Shattered Glass Page 2

She watched me gulp down two cups of tea and four pieces of toast. She also watched as a large drop of raspberry jam rolled off the toast and landed on Peggy’s immaculately clean uniform. She saw it but pretended not to.

  “Feeling better?” she said after I’d eaten the last crumbs.

  “Yes, ma’am. You said something about me being the first?”

  She nodded and turned to the window. “Yes, yes I did. Well, it’s no secret that the Home has been winding down for the past several years. You all know that we haven’t been accepting new charges in quite some time. In fact, the times have been changing all around us.” She made a face. “Hideous bureaucratic nightmares are replacing homes such as ours.”

  She was in preamble mode. I hated preamble. Especially when I didn’t understand it. I wanted everyone to get to the point instantly or sooner. This was where I would usually have interrupted and gotten myself in trouble. Instead, I stared at the bright-red jam dot decorating my lap and realized to my horror that I really had to use the bathroom. I was afraid to before, and now, with all the tea…

  “So, even given this horrendous event, I—we—have had quite some time to prepare for this, Antoinette.”

  Uh-oh. I was only “Antoinette” when I was in serious trouble.

  “Actually”—she turned to me again—“I have been preparing for you Seven almost from the beginning. You are my very special senior girls.”

  “Yes, ma’am, that’s very kind of you, and don’t think for a minute that we don’t appreciate it.”

  She shook her head. “You have, at times, a certain charm about you, Toni. It will serve you well.” She leaned into her desk. Papers fluttered to the floor in protest. She didn’t seem to notice. This was all wrong.

  “I have to attend to my health, you see. So I won’t be directing the changeover. Our board of directors will appoint a trustee to oversee the process. The Little Ones will be placed in foster care.” Again, she made a face. “Homes will be found for each of them.”

  “Homes? You mean adoption?” My heart soared.

  “Well no, not exactly, maybe, eventually…” She paused and looked at the mess of papers on her desk as if she was surprised to see it. “But not for the Seven, Toni. You see, you are all of an age…even Malou is sixteen now. You’re almost seventeen, Sara is eighteen, Betty is seventeen, and…”

  “With respect, ma’am, I know how old we are!” I jumped up. “What about us? What’s going to happen to us?”

  “Ah, there’s my Toni.”

  She meant the reckless Toni.

  “You will be just fine. Sit down, Antoinette.” She sat back and seemed to study me. “How much do you want to know about who you really are?”

  “Ma’am?” I fell back into my chair. I knew who I was.

  “It’s not much, but it’s the best I can offer, my dear. That and some money.” She rubbed her forehead. “It is the least I can do.”

  “Ma’am?” She wasn’t making any sense.

  “There are no provisions for the Seven aside from what I have been able to save for you over the years. You are of age.” She sighed and paused. “I have set aside a sum of money to help each of you on your way. If you’re careful, it should take you to your destination and aid with food and lodging for quite some time.”

  “My destination? Excuse me, but…”

  “What I am about to give you, Toni, is highly irregular and quite possibly illegal.” Mrs. Hazelton raised her hand as if to ward off more words. “You see, I have items from when each of you came into the orphanage. They may hold clues to your identity, perhaps to whatever family you have left out there.”

  “My family! My mother? You mean the woman who almost killed me before she abandoned me?” I embraced myself as if to shield the scars that were still there underneath Peggy’s extra-large uniform. “The crazy lady who cut and—”

  “Calm down, Antoinette. You don’t know that. We don’t anything for sure. Allow me to finish.”

  My head pounded. “Yes, ma’am.” What was happening?

  “You’re a strong and capable worker. Your skills in the kitchen and in serving will stand you in good stead. You have a lot to thank Joseph for.”

  Was I supposed to sling hash alongside Sara at Loretta’s Diner, Hope’s sole dining establishment?

  “These skills will be useful to you in Toronto. I have no doubts that you will thrive. I have a bus schedule here.”

  “Toronto! Wait. What? Toronto?” I stood up again.

  “Sit down, Toni. Yes, Toronto. It’s on the hospital-release form. Sit.”

