My name is Emma Landry. I was a nurse at the residential school, near London, Ontario, and I have watched many native children lay cold and bedridden, starving and lifeless from whatever illness was taking them. I saw things that left me so scarred that I hoped and prayed daily I could quit that horrid place. Little did I know on that last day what fate would deal me. May the Lord have mercy on me.

I recall that day, washed over with a palette of greys and muted colours, as I see myself there standing and watching in the early morning. Heads of dark hair run past me in groups of four, then six, and then ten. Each girl and boy wear uniforms and the same ankle laced boots, as they line up in pairs and prepare for the school day ahead. The staff, though tired looking, walks around them in a circle, taking attendance, and I carefully scrutinize the line for anyone missing. There have been plenty of runaways – children who had enough of our teachings and had escaped into the wild they call home. I often worry for their safety, especially when desperation calls the higher-ups to find them.

But today, out of the corner of my eye I finally spot her, the little girl I’ve come to know as Carmen. She is one of our clever children, who can sew faster than most of her peers and knows how to speak English articulately, given it is her second language.

I have taken quite a liking to her, and even see her as one of my potential students. Though my coworkers disagree with my assessment, I know Carmen is special. She is quick at most things and independent to boot. Recently though, she’s fallen ill with a cough, an illness we are trying without success to diagnose. When she isn’t praying, she’s coughing perniciously, and three times this week she’s been sent to see me, hopeless to find answers as to what her source of suffering is.

I am quickly brought back from my musings when one of the school teachers, Mrs. Brown, approaches me, wearing her favourite blouse like a ball gown, and peering at me behind her reading glasses.

“We lost another one last night,” she tuts. “That troublemaker, John. Well, I assume the Lord has better things for him now, considering how peacefully he went. Can’t imagine the life of being a boy caught between two worlds in this day and age. Don’t you agree?” she whispers.

I hold my own tongue, against a fierce need not to. A feeling of overwhelming guilt gnaws at me as I see Carmen in the distance being led into the farmhouse just outside the school. I wonder silently if her condition will worsen or whether she will heal on her own. I worry that soon she will meet John across the barrier, because of my hopeless limitations. I find my mind drifting into Carmen’s states of suffering.

I finally look back at Mrs. Brown and clasp my hands together and press my lips into restraint. “Be of good faith, Mrs. Brown. God rest his soul,” I whisper back, shaking a finger at her.

She frowns, then waddles away to meet the rest of the staff in the chapel that morning.

I remind myself this is my last day as the resident nurse, and that I should ignore the small, petty things that affect me so. When I begin my shift, as I do everyday, I am plagued with guilt at not being able to help those truly in need; I am gripped daily by fear for the children, for Carmen. As I treat mostly scraped knees and paper cuts, I try to bury the suffering of those from untreated illnesses.

Flashing memories of children reaching their end, the antiseptic smells of my office, my unclean hands keep me locked in guilt. No matter how much I want to look at this from a different perspective, I know I cannot keep lying to myself about the depth of guilt I feel. It makes my stomach churn at witnessing yet another child’s eyes fade into death.

The floorboards creak with each step I take in my office, desperate to find the one thing that eases me. My hands, worn with age, search frantically through the sea of drawers in front of me. My breathing, now ragged with anxiety, makes my heart race as I finally find the Rosary I hid in the bottom of my desk.

As I stand at the window holding it, I whisper a prayer with each bead and watch the children work outside. Each child is designated a part of farm work, and I can make out the faint noises of them chattering amongst themselves as the cicadae buzz through the sunny weather.

“Miss Landry?” a soft voice asks.

I quickly turn toward Carmen, forgetting the prayers I just started. Her skin is pale; she looks dazed, poor thing.

“What seems to be the matter, Carmen?” I ask urgently.

She shakes her head feebly. “I do not feel well; my chest hurts and I can’t…I can’t…”

She barely finishes her sentence when I watch in horror as her brown eyes roll backwards into her skull, and her body, like a ragdoll, falls to the ground with a sickening thud. In seconds I am at her side; I gasp in horror. The Rosary falls beside her.

”Help! Help me!” I shriek moving the poor girl onto her back and feeling for a pulse. I am desperate. My heart pounds in my ears, as I keep pressing her wrist for a heartbeat – yet there is none. In shock, I cannot call out again. I sob and choke back tears filling my eyes. I shake her limp body endlessly in hopes the nightmare will end. She doesn’t move, and I freeze at the sound of strange footsteps approaching.

”You cannot save her,” a voice looms above me, and I look up from where I sit. Standing there is John, the boy who died the night before. He is dressed in adornments of feathers, beads and symbols. Pride and grace shine in his dark eyes.

His light surrounds me. His voice speaks painful truths. ”You and your people took us far away from our homes, from our families. You stripped us of our native language, made us sick, and forced the word of God on to our tongues.”

I cradle Carmen’s small body closer to my chest, as John encircles me. I am sorrowful, unable to comprehend the world around me as I sob into her dark hair.

John’s voice rings like a mantra, over and over. I cry, each sob a guilty confession of my part. My hands, though, clean to the world, are not free of sin. ”Forgive me,” I manage to choke out.

John’s feet are firmly planted in front of me, as his sorrowful condemnation consumes me and transports me to the wilderness. We are there under a canopy of pine trees, and the sun beats down on me and Carmen’s lifeless body. It’s warm, and the sound of cheerful laughter fills the air. John, points towards the east, and I turn to find something beautiful before me.

There stands a younger Carmen, alive and free. She is holding the hands of an elder, her long gray braids and shining brown eyes welcoming the young girl with open arms. They dance back and forth. The elderly woman’s skin is worn with age as she sings a song in their true language.

I look questioningly at John.

”Carmen is Memengwaa. She is happy and free.”

She sings, repeating the woman’s words like a songbird as they dance round and round. My lips quiver with remorse. “John, I am so sorry,” I whisper.

John shakes his head and moves on to his knees in front of me. Time spins, and suddenly I find myself once more in my office. He holds his arms out to Carmen’s cold body. I feel hesitant to let him take her, but I let her go, and watch as John, holding her close, cradles her away from me.

In silence he utters words in his own language. The room grows bright. I am blinded, and the warmth of a thousand suns radiates over my body, as I watch John and Carmen disappear this last time.

I am alone with Carmen’s lifeless eyes staring back at me. What have we done?