Chapter 5
FIVE
MAGNOLIA
August 11th
B eneath my foggy old window is a vent. When someone calls my name, I quickly stash my new books inside, hiding them from possible prying eyes.
"Magnolia!" Sister Mary calls again.
A huff escapes me. "Coming!" I reply, hoping my quiet voice will bounce off the walls to echo back at her. I don't need to get in trouble again.
I don't think I could take one more punishment.
Today marks my last day at Saint Mary's Orphanage, and I have mixed feelings about it. I wonder how they'll announce my departure. Will the sisters have me walk down the winding drive with just my suitcase, or will I get a ride to nowhere?
My stomach growls as I screw the nails back in the vent cover, hiding my new secret .
A month after Mr. Donati left, I came home to a stack of new books tucked under my comforter, and I've been enthralled ever since.
He was correct about one thing: I read to escape.
I never imagined that a book could encompass magic and friendship so beautifully. As I read, an entire world unfolds in my mind, filled with vibrant colors and scents I've never experienced.
I have no idea how he managed to sneak into my room weeks later, slipping past the sisters unnoticed. I’m convinced those women have eyes in the back of their heads. Whenever something occurs in this orphanage, it becomes the main topic of conversation.
This leads me to question whether his charitable donation contributed to their unawareness.
This is the most generous and considerate gift I have ever received. I wanted to thank him, but the striking man with icy blue-grey eyes glided by like a phantom in the night.
Sister Mary waits at the corridor's end, impatience clear as I hurry down the steps. "Here's your list for today," she says, handing me a lengthy sheet filled with tasks.
I tilt my head down, knowing I shouldn't be asking this. "Aren't I leaving today?"
The question doesn't seem to faze her, as she lifts her gloved hand. "Your exit doesn't change the chores, Miss Finley."
I feel like complaining and sulking about my 'exit' not being voluntary. Leaving isn't what I want; this place has always been my home. Despite the strict rules and the punishments that come with them, the knowledge of an unknown vast world beyond these iron gates terrifies me.
She sashays down the hall, ignoring me.
Chores have always been a part of our lives, which is acceptable. In a communal living situation, everyone needs to pitch in. However, when I turned eighteen, things changed, and I was given double the workload. The sisters kindly allowed me to stay... until today.
But I have nowhere to go, no experience with work, so how will I get a job?
I start with the list immediately: first is bathroom duty. Maybe this is a good thing, to keep my idle mind from racing in thought.
The tile floors are covered in shadows, which makes it harder to clean. I wish I could rip open some curtains, but our restroom contains one solitary window that's shaded by thick trees.
As I spray the cleaner on my reflection, I wipe it down, seeking insight into myself. Where will I go, and what awaits me? My dull black hair frames my pale blue eyes and golden skin. Even though I'm rarely outside, my skin maintains a warm glow.
I take a moment to observe my reflection, realizing this is the final time I'll see it in this mirror, the last moment I'll scrub this dim bathroom. As I switch off the light and pull the door shut, I'm uncertain if I should feel relieved or just... sad.
I sweep through the house, cleaning the foyer and floors, the tearoom and halls.
I smile at the girls who pass by, but I maintain my distance, unable to form relationships any longer. It seems the moment we grow close, they get adopted.
I'm happy for them, but as they go, I'm all alone again.
That's how it's always been, though.
There’s no particular reason for why I've never been given a family, no bad record as to why no one chose me for adoption when I was younger.
Simply put, no one wanted me.
I had no time to be a bad kid, I was brought here when I was four months old and raised by nuns.
I think about my parents. What made them drop me off? Or was it someone else I was in the care of, a grandparent, a guardian? A lot of girls come in from Child Protective Services.
Perhaps my parents are still out there. They may have been poor and desired a better life for me. Still, I feel deep resentment for whoever brought me to this orphanage every day.
It's the only darkness I harbor, but I allow light to fill my soul.
The thought gives me pause, and my head whirls.
