Genre Fiction
![Ann Leary - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B0034P3YK6.jpg)
The Foundling: A Novel
From the New York Times bestselling author of The Good House, the "harrowing, gripping, and beautiful" (Laura Dave, New York Times bestselling author) story of two friends, raised in the same orphanage, whose loyalty is put to the ultimate test when they meet years later at an institution-based on a shocking and little-known piece of American history.
It's 1927 and eighteen-year-old Mary Engle is hired to work as a secretary at a remote but scenic institution for mentally disabled women called the Nettleton State Village for Feebleminded Women of Childbearing Age. She's immediately in awe of her employer-brilliant, genteel Dr. Agnes Vogel.
Dr. Vogel had been the only woman in her class in medical school. As a young psychiatrist she was an outspoken crusader for women's suffrage. Now, at age forty, Dr. Vogel runs one of the largest and most self-sufficient public asylums for women in the country. Mary deeply admires how dedicated the doctor is to the poor and vulnerable women under her care.
Soon after she's hired, Mary learns that a girl from her childhood orphanage is one of the inmates. Mary remembers Lillian as a beautiful free spirit with a sometimes-tempestuous side. Could she be mentally disabled? When Lillian begs Mary to help her escape, alleging the asylum is not what it seems, Mary is faced with a terrible choice. Should she trust her troubled friend with whom she shares a dark childhood secret? Mary's decision triggers a hair-raising sequence of events with life-altering consequences for all.
Inspired by a true story about the author's grandmother, The Foundling is compelling, unsettling, and "a stunning reminder that not much time has passed since everyone claimed to know what was best for a woman-everyone except the woman herself" (Jodi Picoult, New York Times bestselling author).
It's 1927 and eighteen-year-old Mary Engle is hired to work as a secretary at a remote but scenic institution for mentally disabled women called the Nettleton State Village for Feebleminded Women of Childbearing Age. She's immediately in awe of her employer-brilliant, genteel Dr. Agnes Vogel.
Dr. Vogel had been the only woman in her class in medical school. As a young psychiatrist she was an outspoken crusader for women's suffrage. Now, at age forty, Dr. Vogel runs one of the largest and most self-sufficient public asylums for women in the country. Mary deeply admires how dedicated the doctor is to the poor and vulnerable women under her care.
Soon after she's hired, Mary learns that a girl from her childhood orphanage is one of the inmates. Mary remembers Lillian as a beautiful free spirit with a sometimes-tempestuous side. Could she be mentally disabled? When Lillian begs Mary to help her escape, alleging the asylum is not what it seems, Mary is faced with a terrible choice. Should she trust her troubled friend with whom she shares a dark childhood secret? Mary's decision triggers a hair-raising sequence of events with life-altering consequences for all.
Inspired by a true story about the author's grandmother, The Foundling is compelling, unsettling, and "a stunning reminder that not much time has passed since everyone claimed to know what was best for a woman-everyone except the woman herself" (Jodi Picoult, New York Times bestselling author).
Editorial Reviews
"Leary's latest is a stunning tale of corruption, compassion, and hope, and includes one of the best endings I've read in ages. She's reached back in history and uncovered a shockingly true story, one that resonates strongly today. Full of jaw-dropping twists and intriguing characters – you won't be able to put it down."
- Fiona Davis, New York Times bestselling author of The Magnolia Palace
"Ann Leary's THE FOUNDLING is a compelling, shocking record of a too-hidden piece of history - when eugenics was commonly applauded as progressive social science…. A stunning reminder that not much time has passed since everyone claimed to know what was best for a woman - everyone except the woman herself."
-Jodi Picoult, New York Times bestselling author of Wish You Were Here
"Gripping and consistently surprising, Ann Leary's The Foundling is a first-rate historical novel, so well-researched and so well-told that the reader is transported back in time to a Pennsylvania asylum for wayward women that should never have existed. Excellent."
-Mark Sullivan, author of Beneath a Scarlet Sky
"Ann Leary is a remarkable storyteller, and The Foundling is harrowing, gripping, and beautiful. You'll be thinking about these characters long after you turn the last page."
- Laura Dave, New York Times Bestselling author of The Last Thing He Told Me
"A fascinating, unsettling, page-turning story inspired by the little-known and horrifying practice of eugenics in 1920's America."