  I stayed standing. Mrs. Hazelton shook her head as she reached into a drawer and pulled out a beat-up, old manila envelope. She handed it to me.

  “Yes, Toronto.” She raised her hand to her forehead. “I’m sorry, dear, but there’s very little for you here in Hope—for all of the Seven. I did my best, but as it stands…You can all stay a few days at the church, but…” Again she paused, seeming to search for words. Mrs. Hazelton never had to search for words. “I believe that the few items I have for you lead you directly to Toronto, and even to a certain area within the city. I’ve looked into it. There are three buses that leave each day from town, or you can, as you know, flag the bus down on the road. The bus leaves at 9:40 AM, 12:40 PM and 4:40 PM. The money is in a smaller envelope inside, and then there’s your…” She stopped to cough. “Well, all that I have for you—your identifying clues. Clues to who you are, Toni. You need to sit, dear.”

  I sat at the edge of my seat, trying to locate my breath. I couldn’t, so I focused on her instead. She didn’t look good, and I didn’t feel good. I fumbled with the manila envelope; my fingers felt like bricks. Aside from the money envelope, three things fell into my lap. Three pieces of me. Mrs. Hazelton leaned back in her chair and waited.

  There was a much-folded, small white sheet, now sticky with raspberry jam.

  Release Form: Antoinette Royce

  Birth Date: September 13, 1947

  Released From Toronto General Hospital: April 30, 1950

  Admission: Smoke inhalation, extensive lacerations, spleen removal

  Follow-up: Released to Dr. Reginald G. Blunt, The Benevolent Home for Necessitous Girls, Hope, Ontario.

  Mother: Halina Royce

  Father: Unknown

  Royce? My surname was Royce? Really? Royce? We girls had each been given surnames when we arrived at the orphanage. Mrs. Hazelton had christened the Seven with ones she had pulled from Anne of Green Gables. Until that very moment I had been Antoinette Cuthbert.

  And that was only the beginning. There were so many shocks from so few words.

  Extensive lacerations, smoke inhalation? Was there a fire?

  Spleen removal? Wait, whoa, hang on—they took out my spleen? What was a spleen?

  Wait, wait. Mother: Halina Royce.

  Mother.

  The word made me woozy and angry at the same time. “My mother, was she, is she…?”

  “I don’t know, dear. No one does. Did she survive her injuries, if she had any? Did she just…perhaps it was all too much for her, whatever it was. We don’t know. Toni, I would tell you if I knew. All we know is that you were transported here before your fourth birthday.”

  It was too much. No more, no more. The room spun.

  “Excuse me, I have to use your, um, go to the…I’ll be right back.”

  I ran to the bathroom and used the toilet this time. I splashed water on my face, washed my hands with her purple soap and dried myself with the fat fluffy towel. I wanted to stay in there forever. Outside, out there, was impossible. I repeated the whole process two more times before I found the courage to drag myself back.

  Mrs. Hazelton had not moved, yet she looked even smaller than she had a few minutes ago. The next item I picked up was a torn menu from some restaurant called the Noronic. It was yellowed and stained, but the featured menu of the day was still clearly visible. The appetizers were Oysters Rockefeller, the main was Dover Sole Almandine with Potatoes
Gratin, and the dessert was Baked Alaska. Despite all my years in the kitchen with Joe and all that he had taught me, I didn’t know what a single one of those things was.

  What kind of pathetic clue was an old menu?

  The last piece was an ancient playbill like the little posters you’d see around town for Harvest Festival, only this one featured a jazz band, the Smokers, in a club called Willa’s on Gerrard Street in Toronto.

  And that was it. The sum total of me and all that I was, on three useless pieces of paper. Words were spoken by Mrs. Hazelton, many more words, but I heard only some of them. I was to receive a small suitcase, which would be filled with “items of necessity” donated by the nice church ladies. They had been working through the night. I knew from her tone that I was supposed to be filled with gratitude.

  Gratitude eluded me. It eluded me even when she went to her shelves and extracted a book, Immortal Poems of the English Language. “Miss Webster said that you were always sneaking off with the library copy. This one is mine, Toni. Now it’s yours.” She placed it on my lap. It felt like a brick.

