1934—that’s if she was sixteen when she gave birth like that woman said. But if no social insurance number is attached to that name, it’ll be a bitch. First things first, let’s stop at that hot dog place near the apartment.”

  Lisette hung up the phone just as Serge walked back in.

  He had scooped up their greasy lunch wrappers earlier after listening to Sylvie complain about the nauseous smell of hot dogs and French fries and dumped them in the outside garbage bin before driving to the depanneur for bread and milk.

  He locked the door, kicked off his runners and went to place the groceries in the fridge before dropping down on the sofa beside Lisette.

  “That’ll clear the air.” He winked. “Who was on the phone?”

  She beamed at him. “You won’t believe—”

  “Don’t tell me the line is finally free?” Sylvie flicked her long brown hair back and strutted into the living room, a coffee mug in one hand and a magazine in the other. “Pit must be real pis- sed he can’t get through. What if he’s in trouble and can’t reach me?”

  She placed her coffee mug and the magazine, open at the page she’d been reading, on the coffee table. She leaned down to yank the phone line from the wall jack behind the sofa. “I’ll plug this in my room. That’ll free the line until I hear from him.” She stomped back down the hallway to her bedroom, phone in one hand and coffee mug in the other.

  Serge and Lisette exchanged glances.

  She inhaled and held it a moment before letting it out. “She’s been real bitchy for the last couple of days. If I don’t get some fresh air soon I’ll clock her one.”

  “She’s just feeling the pressure.” He grimaced. “The party’s about to make a big move but there’s no funds to get things off the ground. If they sit around too long, they’ll lose momentum.” He reached over and took her hand. “It’s got nothing to do with you, Lise. That last kidnapping has got everyone freaked out.”

  “So why don’t they just let the guy go? It’s not as if anybody is getting any points for that one. Isn’t one hostage enough?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Negotiations are going on as we speak. Letting him go would defeat the purpose. They’d look like they didn’t know what they were doing.”

  She cocked her head at him. “And you figure they do?”

  “Each FLQ cell might look like they’re working on their own, but don’t let that fool you. They operate from different locations with their own group of guys, but they still coordinate. That’s what gives them the advantage. Nobody from the outside can figure out where they’re going to strike next.”

  “But where’s the coherence? Each cell is doing its own thing. One kidnaps a British diplomat and asks for safe conduct to Cuba.” She pulled her glasses down and peered over the rims at him. “And another group kidnaps one of our own Quebec ministers, threatens to finish him off, but keeps on extending the date. Is that group going to ask for safe conduct to another militant country too? How is all this advancing anything? Hiding out on a sunny island beach isn’t going to help fight for an independent Quebec.”

  He raised a finger to his lip. “Keep it down. Sylvie gets mad when you talk like that. Her and Pierre already think you’re not involved enough. They’re pretty paranoid about moles. The fascist police already know too much as it is.”

  She raised her middle finger towards Sylvie’s door. “Screw the two of them. I do enough. I go to all the damn demonstrations and I put up as many posters as she does.”

  “Time to change the subject, Lise. Your hormones must be pushing too many buttons.” He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Hey, check this out.” He picked up the open magazine Sylvie had left on the coffee table.

  “What now?” She edged closer to him and scanned the title of the article: “Unclaimed Accounts Waiting to be Discovered.” She glanced back up at him. “What’s the big deal?”

  “I know this might be a bit far-fetched, but what if we discover someone’s left us a huge amount of dough? All we have to do is look for our name on the lists.” He cracked a smile. “It won’t hurt to try it out.”

  “Maybe you have a chance.” She gave him a slight shove with her shoulder. “There still might be an old aunt or uncle who might leave you something. You’ve got a proper family. That rules me out.”

  “You’ll have to keep searching. Something will pop up.” He continued reading the article.

  Lisette sat up straight. “Wait. That’s what I was about to tell you before. I had time to call all the Pritcharts listed in the phone book while you were out. There wasn’t that many, so it didn’t take long. I got someone on the sixth call. Stella Pritchart. And she said she’d like to see me.” She checked her watch. “It’s only two o’clock, and I’m working this weekend, so this afternoon is a perfect time to visit.” She beamed up at him. “Could you give me a lift? I promise it won’t take long.”

