THE HOME FOR WAYWARD GIRLS

MARCIA BRADLEY, MA, is a graduate of Sarah Lawrence College. An adjunct professor, she also teaches economically challenged teens and is proud that one of her Yonkers students is now a freshman at Sarah Lawrence. A former editor of Antioch’s Two Hawks magazine, Marcia has been awarded residencies at Ragdale, Community of Writers, and Writers in Paradise. She lives in New York City.

“The Home for Wayward Girls is a haunting depiction of what we now know as the Troubled Teen Industry, a world of isolation and extremism. Marcia Bradley shows us how powerful a single voice of encouragement and understanding can be—and how, by following compassion as if it were stones across a river, we can arrive at our truest and most liberated selves. This novel is a reminder that the slightest degree of hope and courage can be the ticket to anywhere.” — Barbara Hall, Creator & Executive Producer of Madam Secretary and Judging Amy

“The Home for Wayward Girls is a searing and triumphant novel. In a story of riveting suspense, it chronicles the twisting struggles of a resourceful and remarkable daughter and the long powers of abuse. Insightful and wonderful to read, this is a book that will make its mark.” — Joan Silber, author of Secrets of Happiness and Improvement

“The Home for Wayward Girls charts one woman’s transformative journey from ‘preordained’ suffering to emotional and spiritual freedom. Bradley evokes the tradition of women—from Amy Lowell to Amelia Earhart to Rosa Parks—who’ve overcome life’s obstacles to honor their ‘special spirit,’ their ‘inner strength’—and situates them within Loretta’s own tale of audacity and courage. This ardent novel is a loving tribute to the power that lies within women—I read it feeling great hope in my heart.” — Carolyn Ferrell, author of Dear Miss Metropolitan

1. Loretta has a connection to nature and wildlife at the ranch. What do you think the falcon, the logo for adult Loretta’s foundation, represents?

2. The author says only that the ranch is located “west of the Rockies.” Why do you think there is not an exact location? How does the setting permit William’s harsh treatment of the residents?

3. Loretta describes watching her physical bruises fade and describes her scars as a road map documenting William’s abuse. But the memory of William’s verbal and emotional insults is everlasting. Will it be possible to recover and overcome her childhood trauma?

4. Adult Loretta suffers from near-debilitating anxiety. Will she ever feel safe?

5. Loretta’s therapist pushes adult Loretta to unearth a “happy” memory from her childhood. Loretta insists there weren’t any. Is it possible for there to be happy memories among the terrible ones?

6. Consider William’s punishment: “Silent Cloud.” Why is this social isolation so feared among the residents? Does social isolation inflict more anguish than physical beatings?

7. Consider Mama: Does she bear the same culpability as her husband, William, or is Mama another victim?

8. Do you think Mama loves her daughter Loretta?

9. Do you believe working with runaways and abused women is a good fit for adult Loretta, given her personal history?

10. Consider Clarke, adult Loretta’s husband: Is a healthy marriage realistic or possible for someone like Loretta, given her traumatic past?

11. Loretta doesn’t wear a ring. She states, “I don’t like identification of any sort. . . .” What is the significance of her statement?

12. Do you agree with adult Loretta’s decision to burn the ranch? Is it possible to “erase” the past?

13. Discuss Loretta’s teacher, Mrs. Del. What role did she play in changing the course of Loretta’s life? Did a teacher impact your life?

14. Does the title The Home for Wayward Girls suit the novel? What would you name the book?

One

New York City

Loretta was an independent woman. She was cautious about shadows yet her hunger for the future was distinct, subtle as fine jewelry, strong as her prairie roots. The silk scarf around her neck was not meant to hide her scars, although she covered the wounds she’d carried to New York. She wasn’t sure why. Even her hair was a mixed message, streaks of auburn, brown, and gold.