  I didn’t thank her. I didn’t have any words. I will burn in hell.

  “I know this is a shock, dear. Each of the Seven will have similar meetings with me. Each of you will have a journey ahead. That is, if you so choose.”

  Choose? What choice? I may have said that part out loud.

  Every so often, I stood and was told to sit again.

  “Be very, very careful with the money. You mustn’t let anyone see it.”

  I stood up.

  “Sit down. Don’t talk to anybody at the bus station, especially men. This is important. I cannot stress that enough. Toronto is a big city and sometimes a dangerous one for pretty young girls. Certain types of men sometimes patrol the bus depot—bad men. You understand, dear?”

  I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, but I nodded.

  “You will be fine, Toni. You, my dear, are made for the world, a bigger world.”

  Did I nod again?

  Finally, it was over. I knew because I stood up and Mrs. Hazelton didn’t tell me to sit right down again. I walked over to her. She hugged me, and it felt like she would splinter in my embrace. But I didn’t want to let go.

  There isn’t an orphan alive who isn’t hurting for a hug.

  “Don’t Let the Sun Catch You Crying”

  (GERRY AND THE PACEMAKERS)

  HOW CAN YOUR life be one way one minute and then completely different the next? It’s not possible.

  Is it?

  Betty was right outside the door. I grabbed her and held on. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “It’s going to be all right.” She hugged me tighter.

  “No, you don’t understand. It’s…”

  Mrs. Hazelton opened the door. “Betty, please come in.”

  “We’ll talk before I go,” I promised and kissed her cheek. What a liar I was.

  I was greeted by squeals from Tess and Cady, who were milling around the living room under Miss Webster’s watchful eye. They scolded me and hugged me and then scolded me some more. A thousand questions. What could I say? Where to begin?

  Miss Webster stepped over and pulled me aside. “Your suitcase is ready on the verandah. You can spend the night at the church and leave tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. You can leave whenever you want. I’m sure you want to talk it all over with the girls, say a proper goodbye.”

  Did I?

  Dot joined us in the living room. She smiled, but then looked unsure what to make of Miss Webster hovering over me and moved to the others. Malou and Sara would arrive soon, I was sure. We are the Seven.

  We were the Seven.

  Everybody would leave, blown apart by the fire. I turned to watch them huddling on Mrs. Hazelton’s sofa, trying to make sense of it. They didn’t know anything yet.

  The weight of them, of their goodbyes, would crush me. I couldn’t do it.

  The first bus to Toronto would be leaving from Hope within the hour. I could flag it down in front of the orphanage—what was left of the orphanage. I stood swaying beside Miss Webster for what seemed like hours, trying to decide. Tess beckoned me to come and sit. We could write to each other. Mrs. Hazelton had said that we could use Loretta’s Diner as a postal drop; the letters would be forwarded as soon as we had addresses. I could do that, yes, and I’d explain that it was too hard to say goodbye…that I had to run. Again.

  Tess patted a corner of the sofa. She knew I liked to sit on the end. There were a million things that they knew about me, accepted about me, and that from now on, no one would know.

  I couldn’t do it. I pulled Miss Webster toward the door.

  “I’ll be leaving on the 9:40 bus this morning, Miss Webster.” She shook her head but kept silent. “I don’t think I can…please let them know. Tell Betty I’ll write.” I wanted to tell her to tell each of them that I loved them. But the words got stuck in my throat.

  “Toni? Are you sure? Don’t be impulsive. Goodbyes are certainly painful, but I’m sure that…” Then she caught herself. “No, I understand. Truly, I do. I will tell them; don’t you worry.” She smiled when she saw the poetry book. “At least you’ll have your very own copy. Go, Toni, go with God, and safe travels.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. I didn’t even…Mrs. Hazelton…please thank her.”

  I ducked out to the verandah before tears had a chance to form. A small suitcase more like a carpetbag, a thing from another century, waited for me by the nearest chair. I shoved my book and the envelope on top without even glancing at the contents of the bag.

