unwed mothers. I guess there was nothing peculiar about it as a building. It was beautiful because it was impressive; spires and latticework, jutting balconies, arched windows. It was just so completely out of place. Kentucky had been all mountains and fields of tobacco so far. I couldn't imagine who would have built a place like this here. Who would have looked all over and come to the top of this hill in Kentucky, driven down the first stake and said, here's the place we're putting it.
But I got my answer soon enough. I pulled the car up near the front steps and got out to read a brass historical marker. That's where I first heard the history of Saint Elizabeth's, the Hotel Louisa and the spring. It told the story of how the Clatterbucks and the Nelsons came together, about a child named June falling ill and the wealthy horse breeder who built a hotel for a spring that eventually dried up. The letters were tiny and they managed to pack a lot of information on the sign. When I finished, I looked up to the massive front double doors and felt a sinking feeling all the way down to my feet. There was no more time, no more traveling. I had arrived. I read the sign again and then again. I thought about getting back into my car.
I must have made a sorry picture standing there, taking such an incredible interest in the hotel's history. The suitcase beside me was so small it looked like something a child would take to spend the night with a friend. I rubbed my ankle up against it.
"It's an interesting history," a woman said. I turned and found a nun beside me, one who was obviously skilled in moving quietly from place to place. She wasn't much more than five feet tall and was completely covered in white cloth, head to foot. She was clearly of a different breed than the nuns I was used to seeing in California. "You've come to stay with us?" she said, keeping her eyes on the sign, possibly so as not to frighten me off.
I told her I was.
"We always know the girls who are coming to stay," she said. "Of course, sometimes you can just tell, but even when you can't, they're the ones who read the sign. We used to wait for them to come inside themselves, but they could read this sign for hours. Once a girl stood here halfway through the night, then she just went away and we never saw her again." She reached down and picked up my bag. "Didn't bring much, did you? Well, that doesn't matter. Clothes are the one thing we have plenty of." She asked me my name.
"Rose," I said, "Martha Rose Clinton."
"I'm Sister Bernadette," she said, and then she stopped and looked at me. She tilted back her head, so that the light fell under her visor. She was possibly thirty herself, with small, bright eyes. She reached up and pushed some hair that had fallen into my face back in place behind my ear. "Mother Corinne hates to see girls with hair in their eyes. And you have such a pretty face, Rose." She touched my cheek for a moment and smiled at me. "You'll be glad," she said.
I wondered what I would be glad about, having the baby, giving the baby away, coming here at all. None of them seemed like particularly joyful things. I followed her up the stairs and into the main lobby, keeping my eyes on the long black rosary that swung in and out from the folds of her skirt. Then I looked up and saw a sea of pregnant girls.
If you see a pregnant girl on the street, maybe you notice. There could be some brief registration in your mind about her or her child, and then it goes. But this room was full of girls, sitting on sofas, reading magazines, talking quietly among themselves, and each was more pregnant than the last. One girl's size served only to exaggerate another's. Their bellies were so uniformly large they overwhelmed the room, so that it wasn't the girls you saw at all, only a gathering of distended abdomens, overinflated balloons from which small wisps of girls were attached. I felt that surely I had come to the wrong place, that whatever these girls had
But I got my answer soon enough. I pulled the car up near the front steps and got out to read a brass historical marker. That's where I first heard the history of Saint Elizabeth's, the Hotel Louisa and the spring. It told the story of how the Clatterbucks and the Nelsons came together, about a child named June falling ill and the wealthy horse breeder who built a hotel for a spring that eventually dried up. The letters were tiny and they managed to pack a lot of information on the sign. When I finished, I looked up to the massive front double doors and felt a sinking feeling all the way down to my feet. There was no more time, no more traveling. I had arrived. I read the sign again and then again. I thought about getting back into my car.
I must have made a sorry picture standing there, taking such an incredible interest in the hotel's history. The suitcase beside me was so small it looked like something a child would take to spend the night with a friend. I rubbed my ankle up against it.
"It's an interesting history," a woman said. I turned and found a nun beside me, one who was obviously skilled in moving quietly from place to place. She wasn't much more than five feet tall and was completely covered in white cloth, head to foot. She was clearly of a different breed than the nuns I was used to seeing in California. "You've come to stay with us?" she said, keeping her eyes on the sign, possibly so as not to frighten me off.
I told her I was.
"We always know the girls who are coming to stay," she said. "Of course, sometimes you can just tell, but even when you can't, they're the ones who read the sign. We used to wait for them to come inside themselves, but they could read this sign for hours. Once a girl stood here halfway through the night, then she just went away and we never saw her again." She reached down and picked up my bag. "Didn't bring much, did you? Well, that doesn't matter. Clothes are the one thing we have plenty of." She asked me my name.
"Rose," I said, "Martha Rose Clinton."
"I'm Sister Bernadette," she said, and then she stopped and looked at me. She tilted back her head, so that the light fell under her visor. She was possibly thirty herself, with small, bright eyes. She reached up and pushed some hair that had fallen into my face back in place behind my ear. "Mother Corinne hates to see girls with hair in their eyes. And you have such a pretty face, Rose." She touched my cheek for a moment and smiled at me. "You'll be glad," she said.
I wondered what I would be glad about, having the baby, giving the baby away, coming here at all. None of them seemed like particularly joyful things. I followed her up the stairs and into the main lobby, keeping my eyes on the long black rosary that swung in and out from the folds of her skirt. Then I looked up and saw a sea of pregnant girls.
If you see a pregnant girl on the street, maybe you notice. There could be some brief registration in your mind about her or her child, and then it goes. But this room was full of girls, sitting on sofas, reading magazines, talking quietly among themselves, and each was more pregnant than the last. One girl's size served only to exaggerate another's. Their bellies were so uniformly large they overwhelmed the room, so that it wasn't the girls you saw at all, only a gathering of distended abdomens, overinflated balloons from which small wisps of girls were attached. I felt that surely I had come to the wrong place, that whatever these girls had
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