known was that she and my mother had worked the same maternity floor for nearly six years.
Evelyn slid the brown envelope toward me.
Inside were photographs.
The first showed two young nurses standing outside a hospital.
One was unmistakably my mother.
Helen.
Young.
Laughing.
Beside her stood Margaret Whitaker.
My hands shook.
“That’s impossible.”
“It isn’t.”
“Why didn’t she ever tell me?”
“Because there was more.”
I looked up.
Evelyn’s eyes were wet.
“In 1988, there was a fire in the old maternity wing.”
I knew about the fire.
Everyone who grew up in town did.
Three infants died.
Several nurses were injured.
One lawsuit had nearly closed St.
Anne’s.
My mother had never talked about it.
Evelyn continued.
“Your mother was there.”
I swallowed.
“So was mine.”
She pulled another document from the envelope.
An old newspaper clipping.
The headline read:
NURSES RESCUE INFANTS FROM ST.
ANNE’S FIRE