-Lisa Genova, New York Times Bestselling author of Still Alice and Remember
"The Foundling is a gripping account of the ways big, structural decisions can change the intimate lives of or...
- Fiona Davis, New York Times bestselling author of The Magnolia Palace
"Ann Leary's THE FOUNDLING is a compelling, shocking record of a too-hidden piece of history - when eugenics was commonly applauded as progressive social science…. A stunning reminder that not much time has passed since everyone claimed to know what was best for a woman - everyone except the woman herself."
-Jodi Picoult, New York Times bestselling author of Wish You Were Here
"Gripping and consistently surprising, Ann Leary's The Foundling is a first-rate historical novel, so well-researched and so well-told that the reader is transported back in time to a Pennsylvania asylum for wayward women that should never have existed. Excellent."
-Mark Sullivan, author of Beneath a Scarlet Sky
"Ann Leary is a remarkable storyteller, and The Foundling is harrowing, gripping, and beautiful. You'll be thinking about these characters long after you turn the last page."
- Laura Dave, New York Times Bestselling author of The Last Thing He Told Me
"A fascinating, unsettling, page-turning story inspired by the little-known and horrifying practice of eugenics in 1920's America."
-Lisa Genova, New York Times Bestselling author of Still Alice and Remember
"The Foundling is a gripping account of the ways big, structural decisions can change the intimate lives of or...
Readers Top Reviews
Kindle
This is a good story set within an interesting exposition of the popularity and acceptance of eugenics based institutions during the 1920s .
HldesignKindle
Given the recent decisions by the Supreme Court, women in particular may want to pay attention to what happens when their rights are stripped from them by law. This book is a riveting story filled with truths and real stories albeit in fiction form of past events that truly occurred. Anyone doubting this only has to do a little research to find cases of sterilization of women as recently as the 1960’s and 70’s. If this is not during your life time is is very likely during the lifetime of your mother. Take heed, and let this novel serve as a warning when Women’s rights are stripped away. We have no recourse without real constitutional rights. Fact is, women are not protected by the United States Constitution. The attempt to secure those rights failed in the 1970’s. Indeed women only secured the right to sit on juries in 1975. Wake up folks this country can still sign a wife or child, under a law known as civil commitment, into a mental institution. It is not as easy as in 1927 but it can be done.
BookReporterHldes
I have an interest in the now-properly-discredited of eugenics and looked forward to see how fictional storytelling could help people learn more about how anyone could have thought eugenics was a good idea. The Foudling unfolds at an institution in Pennsylvania where women designated as "feeble-minded" are warehoused through their reproductive years, after which they are put back into society. As it turns out some of the patients had no mental shortcomings but were committed just because someone, usually a husband, wanted the woman out of the way. Having read this much, you've learned most of what this book has to teach you about eugenics. The rest of the book is about a young woman, Mary Engle, working at her first real job and discovering that all is not what it seems with her boss or her place of work. Rather than being a necessary institution, the place is riddled with self-dealing, maltreatment of patients and cover-ups. As this story unfolds, the institution could be an orphanage, a prison or a mental hospital...in all cases, places where patient population numbers are important and patients generally are not. So, a warehouse for women is the scene and a young woman's discovery of her "grown-up" self, with a new sense of adult life is the centerpiece of the story. The scene is set and the story is told in a skillful, engaging way. What begins as a very-light "will a boyfriend find me" story gets details and complications layered on so, in my reading, I wanted to know what was next and how it would end. This womans' story is well-written and fine. Aside from its ghastly premise the book would make good beach reading. But, while at the beach you have to ignore the fact that similar "warehousing" of women is done now with implantable contraceptives, sometimes given with informed consent, but often not.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter One One
I'VE been told that my mother had a wonderful sense of humor. Also that she was pretty. But most people recall her wit first, and her easy laughter, and because of this I've always had a better sense of how she felt than how she looked. She must have been happy most of the time if she found so many funny things to say and to laugh about. She died when I was an infant, so I have no memory of her. After I moved to my aunt Kate's house, I'd hear her talking with friends about my mother and me, usually in hushed tones after I'd just left the room.
"She's a somber little thing," somebody would say. Or "She's so shy; she certainly hasn't Louisa's high spirits."
That was my mother-Louisa. Apparently, there was a sparkle in her eye. My uncle Teddy said this about her once, and when I asked him where the sparkle was-what part of the eye, he laughed and gave me a wink. When I asked him again, he told me to shut my trap.
