Likewise, while our shabbier weekday wear was being washed, we were lent pastel ribbons for our hair and pressed white dresses that mostly fit. In the playroom, prospective parents observed our “natural” interactions as Mrs. Atwood presented us with a flourish, unimpeded by her crooked bottom teeth and powdered mustache. She had the towering height of Big Vera and smelled of mothballs. Proudly she would cite our housekeeping lessons in sewing, cooking, and laundering. It was clear some visitors came chiefly for such perks, others for free built-in nannies.

Even in my haze, I was aware enough to dodge attention from those seeking the latter. The thought was unfathomable, my being responsible for the lives of tots, much less of infants, who were fragile as fine china and prone to wails of desperation that never failed to prod my angst.

Mrs. Atwood would then segue into the tragedies that had landed us here. Riveted couples would listen and nod, though most managed to avoid our eyes. Of the women who dared look, many would touch a gloved hand to their chests, gripped by sympathy. But inevitable nudging by sensible husbands—Darling, we came to see the babies, remember?—would lure the wives to the nursery on the third floor, never to return.

As I lay awake at night, packed in a small room of ten occupied cots, my mind replayed scenes of the like. Not out of disappointment or yearning. I was merely blockading my memories from just two months ago, when by this hour I’d have been snuggled in my quilt…on my own bed…in my own home—

Stop it, you ninny. Just stop!

I pinched my upper arm hard, the inside fleshy part, summoning a pain I could handle. The spot was already tender and bruised, as I often did this to keep from dozing off. Limiting sleep was key.

Although my nightmares remained under relative control, the dreams I’d come to dread most were the good ones: reminders of the normalcy I’d lost, of the life and family I would never have. Because waking from those visions meant reliving once more my newfound devastation.

By this reasoning, I didn’t dare peek at the sole photograph I owned. Though stored in my travel bag under my cot, the image haunted me regardless. I could see Papa seated dapperly in a suit and hat, beard neatly trimmed, and me standing beside him, prim as a peacock in my one fancy dress. No smiles of course, as this was a proper studio sitting, a magnificent trade for Papa’s handiwork. The palm-size portrait with scalloped border was altogether stately, the lighting so crisp you’d think you could step right in—now a torturous suggestion I didn’t need.