  “Sure. Why not?” He slapped the magazine down. “Nothing else is happening. Let’s get going.”

  “Thanks, Serge. I didn’t have the energy for a long bus ride.” She stood up and reached for her purse.

  “That list idea of yours might be a good way to get the funding we need.” Sylvie leaned against her bedroom door jamb, staring at them. “Check my name out, and Pit’s too while you’re at it.”

  Serge laughed. “It’s just a thought, Sylvie. Less risky than what we’re doing.”

  Lisette took his arm. “Let’s get going. I need some fresh air. And I don’t want that woman to forget about me. She sounded a little confused on the phone.”

  He nodded at Sylvie before closing the door. She raised her eyebrows at him and turned back to her bedroom.

  Chapter 5

  Nadine eased the door open without unlocking the chain. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw who was standing there.

  They stared at each other in silence. Besides the lines around his eyes and mouth, he still stood tall like a mountain in front of her, just as he always had. Her stomach cramped and her fingers tightened around the doorknob. She held in her breath, trying to hold back the tears.

  How did he find her? The office didn’t usually give out personal information. She tried to speak but the words stuck in her throat. She had often fantasized about one day meeting up with him or Aunt Jan. Along with Grandma Stella, they were the chink in her resolve to obliterate her past. Only the flimsy chain of the lock separated them now. She couldn’t pretend she didn’t know him and shut the door in his face—the Pritcharts maybe, but not Papi, not Aunt Jan, and never Grandma Stella. Linked to the past she wanted to forget, they were still too close to her heart to cast away.

  Here he stood. Papi. Alive in front of her. Smelling of the pine woods he had lived in a good part of his life.

  “Nadine?” His voice shook, his hand in a fist by his side.

  She needed to say something—anything to help push down the burning in her throat. But no words came to her.

  “I... asked the receptionist. I told her I was... family... your grandfather. Hope you’re not offended. But she only agreed to take my business card to give to you in the morning. A pleasant girl—only doing her job. From that window beside her desk we can see everybody walking out of the building from the ground floor. I spotted which direction you took and grabbed the next elevator down. A tall slim woman
in a bright red sweater isn’t too hard to follow. Especially when she stops to inspect the displays of all the shoe stores along the way.” He lowered his gaze. “If you want me to go I—”

  She unlatched the chain. “No… please... come in Papi.”

  His eyes lit up. “It’s been a long time since someone’s called me that.”

  It was out of her hands now. He had come to her. She hadn’t been courageous enough to approach him. To deny him was to also deny the emptiness in her heart. She motioned him to follow and headed towards the kitchen area.

  He pulled a chair out from the kitchen table, sat down and looked at her, hesitant. “Excuse my barging in like this. I tried to control myself. It was like a dream. I had to know. I was sitting in that small lounge beside the elevators just before the meeting started. Then I saw you. The way your shoulders slump a little. That walk of yours—short quick steps like you want to pass by unnoticed. But I wanted to be sure before I approached you. It wouldn’t be the first time I made a mistake like that. I felt you looking at me at the conference, but I didn’t want to look back in case I was just imagining things. At my age, the mind sometimes plays tricks and the memories push reality aside.”

  Nadine made for the stove. Words spilled out of him without effort while the burning lump in her throat blocked all hers from escaping.

  “I’ll be driving back as soon as I leave here. I’ve got to check out a couple of bush camps in the morning. I needed to know for sure it was you. I might never see you again and I’d always wonder. It took me a while standing in front of the building before I got the courage to check for your apartment number in the vestibule. When I checked the list of participants at the meeting, I figured you were using your married name.” He paused, as if waiting for her to say something. “I had to take a chance. If I was wrong, all you had to do was sic the cops on me for stalking you. Not that I haven’t had my own dealings with them over the years. The guys can get pretty rowdy in the bars up north near the logging camps.”

  She reached for the kettle and brought it to the sink. Her heart was pushing through her chest. A deep sense of sadness had erupted within her. She had kept Papi locked away in her album of safe memories, thinking it was the only way to move on with her life. A chance meeting had just blown open the door to her shelter. All the love she had for him, for Aunt Jan, and for Grandma Stella came surging through her, leaving her unable to find the right words or move her legs. Looking him in the eye only reminded her of the pain she had caused. If she spoke, tears were sure to fall.