Fortune's rocks_ a novel - Anita Shreve [114]
“I . . . I wish to find a child,” Olympia says. “That is . . . I wish to ascertain the well-being of a certain child. Who will have been brought here three years ago. In the spring.”
“But why?” the sister asks, neglecting still to invite Olympia into the room.
“Because . . .” Olympia draws a breath. “Because he is mine,” she says quickly.
The sister sighs heavily and then steps aside. “Come in,” she says.
The sister walks to a chair behind her desk and sits down. “You young girls are all alike,” she says. “You think that you can just abandon your babies, leave them on our doorstep, and then come back in two or three years and walk away with them. It will not happen that way.”
“No,” Olympia says, moving toward the desk.
With a quick wave of her hand, the sister bids her sit down.
The back of Olympia’s skirts is soaked, and she is certain it will leave a wet mark on the chair. Her hat is so heavy with the rain, she is forced to remove it. The knots she has made in her hair hang low on the back of her neck. She pushes the loosened bits behind her ears.
“What is your name?” the sister asks.
“Olympia Biddeford.”
If the sister knows the name, she gives no indication. She folds her hands and presses them under her nose. “And what is the name of the child?”
“I do not know,” Olympia says.
The sister’s fingers are red and shiny. She wears a wedding band on her left hand.
“You wish only to know the health of this child?” the sister asks.
“I . . .” Olympia looks down into her lap. She has brought her purse, and in it a considerable sum of money. She does not like to think about having to buy her child back, but if it comes to that, she is prepared to do so.
“I am not sure,” Olympia says, not quite truthfully.
“You have a husband?”
Olympia shakes her head.
The sister thrusts her chin out in a quick gesture of disapproval.
“And how do you propose to support such a child?”
“I have means,” she says. “I have a house.”
“Where is this house?”
“At Fortune’s Rocks.”
The sister studies Olympia with the faint disdain of the righteous judging the privileged.
“You have a family? A housekeeper?”
“No, not at the moment. My family, that is, my father and mother, live in Boston.”
“I see. Did you have money at the time the child was abandoned?”
“Abandoned is not the proper word,” Olympia says. “The child was taken from me. I was very young.”
“I can see that.” The sister regards her carefully. “How old are you now?”
“Twenty,” she says.
“There are procedures,” the sister explains. “We do not give away children. You understand that.”
“Yes.”
“What name was the child left under?”
“I do not know.”
“This will be difficult then,” the sister says. “Who brought the child?”
“I am not sure. He was taken from me at birth by my father. He himself would not have brought the baby, but I do not know if he would have used his name for the” — she struggles for the right word — “transaction.”
“Exactly,” the sister says.
The nun opens her desk and withdraws a ledger that is stuffed with many papers. She peruses the journal for some time. The pages snap smartly as she turns them.
“I do not see a Biddeford here,” the sister says. “Not for the time you say. Might there be another name?”
Olympia hesitates. She lowers her eyes to the middle distance on the desk. “Haskell,” she answers quietly.
The sister, whose name Olympia still does not know, looks up at her.
“I see,” she says, not consulting her ledger at all now. “First name?”
“John.”
“And why might that name have been used?”
“He was . . . is . . . the father,” she says.
“Yes, I see.” The sister seems to scrutinize her anew. “And might he have brought the child here himself?”
“No, no,” Olympia says. “I do not think so. My father would not speak to Dr. Haskell, nor allow his name to be spoken inside our house. I sincerely doubt