Orphan Train

their care warm and dry and fed.
    “I can’t go,” I say. “My mother will need me when she gets out of the hospital.” I
     know that my father and brothers are dead. I saw them in the hallway, covered with
     sheets. But Mam was taken away on a stretcher, and I saw Maisie moving, whimpering,
     as a man in a uniform carried her down the hall.
    He shakes his head. “She won’t be coming back.”
    “But Maisie, then—”
    “Your sister, Margaret, didn’t make it,” he says, turning away.
    My mother and father, two brothers, and a sister as dear to me as my own self—there
     is no language for my loss. And even if I find words to describe what I feel, there
     is no one to tell. Everyone I am attached to in the world—this new world—is dead or
     gone.
    The night of the fire, the night they took me in, I could hear Mrs. Schatzman in her
     bedroom, fretting with her husband about what to do with me. “I didn’t ask for this,”
     she hissed, the words as distinct to my ears as if she’d been in the same room. “Those
     Irish! Too many children in too small a space. The only surprise is that this kind
     of thing doesn’t happen more.”
    As I listened through the wall, a hollow space opened within me. I didn’t ask for this. Only hours earlier, my da had come in from his job at the bar and changed his clothes,
     as he always did after work, shedding rank smells with each layer. Mam mended a pile
     of clothes she’d taken in for money. Dominick peeled potatoes. James played in a corner.
     I drew on a piece of paper with Maisie, teaching her letters, the hot-water-bottle
     weight and warmth of her on my lap, her sticky fingers in my hair.
    I try to forget the horror of what happened. Or—perhaps forget is the wrong word. How can I forget? And yet how can I move forward even a step without
     tamping down the despair I feel? When I close my eyes, I hear Maisie’s cries and Mam’s
     screams, smell the acrid smoke, feel the heat of the fire on my skin, and heave upright
     on my pallet in the Schatzmans’ parlor, soaked in a cold sweat.
    My mother’s parents are dead, her brothers in Europe, one having followed the other
     to serve in the military, and I know nothing about how to find them. But it occurs
     to me, and I tell Mr. Schatzman, that someone might try to get in touch with my father’s
     mother and his sister back in Ireland, though we haven’t had contact with them since
     we came to this country. I never saw a letter from Gram, nor did I ever see my father
     writing one. Our life in New York was so bleak, and we clung to it with such an unsteady
     grip, that I doubt my da had much he would want to report. I don’t know much more
     than the name of our village and my father’s family name—though perhaps this information
     would be enough.
    But Mr. Schatzman frowns and shakes his head, and it’s then that I realize just how
     alone I am. There is no adult on this side of the Atlantic who has reason to take
     any interest in me, no one to guide me onto a boat or pay for my passage. I am a burden
     to society, and nobody’s responsibility.
    “Y OU — THE I RISH GIRL . O VER HERE .” A THIN , SCOWLING MATRON in a white bonnet beckons with a bony finger. She must know I’m Irish from the papers
     Mr. Schatzman filled out when he brought me in to the Children’s Aid several weeks
     ago—or perhaps it is my accent, still as thick as peat. “Humph,” she says, pursing
     her lips, when I stand in front of her. “Red hair.”
    “Unfortunate,” the plump woman beside her says, then sighs. “And those freckles. It’s
     hard enough to get placed out at her age.”
    The bony one licks her thumb and pushes the hair off my face. “Don’t want to scare
     them away, now, do you? You must keep it pulled back. If you’re neat and well mannered,
     they might not be so quick to jump to conclusions.”
    She buttons my sleeves, and when she leans down to retie each of my black shoes, a
     mildewy smell rises from her bonnet. “It is imperative that you look presentable.
     The kind of girl a woman would want around the house. Clean and well-spoken. But not
     too—” She shoots the other one a look.
    “Too what?” I ask.
    “Some women don’t take kindly to a comely girl sleeping under the same roof,” she
     says. “Not that you’re so. . . . But still.” She points at my necklace. “What is that?”
    I reach up and touch the small pewter claddagh Celtic cross I have worn since I