The Four Seasons (21 page)

Well, if it isn't Jillian Season. What's become of you?

Well, Sister, I'm a thrice-married and divorced ex-model, ex-spaghetti-western queen a bit down on her luck.

Hardly a success story. During her time here she used to dream that she'd come back one day, a huge success, just to show them she was somebody. Her return only seemed to magnify her failures. She'd crumple if they gave her that superior look again, the one that designated her as her parents' shame, the unrepentant sinner, the lost soul.

“You don't have to come in if you don't want to,” Rose said, always the perceptive one. “Just give us the journal with all the information. We can handle it.”

“You have nothing to be afraid of, you know,” Hannah told her.

Jilly felt a quick pulse of anger at her niece. What did she know? She was fifteen years old!

“I mean,” Hannah continued, inching forward on her seat with youthful earnestness. “Think about it. You're, like, so successful. You're famous! You made something of your life. In another country, no less. And no one helped you. You did it all on your own. That's so cool. You can look anyone in the eye and not be afraid. I'm really proud you're my aunt.”

Jillian's heart soared. This was so unexpected. So sincere. And so perfectly timed. This young woman viewed her life not as something pitiful, but as something to be proud of. The words flowed over her bruised self-esteem like a soothing balm. She never knew anyone to be proud of her.

“Thank you,
chérie
,” she said, reaching out to cup Hannah's face. “All my life, people have only complimented my beauty. I wondered if that was all they saw when they looked at me. Without question, this is the best compliment I've ever received. I love you, baby.” Jilly took a deep breath, then grabbed her journal. “Let's go.”

Inside, the large institutional building was also seemingly deserted.

“Looks like no one is here, either,” said Birdie.

“Someone must be. Or little elves come at night to clean the place,” Hannah joked. “The place is spotless.”

It was true. Endless halls of cream-and-green linoleum, smelling of pine soap and glistening in the filtered light of the venetian blinds, seemed to go on forever. Jilly stood mute, assaulted by the scents and sights from her past. She knew the nuns slaved over these halls to keep them pristine. When she looked down the halls she saw shadowy images of them, their long habits billowing and their wooden rosary beads clicking as they hurried from one task to another.

Even after all these years, she felt she'd get in trouble if she was caught in the conference center. It was off-limits to the girls of Marian House. She had stepped foot in the conference center only a few times—for Sister Benedict's sessions and to formally sign away her baby before leaving. She looked down the hall, then, on a hunch, walked to the third oak door on her left. The echo of her heels seemed to click thunderously on the floors. The door swished silently open and her breath seized. This was the room. There was the same round oak table upon which she had signed the adoption papers. Even the picture on the wall was the same—a large framed print of Rubens's
Blessed Mother and Child
. She could not bring herself to go in.

The memory of that afternoon flashed in her mind. She saw
the social worker sitting in the chair, staring at her through Coke-bottle eyeglasses. She could smell again her cloying perfume in the cramped quarters. Sister Celestine stood beside her, erect and tidy, her hands tucked into her voluminous black sleeves. Why couldn't she remember the social worker's name? She could remember her voice, though. It was husky, like a man's.

“Sign this one,” she'd said, placing a paper in front of her.

Jillian, exhausted from childbirth only forty-eight hours earlier, had just returned to Marian House from the hospital and was taken directly to the conference center. Jilly weaved in her chair as she stared down at the papers with a vague, numb appreciation of what she was doing.

“Go on, Jillian, we don't have all day,” Sister Celestine said tightly.

Jillian did as she was told.

“Then this one. And this. Very good,” the social worker said, satisfied. She quickly collected the signed legal papers and tucked them into her briefcase. “You've made the right decision, Miss Season.”

The deed was done. Her parents were in the foyer at Marian House, waiting for her. Exhausted and emotionally drained, Jilly felt a deadening relief that it was over. At last, she could go home.

“Jilly?”

Startled, she turned to find her sisters standing beside her, worry etched on their faces.

“I'm okay,” she hastened to assure them, quickly wiping a tear from her cheek and closing the door. “I was just looking around. That's the main office over there,” she said, pointing in the opposite direction. She walked briskly away, leading them to a closed, unmarked door to the right of the entrance. “This used to be the receptionist's office. Let's see if anyone's here.”

The pale mint-green office was also deserted. Behind a shiny
Formica counter there was a large old-fashioned switchboard, the kind high schools around the country used to have, complete with an enormous handheld microphone for the PA system.

Birdie walked up to the counter and called out, “Hello? Is anybody here?”

There was a scurrying from the back, the sound of a chair scraping against linoleum, and then the unforgettable swish of long skirt and rosary. Jilly automatically stood straighter. From around the switchboard appeared a short, stout elderly nun, remarkable both for the fact that she still wore a habit and had a single, bushy black brow hanging over her eyeglasses like a wooly caterpillar.

“Good morning,” Birdie greeted her with an imposing cheer that demanded response.

The nun smiled, but her eyes were filled with confusion. “Good morning.”

“Apparently she isn't having a good morning,” Hannah whispered to Jilly behind her palm.

Jilly gave her a silencing look, then stepped forward. “Hello, Sister,” she said in her parochial school voice that showed respect. “My name is Jillian Season. I'm hoping you can help me. I'm looking for some records. Can you tell me where they'd be stored?”

The nun scrunched up her face and peered at her. “Records? What kind of records?”

