My Mother's Daughter Page 4

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  Four months into her life in Canada, as winter slowly seeped into spring, Laura admitted years later that she knew the arrangement with Catherine was not going to work. She was good with the children, she knew that, but admittedly there had been some stumbles, like when Catherine placed Gerry’s expensive wool suit in the washing machine with his paycheque in one of the pockets and Laura had to take it out and explain that it needed to be dry-cleaned. Another source of friction was that Catherine was headstrong. Laura thought Catherine might listen to her more, but Laura felt that she showed no signs of wanting to be directed or influenced. It didn’t help that the two rarely got a break from each other, and Laura’s bouts of fatigue made her irritable and snippy.

  The first inkling Catherine had of Laura’s frustrations came one day in March when she was cleaning the tub. Lucas came into the bathroom and rubbed his hands in the sink where she had sprayed disinfectant. Right away she washed him up to make sure he didn’t get any in his eyes or on his clothes. As soon as Laura came home Catherine told her what had happened.

  Laura huffed. “You know what, Catherine…”

  “I washed it off right away and he’s fine.”

  “If anything had happened to my son I would have killed you,” Laura said and marched off.

  Catherine froze. Laura’s words had never stung her before. Immediately after that exchange Catherine began to feel self-conscious about how she moved about in the house. And very quickly a silent tension was ever-present.

  Not long after the incident with Lucas, Laura stood in the kitchen with Catherine. “You need to pack your things,” she said. “You’re going back to St. Lucia at the end of the week.” She then tossed Catherine her passport, which she had been holding for safekeeping.

  Catherine felt blindsided. “What did I do?” she begged to know, but Laura wouldn’t explain. Five months into an opportunity she thought would allow her to do more with her life than sell souvenirs on a beach, it was all over. Right away Laura left the house, taking the boys with her.

  But Catherine didn’t want to leave Canada, and after a few minutes of feeling sorry for herself she picked up the phone and called the youth pastor at her church. Through a stream of tears she explained everything. The pastor offered Catherine a room in her house if she needed it. That night, Laura cooked dinner and they all sat around the table pretending everything was normal.

  The next morning Laura left with the boys again, so there was no work for Catherine to do. She ran over to the groundskeeper’s place. His name was Skippy, and Catherine knew she would find his live-in girlfriend, Liza, at home. Liza recognized the Baxters’ nanny right away, though the two had only said hello in passing a few times. Catherine sat down and through tears explained everything. Liza listened closely.

  “You have rights, you know,” the young woman said. “She can’t just bring you here and then ship you back.”

  “I didn’t know I was causing her any trouble,” Catherine sniffled.

  Liza grabbed her keys. “Come on. I’m taking you to the immigration office to talk to someone.”

  At the immigration office Liza did most of the talking. (With St. Lucian Creole being Catherine’s first language, she sometimes couldn’t find the English words quickly enough to express exactly what she meant, and that barrier often bothered her.) The agent explained to them that Catherine’s permit was not bound to the Baxters. It was valid for six months, and she had another month before it expired. If she could find another household to sponsor her and then renew her work permit before it ran out, she wouldn’t have to leave the country. This was better news than Catherine had expected to hear, and now that she had the information, she knew what she would do.

  Back at the house, she found Laura making a sandwich. “I just came from immigration,” she told her employer. “The officer said my permit doesn’t expire until the end of spring. If I can find someone to hire me, then I don’t have to go home.”

  “Oh? And how did you get there?”

  “I took the bus.” She had planned the lie to keep Liza and Skippy out of Laura’s crosshairs. “And I talked to the youth pastor at church and she said I can live with her until I find another job.”

  “Well, you’ve been a busy bee, haven’t you?” Laura said, not taking her eyes off Catherine.

  “I don’t want to go back home,” Catherine admitted.

  Laura seemed to be thinking. Catherine’s desire to stay wouldn’t have come as a surprise to her, but perhaps she admired the young woman’s pluck. “All right,” she said at last. “How about you stay here until you find another job. I can help you place an ad in the paper.”

  “You mean that?”

  Laura nodded.

  “That would mean the world to me, Mrs. Baxter. Thank you!”

  A few days later Laura helped Catherine place an ad in the Oshawa Times. “Nanny/Housekeeper Seeking Live-in Job,” it read. Within days a woman named Abigail Harry, who lived in Oshawa, a city just east of Whitby, answered the ad. Catherine took the job and started right away.

  * * *

  —

  Mrs. Harry was a proud woman in her seventies who seemed to have a chronic appetite for foreign women to do domestic work in the home she shared with her husband, a well-paid insurance broker.

  Catherine became the Harrys’ housekeeper, and the pay was $250 cash every thirty days, though Mrs. Harry would always pinch some off the top, citing “government taxes.” Dressed in her pink-aproned uniform (Catherine had refused to wear the pink cap that came with it), she worked six days a week, from eight until seven, her only respite being Sundays. Mrs. Harry’s expansive wooden floors had to be waxed every other week, and the only acceptable method was on hands and knees. Every few Saturdays her entire silverware collection had to be polished. Whenever Mrs. Harry needed Catherine, she rang a little silver bell. Catherine was also the cook, and Mrs. Harry made clear that the plates used at breakfast were not suitable for lunch, and the ones used at lunch were not appropriate for dinner.