  I picked it up and walked into a yawning sky. My feet slid forward and back into Peggy’s too-large shoes. I tried to grip them with my toes, but that made walking even more awkward, so I settled into a step, slide, step, slide. The cloying, singed odor of a drowned fire choked me within a minute of leaving the cottage. I marched on, trying to breathe through my mouth. When I got closer to the orphanage, I heard the shouts of the firemen, but I didn’t turn to look. I refused to acknowledge the charred carcass of my home, our home. I continued my ungainly march far to the right of the orphanage with my eyes trained straight ahead. I marched past the building, past the firemen and the officials, past our beautiful front lawn and the large circular drive where most of us had learned to ride a bike, the senior girls always teaching the Little Ones in an unbroken pattern. I marched straight to the road. Brave, fierce and alone.

  Except that I wasn’t any of those things. A figure as slight as a pen stroke waited on the side of the roadway. I knew that lanky body of bones was deceiving. I’d seen it heave fifty-pound sacks of potatoes like they were filled with cotton puffs. Jumpin’ Joe stood silhouetted by the morning sun, arms crossed. He was still, for once. Of all the people I could not bear to say goodbye to, Joe and Betty were the hardest.

  I knew he was smiling even as I stared at my feet.

  “Shoes too big for you, girl?”

  “Yes, sir.” Now I was addressing his shoes. Shame is a heavy thing. It wouldn’t allow me to raise my head.

  “Shoot, girl. Since when have you been sirring me?” He shook his head. “Thought you’d get by me, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.” The back of my eyes burned.

  “Hey, child, remember the song? What did it teach us? The sun’s shining, ain’t it?”

  “Don’t let the sun catch you crying,” I answered as I threw myself at him. “I’m sorry, Joe. I couldn’t, just couldn’t, not them and not you, especially not you. I couldn’t say goodbye. I can’t…I’m—I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t you think I knew that? I ain’t judging, little spitfire. I’m here to give ya something.” He fumbled with his jacket pocket. “I got to this and a couple other things before the firemen hosed the crap out of my room.”

  Joe held out the small aquamarine transistor radio on which we had religiously listened to Top 40 hits for all the years I had worked in the kitchen. Each morning at dawn, Joe wo
uld come into the kitchen with his radio, and each evening, after we had cleaned up and prepped for the next day, Joe took it back to his room. At night he could catch some of the American signals and reach his beloved jazz stations in Buffalo.

  “Take it, girl.”

  I shook my head. “No, Joe, I can’t.” The little radio was everything to him. “I won’t.”

  He spat on the ground. Joe spat a lot. It gave Miss Webster the vapors. “Shoot, I ain’t giving you my guitar. It’s just a radio. Hold it for me then. I’ll be coming your way eventually. Gonna get back into my own music scene. I’ll be doing that when things here get locked up.” He spat again. He was aiming for an upturned turtle shell two yards away and nailed it. Joe said that everyone from Louisiana could spit-nail anything, anywheres, anytime. “So you’d be doing me a favor, see? Stick it in that fancy carpetbagger valise ya got there.”

  I obeyed silently.

  “And don’t talk to any menfolk, especially in the—”

  “Bus depot,” I finished for him. “Yeah, Mrs. Hazelton went on and on—”

  “Hey, girl!” He took my arm. “This is serious like. Keep your eyes open out there. Promise!”

  “Sure, Joe, you know me—I’m real smart.” Or I would be when I got to where I was going. Yeah, that was right. I would be. Hey, anything was possible from here on in. I could be a new me, the real me! Well, as soon as I figured out who the real me was I could.

  He looked worried. “Yeah, you’re smart but not as smart as ya think ya are. You kids, ya just don’t know what ya don’t know, and it pains me.”

  “I’ll be fine. Mrs. Hazelton said so!”

  He spat again. “’Course ya will.”

  We spied the bus, a gray dot breaking through a wavy horizon. Joe tried to press a folded five-dollar bill into my hand. “It’s for the fare and getting you to where ya gots to go once ya get there.”

  “No, Joe, I’ve got money! I’m sure it’s lots. It’s in an envelope that—”

  “Yeah, child, I know all about your big envelope, and I know about the money. You got yourself $138. Guard it with your life, little girl. The bus fare ought not to be no more than $2.75. Don’t let ’em cheat ya, hear?”