Jilly felt as if she were walking on quicksand. Mr. Collins had warned against telling anyone that she was a birth mother seeking information. But she'd vowed she would not lie again. To lie would mean she was doing something wrong, illegal or even immoral.

“Adoption records,” she replied smoothly.

“Adoption?” The old nun seemed momentarily confused. She
stared vacantly for a moment, then realization dawned. She cast a dark glance at Jilly. “Are you one of those Marian House girls?”

Birdie and Rose closed ranks.

“Yes, I am. I was, rather. I'm searching for the adoption records of my child,” she repeated, looking her straight in the eyes. Inside, however, she was quivering. “Can you tell me where I can find them?”

“They aren't here anymore. They're gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“I don't know. All the files of that place were moved when Marian House closed down. Back in 1981 or '82. I don't remember.” Then, in a voice laden with accusation, she asked, “What do you want to go searching for those records for?”

“I'm hoping to find—” Jilly paused, then said the words that she'd never allowed herself to use before. “I'm hoping to find my daughter.”

The old woman shook her head. “Leave the child be. What's done is done. You don't want to go in and disrupt that child's life, and the life of the whole family. To do so would only be selfish, if you ask my opinion.”

Birdie drew back her formidable shoulders. “I don't believe we asked your opinion.”

“Birdie…” Jilly put her hand on Birdie's arm.

The nun's face flushed red against the white wimple. “That's all I know. You should go now. I'm sorry, but we can't help you.”

“One more question, please,” Jilly said, hating the pleading tone in her voice. She remembered Mr. Collins's advice not to leave any stone unturned. “Is Sister Celestine still here?”

The nun seemed surprised by the question and softened with sadness. “No, Sister Celestine died. More than ten years ago now, God rest her soul.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. What about Sister Benedict?”

“Which one is she?”

“She was in charge of Health Services in 1973.”

“Oh, I remember her.” The nun shook her head. “A troublemaker. She left the order, not too long after.”

They're all gone, Jilly thought to herself. Marian House—the whole estate—was a ghost town.

Jilly felt a tug on her coat sleeve. It was Birdie, indicating with a nod of her head that it was time to go.

 

Birdie, Rose and Hannah dropped Jilly off at the motel on the excuse that she would wait for word from Mr. Collins. They all knew, however, that she needed a little time alone after Marian House. They walked back to the Country Diner for lunch, the familiarity and the friendly face of Maude exactly what they needed after the cold reception at the convent.

“Did that give you a hint of what Jilly must've gone through living there?” asked Birdie, feeling a renewed loyalty to her sister. “I thought the place was positively morbid.”

Rose nodded in agreement. “Everything was deserted. Melancholy was so thick I could hardly breathe.” After a moment she added, “It's no wonder she never thought about it.”

The three fell silent. Birdie picked up her bacon sandwich and looked at it with resignation. “Go figure. They bake their own muffins but they make the sandwiches with Wonder bread! No tomato. And greasy potato chips.” She wrinkled her nose. “They must have gotten ahold of Mom's cookbook.”

Rose nibbled her grilled cheese. “I still can't believe how unfeeling that nun was.”

Birdie agreed, dabbing at her lips. “But can you blame her? She's old and she lives up there in that morgue where everyone is just waiting to die. It's no different than a lot of nursing homes.”

“I wonder if it was like that when Aunt Jilly was there?” Hannah asked.

Hannah had been very quiet on the road home. She now sat quietly just stirring her vegetable soup around in the bowl.

“Are you okay, honey?” Birdie asked.

Hannah nodded. “I just feel so sorry for Aunt Jilly,” she replied. “She was just a little older than me when she went there.” She looked at her mother to reinforce her point.

Birdie set down her half-eaten sandwich and stared. Could that be true? She'd never thought of it in that light. Hannah looked so young. She was a child! She still needed her mother's guidance and advice, curfews and limits. Love and understanding. Could Jilly really have been
that young
when she was cast out of the family? When she had had a baby?

To think of Hannah being alone at such a time, without her—it was unthinkable.

“My poor Jilly.”

“She never talked about her experiences at Marian House,” said Rose. “Remember, she left for Europe soon after she returned. And we certainly didn't talk about it, not even among ourselves. The subject was taboo. I can't imagine her days at Marian House were pleasant. I can't imagine them at all, frankly. Except it would have been more lively. There would've been many more nuns living there back in the early seventies. And then there was the novitiate, not to mention the other girls at the home.”

“Do you think they're searching for their children?” Hannah asked.

Birdie lifted her shoulders to indicate she didn't know. She looked into her daughter's brown eyes, so like Dennis's, and wondered what it would be like if she were searching for her own daughter. She felt a flutter in her heart as she realized how empty her life would have been had she not shared it with Hannah.

“I'm afraid we're back to ground zero. The adoption file has been archived somewhere and the nuns aren't saying where. The nuns Jilly knew are gone, and she can't remember the name of the social worker that handled the adoption. Marian House was a total dead end. No pun intended.”

“Merely a detour,” Rose replied, not to be thwarted. “We've only just begun.”

“So what do we do now?” Hannah asked.

“We'll check for messages at the motel,” Birdie replied. “Mr. Collins might have tried to reach us. At the moment, he's our best bet.” She looked to Rose for confirmation.

“There have to be other places to contact we haven't thought of.” Rose tapped her lips in thought. “There's got to be information on the Internet. I'll go online as soon as we get back.”

“There
are
places to look, but we don't have much to go on,” Birdie said. “We have to be realistic. A search can take months. Years.”