  Catherine’s room was in the basement, under the kitchen. The air down there hung heavy and smelled earthy. Shelves were lined with jars of Mrs. Harry’s homemade jams and pickled vegetables. There was a kitchenette with a stove and refrigerator, but no sink. A sheet screened off the shower and toilet. Only the slightest rays of light got through the tiny window. Catherine’s only decoration was a few bottles of perfume that she displayed on the chest of drawers. If anyone opened the narrow closet they would see the small brown suitcase her mother Eda had bought for her journey. These were the only signs that might let you know a young woman lived there.

  Every morning, before Catherine had even started her shift, Mrs. Harry would stick notes to everything she thought needed to be cleaned that day. On the breadbox: “This smells stuffy. Air it out.” In the foyer attached to the bottom of one of her shoes: “Your soles are dirty. Clean them and then the floor.” Mr. Harry would use a marker to draw a line on his liquor bottles in case Catherine might decide to help herself. But she didn’t drink.

  Even after a year in Canada, Catherine did not have a tight network of friends. There were a few acquaintances, and people she’d meet at church bingo or the mall, but no close inner circle. If not for Mrs. Harry’s daughter, Louise, she may have spent that first Christmas with the Harrys alone. Louise insisted that Catherine join the family for Christmas dinner at her home in Whitby. She rode in the back of the Harrys’ baby blue Cadillac, fully aware that Mrs. Harry didn’t want her there.

  She had a Jheri curl and wore a sweater and black slacks. It was a treat to go out and not have to wear her pink housekeeper’s uniform. The family told stories and she showed off the most recent pictures of her children. As the chatter wound down, Mrs. Harry turned her eyes to Catherine. “Since you’re here, why don’t you go ahead and clear the table.”

  “Oh Mo
ther, Cath doesn’t have to do that,” Louise said.

  “Well she’s here. What’s the harm in giving her something to do?” Mrs. Harry shrugged. “We do pay her.”

  “It’s okay,” Catherine mouthed to Louise and started collecting dishes. Not even on a festive night was she allowed to forget her place.

  In the empty kitchen, she phoned Laura Baxter, who agreed to come and pick her up.

  Chapter Five

  It was February of 1980 and Catherine sat on an examination table in an Oshawa clinic. She had been working for Abigail and Eric Harry for nearly three years. Her period was late, and the doctor was too. But that didn’t matter, because she already knew she was pregnant.

  Two summers before, while the Harrys vacationed in Bermuda, Catherine had taken the train to Montreal to visit her childhood friend Paulette. Paulette worked as a live-in housekeeper for a Jewish couple who travelled a lot. The two young women from the same tiny island were living parallel lives in unfamiliar places. Her friend’s presence, though hours away, was a comfort to Catherine, and so she would hop on a train to see her from time to time. Paulette didn’t like visitors spending the night at her apartment—Catherine was never sure why—so she’d have them stay with one of her friends. That summer weekend in 1978, Catherine was staying with Paulette’s boyfriend, a Nigerian man named Victor.

  Victor invited a few friends over to his apartment. One of them was David. He wore a polyester shirt tucked into his bell-bottom jeans. He was lean with deep brown skin, full lips, and a big afro. He was Nigerian and said he was there for school. The men talked all night, a twisted jumble of words in their native language. When Victor set a reddish-brown stew on the floor for everyone to share, only the three men dug in. Catherine and Paulette watched in astonishment as the guys each broke off a piece of dough, scooped up some stew, and shoved it into their mouths. The two doubled over in giggles. Grown men eating like a pack of wild animals. And with bare hands to boot!

  Somehow, before the night ended, Catherine and David, who had been seated at opposite ends of the same couch, found themselves chatting in the kitchen. She learned that he was studying hotel management and had a son back home in Nigeria. Catherine told him about her job in Oshawa and her two children in the Caribbean that her parents were raising. She didn’t think David was particularly good looking, but he seemed nice and she enjoyed talking to him.

  He came back the next day to hang out with Victor and talk to Catherine. On Sunday, as she was getting ready to head to the train station, he slipped her his number and suggested that they keep in touch.

  Over the following months, Catherine called David sporadically; she was careful not to call too often, because Mrs. Harry always checked the phone bill and docked her pay the cost of any long-distance calls. It was far from a Harlequin romance, what was growing between them, but David gave her some attention, and their talks added a bit of spark to her otherwise long, lonely, and monotonous days.

  They had been speaking on and off for nearly a year and a half when David bought her a train ticket to visit him for Christmas of 1979. When he picked her up at the station they kissed, but it didn’t trigger the biggest spark in Catherine. His one-bedroom apartment somewhere along Avenue de Courtrai was nothing special. In fact, Catherine was struck by how bare it was. That first evening in David cooked them a traditional Nigerian stew. It smelled great, but after a few polite bites Catherine couldn’t eat more from the communal bowl. In an attempt to keep any dead air at bay, they sat on the sofa and traded stories. They talked about having to leave their families behind to try to make it in a foreign place. He taught her how to say goodbye in his language, Yoruba, and they looked through his photo albums. When he left the room for a moment, she impulsively grabbed two pictures of him out of his album and put them in her purse. If she had to go another long while without seeing him, she didn’t want to forget what he looked like.