I leave the sponge on the ground, waiting until I hear the absence of footsteps pattering down the hall. Then I trek down the stone stairs, into the basement of answers.
This thought has crossed my mind a few times this past week, and with it being my last day here, I'm going to do something I've wanted to do for my entire life .
Something I was too scared of following through with, too worried about the repercussions I would receive at the hands of the sisters for breaking into their office.
I, like every other girl who has come through this orphanage, have been curious to see our folders.
A quick peek into my earlier years, no matter how small, is more than I know now.
I slip off my shoes, anxious that the black leather soles might reveal my location. The dim corridor is silent, and I press myself against the wall. I fear that my racing heart will give way to my first act of true rebellion, but what do I have to lose?
I tried this when I was ten, and I got as far as I am now. I didn't know it was bad to be curious, but when Sister Catherine found me, she made sure to pop my hand and bring out the ruler to punish me for my crimes.
She looked at my teary eyes filled with questions and before she sent me to my room, she gave me one piece of advice: It's better to make your own truth in your mind.
I hope in this instance, in my case, that the truth can set me free.
That it could give me hope.
A home.
A family.
The door is cracked open, a warm lantern glowing softly on the desk. I grasp it tightly, attempting to steady my breathing as I navigate the unknown area of filing cabinets.
D... E.... F.
Deep breath. I pull the drawer open, the metal creaking in protest. A little sticker with my name Finley, Magnolia is attached to the top of a manilla folder that's tucked in the back.
The edges of the folder are frayed with age, looking ancient next to the other girls' pristine ones.
I carefully grab it, scared that if I clutch it to my chest it will erupt into dust.
Terrified I'll see something I don't want to.
Over my eighteen years, I've conjured various ideas about my parents. As a small child, I would sit alone in my room, crafting bedtime stories about them since no one was there to read to me. They were successful astronauts who became pregnant but couldn’t take a baby to the moon, so they brought me here.
That would be the only responsible thing to do because I didn’t think they made baby astronaut suits.
When I was a pre-teen, and my hope began to dwindle with every girl who got a family, they were lost at sea. Forever wading the water in hopes of coming back to me.
They were spies when I was a teenager, living dangerous lives on the run, hunting bad guys and finding treasure.
When I was seventeen, I stared out the window to watch the moon dance with the stars. Long past the adolescent fantasies, I laughed at how I once thought they were living there. But that didn't stop me from telling the moon goodnight, just like I do and have done since I decided they were astronauts when I was seven years old.
The sisters don't approve of fantasy or wild thoughts, but they've always been respectful of letting us imagine those who gave us up are better than they really are .
I open the folder and unfurl the dusty papers, revealing the truth.
I have plenty of photographs over the years, but the one I'm holding now is the only one not taken as an orphan.
A little baby, bundled in a pink blanket and wrapped in the arms of two proud parents.
Okay, I'm lying.
I still don't have a photograph of me before I was an orphan.
It's just me alone, a little tiny baby, being held by the sisters for a documentation photo. Sister Paloma is in this photo, and it makes my heart squeeze in anguish. She was what made this place a home when I was a kid, she passed when I was nine. That is when the darkness crept in, when I started to see the chipped paint for what it really was.
It's incredible how one person could make me believe I was living in a castle, instead of a fortress.
I look content, with red cheeks and a wide gaze.
I stare at the photo for endless moments, shaking my head.
When I get the courage to search through the papers in the folder, government documents show me the harsh truth.
CPS took me from my parent’s care, an extensive list of their wrongdoings laid out in arrest dates. Child Protective Services visited their home three times before one fateful night.
The results of it bring tears to my eyes. Both dead from drug overdoses. No other family besides a distant cousin in California that I don’t bother searching for.
Now I know what Sister Catherine meant by ‘It’s better to make your own truth in your mind. ’
Because now the harsh reality will forever be engrained in me.
No room left for fantasies, wonder, or hope.
I have no family, and I will forever not.