Lost Girls

expected, a complicated map of wrinkles and clouded eyes.

''Welcome to Bishop's. I'm Nurse Fergus. What can I do for you?'' she says in an accent even more abrupt than Mrs. Arthurs's, the tone flat and lean. A born and bred local.

''Satisfy curiosities,'' I say.

I tell her that I'm Thom Tripp's lawyer and that I'm researching the origins of a curious episode in the local history, namely the Lady in the Lake. I'd like to look over the medical records, see if she had a name and what happened to the two girls that were taken from her. When I finish, Nurse Fergus looks up at me with her two- dimensional face, pug nosed and frowning as a Pekingese.

''I wouldn't say 'curious' myself,'' she begins. ''I wouldn't say 'episode' neither. Now, I can't claim I remember her myself--I started here in fifty-four, and by that time she was gone. But even then you couldn't speak of the Lady without someone around here giving you a look.''

''Would there still be a medical record available on her?''

''Under what name? She never told anyone, which makes sticking her file into the alphabetical order a tricky business, as you can imagine.''

''But might there be an Unknown Persons section to the files where she may be?''

''Possibly. We could take a look and see. But I'm not so sure just anybody can come along and look at another person's file. And I told your friend Thom Tripp the very same thing.''

Nurse Fergus opens her eyes wide and shows a knowing playfulness in the blood-vesseled whites.

''Tripp came here to look at her file?''

''Told him that there's procedures for access to hospital records. Or you have to at least prove that you're a relative.''

''Why? Did he say why?''

''I didn't ask, to tell you the truth. But even if I had, I'm sure I wouldn't have gotten very far. Your friend is not the most talkative man to walk the earth.''

''He's not my friend.''

Nurse Fergus lowers her eyes, shrugs.

''Can I see the file, nevertheless?'' I ask, sensing she may wave me away if I don't press on.

''I've told you. There are procedures. Unless you're a relative?''

''I'm no relation. But I am a lawyer, and I can assure you that this is all entirely proper.''

''That so?''

''Absolutely.''

Nurse Fergus does something with her mouth that could either be an early symptom of Parkinson's or an effort at a girlish smile.

''First satisfy my curiosity,'' she says. ''What's this got to do with what you're up here for? Are you following your friend, or was he following someone else?''

''Neither. It's nothing,'' I say, and go for a smile myself. ''It's just an interest.''

''An interest.''

''They say everybody should have a hobby.''

''Well, you've picked a bloody strange one, I must say.''

And she's right, of course. I'm losing my grip on the trial of the season and all I can do is waste my time looking up a dead old girl with a bad reputation. Because I can't go back to the honeymoon suite to do something useful. Can't push the image of her face from my mind, the husk and song of her imagined voice. Because all I can do is let Nurse Fergus grip my wrist and take me down the main hall to the Records Room, where she pulls open a bottom drawer densely packed with worn files.

''More Unknowns here than you'd guess,'' she says. But it's only a few minutes before she sticks a thin, oil- stained folder under my nose with a croak of satisfaction. ''She'd be this one.''

An exposed water pipe gurgles uncomfortably above my head. Both of us wait for it to subside and in this time I notice how close we stand to each other, pushed together by filing cabinets, hanging bulbs, damp boxes stacked on the floor.

''Shall we have a look?'' Nurse Fergus takes a half step closer to my side, crosses her arms together under rolls of cardigan, turtleneck, and breast.

''A peek?''

''A peeky-boo.''

Only two pages. A standard admission form with ''Nameless'' printed in the space allotted for patient identification, and under TENTATIVE DIAGNOSIS the words Unable to mother. The second page is a two-paragraph handwritten report outlining her escape from hospital. Apparently she'd used the old knotted-together-sheets-to-make-a-rope routine, tied the one end to the bedpost and threw the other out the third-floor window, breaking through the glass with her bare arm. Then down she went into the snow, scrambling into the woods in nothing but her gown and slippers. At the end, the underlined sentence: ''Red Ward recommended for patient upon return.''

''Not much in the way of detail,'' Nurse Fergus comments as she reads with her chin on my forearm.

''What about her children? There's nothing in here about them, or where they ended up. And nothing about her hysterectomy.''

''How would you know about that?''

''Town gossip.''

''You must have been speaking to some of the old folks around here if you've heard that kind of gossip.''

''Nurse Fergus, I always seek the company of old folks wherever I go.''

I wonder for a second if this last bit would be taken as offense. But apparently not, for she only grins wider and sucks at her dentures in satisfaction.

''Back then, you didn't have to explain things as much,'' she says. ''Today, of course, you can hardly strap one of the rough ones into their bed without having to have a lawyer come round to sign some form or other. But when I first came here everything was run the way the doctors wanted it. Truth is, by the time you ended up in a place like this, chances were nobody else wanted much to do with you anyway. So they used to do hysterectomies without the patient's consent, and all sorts of other things --some far worse, really--without much paper to show for it. And as for taking a mother's children from her, well, you'd just get the justice of the peace up in the town to sign an order and you could ship them out to the main Toronto orphanage without another word. From there God knows where they'd end up.''

I return the file to the approximate place she pulled it from and rise, the silk violets on my necktie brushing across her knuckles as I go.

''Thank you for your help. I didn't imagine I'd find very much--''

She takes me by the elbow with a bony firmness.

''Are your curiosities satisfied now?''

Pull my arm away. A girlish giggle at my back as I half run down the hall.

When I get back to town there's still time to visit Tripp before they shut the cellblock down, but I call instead. Then I'm left on hold long enough that sleep, curling and warm, begins to settle around me where I sit. But before it has its way with me I hear the receiver being lifted at the other end and the wet, halting sucks of my client's breath. There is no greeting, and for a time I imagine him at a bare table in one of the fluorescent rooms of the Murdoch Prison for Men, the phone held to his ear from almost forgotten habit. It's clear that if nobody else spoke--neither me nor the guard standing behind him nor whoever whispered to him privately in his head--he would stay this way forever.

''Thom? You there?''

''Who's this?''

''It's Barth, Thom. How're things?''

''Do they let me have visitors?''

''Who would you like to have visit?''

''Tuesday's the day. Visitors come on Tuesdays. To see the others.''

''You're allowed visitors too. Who would you like--''