  While he didn’t make her heart skip when they first met, the last eighteen months he had grown on her. Catherine thought her trip to Montreal to see him was the start of a budding relationship, and there was no hesitation on either of their parts when they found themselves naked in David’s bed later that night.

  The following morning, David and Catherine were awake and lying in bed when his phone rang. He didn’t pick it up, and after a few rings it stopped. Shortly afterwards the phone rang again, and this time it didn’t stop, but David still ignored it. Sometime later there was a knock at the door. Once again he didn’t budge, even though the knocking continued. David brushed it off, saying it was probably a pesky salesman.

  Catherine slipped into the bedroom where she could look out the window to the street below. When she peeked through the blinds she saw a young woman leaving, then turn back and look up at the building. A short time later David left without saying where he was going or when he’d be back. Catherine immediately called Paulette to come and pick her up. It was clear in her mind that David had a girlfriend.

  For the rest of the weekend, Catherine stayed at Victor’s place, but David didn’t show up or call. When she was about to return home she gave in and called him, angered that she had been lied to and discarded. If David cared about her calling him a liar and a cheater over the phone he didn’t show it, which only outraged her more. Incensed, she told him, “I’m pregnant, David, and when I have the baby, I’m going to drop it right at your front door!” She slammed down the phone. Catherine knew she couldn’t be pregnant, but it was the only thing she could think to say to slap the smugness out of his liar mouth.

  Now, in the clinic in Oshawa, it was confirmed. A baby wasn’t what she wanted; she already had two in St. Lucia. She was only in her first trimester, but she knew Mrs. Harry would fire her on the spot. Gone would be her work permit, the only reason she could stay in the country. There was no way she could raise a baby on $250 a month and continue to send money and clothes back home. As she processed the information she began to weep. She felt the doctor’s hand on her shoulder. “If this is too much for you, there are options,” he said. “You can choose to terminate your pregnancy.”

  Catherine had never heard about abortion. In school there had been a few lessons on where babies came from, but most parents didn’t give their children a detailed education on sex. When Catherine started her period at age fourteen, she got her first and only talk about the birds and bees from her mother. “Don’t go out with boys” was all that was said. As well, termination of a pregnancy was illegal on the island, which made it a taboo topic that was rarely discussed.

  Catherine fell in love with a boy at fifteen, and when she was pregnant with his child at sixteen, her parents didn’t bat an eye. All her mother asked was, “Who is the father?” When Catherine was able to answer without hesitation, that was good enough for Eda. When she became pregnant again at eighteen, there were no sighs of exasperation or groans of disappointment. Pregnancy, even among teen girls, was a simple fact of life where they lived.

  But here in Canada, the doctor needed an answer. “What would you like to do, Catherine?”

  She turned over her options in her head: Getting pregnant was an accident. Getting rid of it discreetly would allow her life abroad to unfold as she had planned. Her children were growing up nicely. Vonette had just turned seven and Lucas was five and a half. She could still bring them to Canada and build a life for them all.

  * * *

  —

  It was late afternoon. Mrs. Harry sat on her green sofa, her face fixed on the television, her customary glass of ginger ale at her side.

  “I have something to tell you, Mrs. Harry.”

  “What is it?” She kept staring at the screen.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Mrs. Harry looked like she had stuck a metal fork in a socket. Her hand covered her mouth. After a moment of stunned silence she finally spoke. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going back home
. My mom will send my plane ticket.”

  Colour seeped back into Mrs. Harry’s face. She pursed her lips before finally speaking. “You can get your work done with a baby, can’t you?” she asked with a tenderness Catherine had no idea she was capable of displaying.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have your room downstairs. I don’t see why you can’t still do your job,” Mrs. Harry said. “All they do is sleep all day.” She went back to her soap opera. Catherine blinked back her disbelief.

  Her employer’s offer was a life raft, and Catherine clung to it. Canada could still be her permanent home one day, and bringing her children over was still possible. Catherine couldn’t help wondering about her boss’s motive, though. Why was Mrs. Harry being so kind? They definitely liked her cooking. Once when she made some chicken in the basement, the sweet, spicy aroma drifted up the stairs, and Mrs. Harry came down to investigate. The instant the spoonful of the thick chicken gravy met her tongue it was as if she had discovered a lost world. “I didn’t know you could cook like this,” Mrs. Harry kept repeating. Catherine fixed her a plate, and the older lady insisted she cook like that for them regularly.

  They may have also kept her around for the familiarity. They were elderly and wealthy, and Catherine recognized she was a person they could trust. She didn’t party, bring strangers into their home, or give attitude. Not to mention hiring a foreign worker on a temporary work permit was a complex, months-long process, whereas renewing a work permit for someone already working in your home was a simple matter.

  Whatever the reasons, Catherine knew she needed the Harrys. Not many people would continue to employ a pregnant foreign worker or, most of all, let her live under their roof.