Orphan Train

and dressed in my new gown, I shut the door and lock
     it. I stand with my back against it, savoring the feeling. I’ve never had a room of
     my own—not in Ireland, on Elizabeth Street, at the Children’s Aid Society, in the
     hallway at the Byrnes’, at the Grotes’. I pull back the covers, tucked tightly around
     the mattress, and slip between the sheets. Even the pillow, with its cotton casing
     smelling of washing soap, is a marvel. Lying on my back with the electric lamp on,
     I gaze at the small red and blue flowers in the off-white wallpaper, the white ceiling
     above, the oak dresser with its bacon pattern and smooth white knobs. I look down
     at the coiled rag rug and the shiny wood floor underneath. I turn off the light and
     lie in the dark. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can make out the shapes of each
     object in the room. Electric lamp. Dresser. Bed frame. My boots. For the first time
     since I stepped off the train in Minnesota more than a year ago, I feel safe.
    F OR THE NEXT WEEK , I BARELY LEAVE MY BED . T HE WHITE - HAIRED doctor who comes to examine me puts a cold metal stethoscope to my chest, listens
     thoughtfully for a few moments, and announces that I have pneumonia. For days I live
     in a fever, with the covers pulled up and the shades drawn, the door to my bedroom
     open so that Mrs. Murphy can hear me call. She puts a small silver bell on the dresser
     and instructs me to shake it if I need anything. “I’m just downstairs,” she says.
     “I’ll come right up.” And though she bustles around, muttering about all the things
     she needs to do and how one girl or another—she calls them girls, though they are
     all working women—didn’t make her bed or left her dishes in the sink or neglected
     to bring the tea set to the kitchen when she left the parlor, she drops everything
     when I ring the bell.
    The first few days I slip in and out of sleep, opening my eyes to the soft glow of
     sunlight through my window shade, and then the room is dark; Mrs. Murphy leans over
     me with a cup of water, her yeasty breath on my face, the warm hennish bulk of her
     against my shoulder. Miss Larsen, hours later, placing a cool folded cloth on my forehead
     with careful fingers. Mrs. Murphy nursing me with chicken soup filled with carrots
     and celery and potatoes.
    In my moments of fevered consciousness I think I am dreaming. Am I really in this
     warm bed in this clean room? Am I really being taken care of ?
    And then I open my eyes in the light of a new day, and feel different. Mrs. Murphy
     takes my temperature and it is under one hundred degrees. Raising the shade, she says,
     “Look at what you’ve missed,” and I sit up and look outside at snow like swirling
     cotton, blanketing everything and still falling, the sky white and more white—trees,
     cars, the sidewalk, the house next door, transformed. My own awakening feels as momentous.
     I too am blanketed, my harsh edges obscured and transformed.
    When Mrs. Murphy learns that I have come with almost nothing, she sets about gathering
     clothes. In the hall is a large trunk filled with garments that boarders have left
     behind, chemises and stockings and dresses, sweater sets and skirts, and even a few
     pairs of shoes, and she lays them out on the double bed in her own large room for
     me to try on.
    Almost everything is too big, but a few pieces will work—a sky-blue cardigan embroidered
     with white flowers, a brown dress with pearl buttons, several sets of stockings, a
     pair of shoes. “Jenny Early,” Mrs. Murphy sighs, fingering a particularly pretty yellow
     floral dress. “A slip of a girl, she was, and lovely too. But when she found herself
     in the family way . . .” She looks at Miss Larsen, who shakes her head. “Water under
     the bridge. I heard that Jenny had a nice wedding and a healthy baby boy, so all’s
     well that ends well.”
    As my health improves I begin to worry: this won’t last. I will be sent away. I made
     it through this year because I had to, because I had no options. But now that I’ve
     experienced comfort and safety, how can I go back? These thoughts take me to the edge
     of despair, so I will myself—I force myself—not to have them.

Spruce Harbor, Maine, 2011
    Vivian is waiting by the front door when Molly arrives. “Ready?” she says, turning to head up the stairs as soon as Molly crosses the threshold.
    “Hang on.” Molly shrugs off her army jacket and hangs it on the