The Smell of Other People's Hou - Bonnie-Sue Hitchcock Page 0,37

our shoulders and pulls us both in close for a hug. “She’s going to help you guys, I promise. She’s also my girlfriend, so don’t give her any trouble. She cut through a lot of red tape and is sticking her neck out here for all of us, so be nice.”

Then he leans down close to look right into Jack’s eyes. “I hope you find your brother,” he says, slipping a square of brown paper towel into Jack’s hand. “And just in case you’re in her neck of the woods and you happen to run into her, say hello from me.”

We wave good-bye from the back of the Datsun, and Jack unfolds the paper towel to find just one word written on it. In large letters scrawled in black marker, it says SELMA.

I finally did hear Gran talking to someone, the night I left home clutching my suitcase and the bus ticket to Canada. This time she was the one with the long red phone cord stretched into her room; through the door I thought I heard muffled crying. I couldn’t really make out much. Just the words, “I’m sorry, Sister, I know. I didn’t know what else to do.” Gran sorry? And since when did she have a sister?

Before I went out to wait for the bus, she had said only that I didn’t have to worry—she had made all the arrangements and that I wouldn’t be alone. I searched her face, trying to figure out if I was being punished or if she really did think she was helping. I’m honestly not sure, but her face was softer than I’d ever seen it. She patted my shoulder and said, “Be good,” and then mysteriously added, “Just try to understand.”

But mostly I tried not to think about anything as the bus drove farther and farther into the Canadian Yukon. I was finally going to the place that had swallowed up my dad. It felt vast and empty except for trees and mountains and wide, open spaces. I doubted I would ever understand anything. After days of traveling on a very bumpy road that did no favors for my bladder, we pulled up to the abbey gates and I read the delightful sign, OUR LADY OF PERPETUAL SORROW. Really, Gran? You have outdone yourself this time.

That was already three weeks ago, but it feels like forever.

My belly is so round, I can put the white wicker clothes basket over it and pretend it’s just a big ball of laundry. At this moment, instead of a baby, I could be pregnant with four flat sheets, two tea towels, and a pillowcase. Don’t I wish.

My job here at the abbey is to take the laundry off the line for the Sisters. I say laundry, but there’s only ever sheets and towels and sometimes my own clothes, because the nuns do their own washing and I doubt they own real clothes, but I don’t know for sure. Living with Gran was good practice for not asking too many questions, even when a person is suddenly sent to a convent in another country and is the youngest person there by about seven hundred years.

I’m making a list of questions anyway, in case someone unexpectedly says to me, “So, Ruth, is there anything you’d like to know before your life goes any farther down this black hole?” In no particular order: Are there ever any other girls like me who come here? Will the people who adopt my baby be kind? What will happen to me afterward? Does God hate me?

Some days I take that last one off the list because I think the answer’s probably obvious, but Sister Bernadette did tell me once that God only operates from a place of love. Then she hurried off really fast like she had something in her eye.

I haven’t heard from anyone since I’ve been here. I didn’t really expect to, but it makes it a million times lonelier and gives me a couple more questions for my list: Are they even curious about where I am? Do Selma and Lily ever wonder about me? Does Dumpling still have my note?

The flip side is that it’s also kind of nice no one can see me, now that I’m the size of a house. I can’t believe I still have months to go; how much bigger can I possibly get?

The nuns are all right, except for Sister Agnes, who I can tell is not happy that I’m here.