Orphan Train: Albans, Minnesota, 1929–Spruce Harbor, Maine, 2011

The mayor is standing on the open-air platform, and as soon as we disembark we are herded in a ragtag line to a Grange Hall a block from the station.

I fully believe that I will end up on the train again, to be unloaded at the next town, paraded with the remaining children, and shuttled back on the train.

Those of us who aren’t chosen will likely return to New York to grow up in an orphanage. And maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. At least I know what to expect—hard mattresses, rough sheets, strict matrons.

We do not have any children and have no interest in being surrogate parents. But if you are respectful and hard working, you will be treated fairly.

“One of your tasks will be to sweep the front porch, steps, and walkway every day until the snow comes. Rain or shine,” Mrs. Byrne says as I follow her to the front door.

The next few hours are spent doing tasks no one else wants to do—snipping stitches, basting, sweeping up, collecting pins and putting them in pincushions.

In the dark hall, I contemplate my options. I could run away, but where would I go?

Vivian presses the book into Molly’s hand. “No doubt you’ll find this old-fashioned and sentimental, but I want you to have it.”

For a while they work in near silence, Molly holding up an item—a sky-blue cardigan with stained and yellowed flowers, a brown dress with several missing buttons, a periwinkle scarf and one matching mitten—and Vivian sighing, “I suppose there’s no reason to keep that,” then inevitably adding, “Let’s put it in the ‘maybe’ pile.”

She’s not used to people asking such blunt questions—asking any questions at all, really. The only other person who speaks this bluntly to her is Lori the social worker, and she already knows the details of her story.

“Turtles carry their homes on their backs.” Running her finger over the tattoo, she tells him what her dad told her: “They’re exposed and hidden at the same time. They’re a symbol of strength and perseverance.”

Jack would laugh if he knew, but she’s been in the system long enough to understand that it all comes down to documentation. Get your papers in order, with the right signatures and record keeping, and the charges will be dropped, money released, whatever. If you’re disorganized, you risk losing everything.

But she can’t resist saying, “And I hope I’m proving worthy of that trust.”

She hasn’t bothered to crack it yet, mainly because it seems like homework for a job that’s already punishment, but also because she’s rereading Jane Eyre for English class (ironically, the teacher, Mrs. Tate, handed out school-issued copies the week after Molly tried to pilfer it) and that book is huge.

“Jane’s kind of an outlaw. She’s passionate and determined and says exactly what she thinks.”

“You are no longer a ward of the Children’s Aid Society, are you? We are the ones to determine what’s best for you now.”

“We’ll see how you progress over the next few weeks, but for now we think it best for you to take some time to adjust to your new home.”

But in a way I’m glad to have a new identity. It makes it easier to let go of so much else. I’m not the same Niamh who left her gram and aunties and uncles in Kinvara and came across the ocean on the Agnes Pauline, who lived with her family on Elizabeth Street. No, I am Dorothy now.

“I am tempted to attribute this behavior to your Irish blood. Yes, it is true that Mr. Byrne is Irish—indeed, that’s why we gave you a chance at all—but I would also point out that Mr. Byrne did not, as he might have, marry an Irish girl, for good reason.”

“The hands clasped together symbolize friendship. The heart is love. And the crown stands for loyalty,” I explain.

Like an abandoned foal that nestles against cows in the barnyard, maybe I just need to feel the warmth of belonging.

And if I’m not going to find that with the Byrnes, I will find it, however partial and illusory, with the women in the sewing room.

I’m a local agent of the Children’s Aid Society, and as such I oversee the placement of homeless train riders. Oftentimes the placements work out as they should, and everyone is content. But now and then, unfortunately”—he takes his glasses off and slips them back into his breast pocket—“things don’t work out.”

“And we need to procure new accommodations.”

It is a pitiful kind of childhood, to know that no one loves you or is taking care of you, to always be on the outside looking in.

I know too much; I have seen people at their worst, at their most desperate and selfish, and this knowledge makes me wary.

“You feed and clothe Dorothy and make sure she gets to school, and she will earn her keep by doing chores around the house.”

He says he saw a flyer in town—homeless children for distribution.

I am so relieved to be getting out of this dark, fetid cabin for the day that I swing Harold around, joke with Gerald Jr., share my rice pudding with Mabel, who has only just started looking me in the eye.

The food this family subsists on is like nothing I’ve ever eaten before.

Out in back is a homely garden that, even now, in mid-April, has root vegetables waiting to be dug—blighted potatoes and yams and tough skinned carrots and turnips.

And I hope I don’t need to remind you that you’re on probation. If you’re caught drinking or doing drugs or otherwise breaking the law, we’re back to square one.

In the old days the Wabanakis had to carry their canoes and everything else they possessed across land from one water body to the next, so they had to think carefully about what to keep and what to discard. They learned to travel light.

Mr. Reed tells students they have to interview someone—a mother or father or grandparent—about their own portages, the moments in their lives when they’ve had to take a journey, literal or metaphorical.

The questions on the assignment sheet are: What did you choose to bring with you to the next place? What did you leave behind? What insights did you gain about what’s important?

She remembers foraging for food—cold hot dogs and toast—when her mother wasn’t home, and sometimes when she was.

Learning that they attempted to negotiate with the settlers, wearing European-style suits and addressing Congress in the assumption of good faith—and were repeatedly lied to and betrayed—enrages her.

I think the boat represents what you take with you—the essential things—from place to place. And the water—well, I think it’s the place you’re always trying to get to.

“My dad gave me these charms, and each one represents something different. The raven protects against black magic. The bear inspires courage. The fish signifies a refusal to recognize other people’s magic.”

“I think of these qualities as metaphorical, you know? So black magic is whatever leads people to the dark side—their own greed or insecurity that makes them do destructive things. And the warrior spirit of the bear protects us not only from others who might hurt us but our own internal demons. And I think other people’s magic is what we’re vulnerable to—how we’re led astray. So . . . my first question for you is kind of a weird one. I guess you could think of it as metaphorical, too.”