“Hey, Siri, play my sunrise songs.” She paused to listen, to mark time, to affirm what came before and what was to come next. A singer’s husky voice, slight as a feather, floated toward the walnut floors of their Manhattan apartment. If it was a different morning, Loretta might have canceled her appointments and lingered over coffee with last Sunday’s Times, headed to Trader Joe’s, and made a stop at her favorite thrift store to scout for unexpected treasures. Had hers been a different life, perhaps this would not be the long-awaited Tuesday, a day of critical importance.

Loretta stood by the window. She watched the hustle of the city eight stories below; the sounds of horns rose to greet her, an ambulance sped down Broadway. Her heartbeat raced, even her freckles trembled. The feelings of anxiety were too familiar. She wanted to hold herself in check, to keep her secrets bound to her soul, to tell the world off but also hug it close. Born on the cusp between Gen X and Millennials, she was now, at age thirty-five, tempted by the opportunities the twenty-first century presented. She felt close to unstoppable, she’d worked hard to prepare, knew to breathe, to find her center. It was a coerced strength, an internal muscle she’d trained. No giving in to fears today.

“You ready?” Clarke called from the kitchen.

“Almost,” she said. It was unlikely Clarke could hear her, but she was sure he was counting down the minutes as she was.

“Nervous?”

“Nope,” she said, although he’d know better. “Maybe I am. About talking to the reporter.”

“You don’t have to, you know.” Clarke appeared in the bedroom doorway; his lucky tie hung from his shoulders not yet knotted. “Don’t let it mess with your head.”

“No. I do have to. I’m committed. I must. It’s gonna help others.”

“I knew that’s what you’d say.” He stopped long enough to catch her eye and offer his pep talk smile. “Come on. Coffee’s ready.”

“Be right there.”

Her friends asked how she stayed so calm. They didn’t know the skills she’d learned when she was a child, that hiding nervousness can give one a sort of strength, and that years of always keeping a safe arm’s-length distance wasn’t necessarily good for your spirit.

“Do you meditate? Are you never anxious?” some asked.

“I try not to let things get to me,” she winked and told those closest to her, the people she trusted with her sticky incontrovertible past where she’d both cowered and prevailed, led and fled. Her thoughts debated what she owed the decades that had fostered the person she’d become, those days and months when she would do anything, right or wrong, to get by. Is victory deserved if the journey included errors in judgment and turns that might have been avoided? These questions were the squatters that claimed space inside her head.

“How is it that you are nothing like your parents?” Clarke had asked when she finally broke her silence and told him about her childhood and her life before New York. “It doesn’t seem possible. You’re not similar, not even close to how they sound.”

“But I am,” she told him. “I grew up with William and Mama, worked on their ranch, cleaned the chicken coop, raised their rabbits. We had rabbit stew many times. Take a moment and think about that.” Loretta frowned as she remembered skinning and gutting the rabbits. “I’ve shot a gun—more than once. I stole things.”

“You also read books. You were a great student. You were good to the other girls.”

“Ha! You believe the best picture of me. But really?”

“Really, what?”

“I wasn’t always good. I was jealous of them. Especially when I was a kid. Like eleven or twelve. Those girls came to the ranch from nicer homes in bigger cities. And they got to leave. I didn’t. Then I realized who the real enemy was. That’s when I started to change. I really did—I’d do anything I could for the girls after that, and I began to hate William and Mama. I still do. Especially William.”

“With good reason.”

“Hmm. Sure. Yet although I don’t go to church, I know hatred is a sin.” Loretta scrunched her lips tight, her mind off to its private thoughts.

Loretta slipped her arms into the brown corduroy blazer she’d worn to important meetings since grad school. Embers of jasmine and citrus perfume resided in the seams. A speck of dust beckoned from her western boots, leather dark as ripened avocados. She brushed it away with fingers manicured burgundy, straightened her worn extralong 501s, and urged waves of auburn hair behind her shoulders.

“Choose life.” She whispered one of the few biblical quotes she clung to and grabbed the ancient satchel she’d rescued from a store on Seventy-Second Street.

It was almost time to go.