I didn't inherit my mother's high spirits or her sparkly eye, but she did leave me a very nice lady's suitcase. It had been a wedding gift from a wealthy distant cousin. I never saw it until the day Father came for me at St. Catherine's Orphan Asylum. He gave Mother Beatrice no notice, just showed up one afternoon in the summer of 1922, when I was twelve. He arrived in a borrowed black Packard, and when he strode out to the courtyard, where my friends and I were playing, he called out, "Which one of you is Mary?"
At least five of us raised our hands-it was a Catholic orphanage, after all. But I felt, as he smiled vaguely at each of us in turn, like he'd reached inside me and crushed my heart with his hand. I hadn't seen him in almost a year, but I recognized him instantly. I'd grown a bit; I think that's why he didn't know me at first.
"What about Edel… or Trudy?" he said. "We called our girl Trudy when she was a baby. Trudy Engle."
I was too thrilled to remain hurt. As soon as I stepped forward, he said, "Well, there you are," and pulled me close. I felt the strange smoothness of his freshly shaved jaw during that brief moment when he pressed his face against my forehead. He used to have rough whiskers when Uncle Teddy took me to visit him up at the lumber mill.
He told me to pack my clothes-he was moving me in with Aunt Kate. The laughter and taunts from some of the older girls when he reminded them of my original name were like blanks fired from a pistol. They were like the loud pop-pop-pop from a clown's dummy pistol in the circus that came to Scranton every summer. The circus had a free night for "Foundlings and Other Unfortunates." We all screamed and clung to one another when we were little and heard that clown's gun the first time, but the next year and the years after, we didn't even flinch. We fought over peanuts and candy in the stands while the clown did those same old tired gags. The elephant never left its tent on foundling night-sometimes the acrobats took the night off too. We were left with that dumb clown and a dog act, and who cared about them? We got free bags of goodies. Similarly, who cared about those girls calling me that stupid nickname? I had a father; they didn't. He was taking me away. They were staying there at the home.
"Well c'mon, let's get your things," Father said. He was carrying the lovely white suitcase that had once belonged to my very own mother.
"She hasn't many things," Mother Beatrice scolded when we were in the long, low-ceilinged dormitory hall. "Certainly not enough to fill a large suitcase like that, Mr. Engle. I don't know what a girl would do with such an expensive-looking piece of luggage. If you'd given us more notice, we'd have gladly packed her essentials in a parcel as we do for our half-orphans who are lucky enough to have family to go to."
A few of my friends-Dorothy, Marge, Mary Hempel, Little Mary-they'd all followed us inside, and now they gaped at Father like he was a film star-it wasn't every day a real father showed up at St. Cat's. I realized that I was gazing up at him the way they were, more like an awestruck fan than a daughter. I moved closer to him, and I even thought for a moment that I should hold his hand-the way daughters did with their fathers in the movies. But he accidently jabbed me in the shoulder when he tossed the suitcase on the bed, then he pulled a handkerchief from his vest to wipe his forehead. It was so hot up there in the ward on summer days you could barely breathe sometimes.
Mother Beatrice was busy examining my mother's suitcase, and that really bugged me. It was my mother's, why did she have to touch every inch of it? Finally, she turned ...
I'VE been told that my mother had a wonderful sense of humor. Also that she was pretty. But most people recall her wit first, and her easy laughter, and because of this I've always had a better sense of how she felt than how she looked. She must have been happy most of the time if she found so many funny things to say and to laugh about. She died when I was an infant, so I have no memory of her. After I moved to my aunt Kate's house, I'd hear her talking with friends about my mother and me, usually in hushed tones after I'd just left the room.
"She's a somber little thing," somebody would say. Or "She's so shy; she certainly hasn't Louisa's high spirits."
That was my mother-Louisa. Apparently, there was a sparkle in her eye. My uncle Teddy said this about her once, and when I asked him where the sparkle was-what part of the eye, he laughed and gave me a wink. When I asked him again, he told me to shut my trap.
I didn't inherit my mother's high spirits or her sparkly eye, but she did leave me a very nice lady's suitcase. It had been a wedding gift from a wealthy distant cousin. I never saw it until the day Father came for me at St. Catherine's Orphan Asylum. He gave Mother Beatrice no notice, just showed up one afternoon in the summer of 1922, when I was twelve. He arrived in a borrowed black Packard, and when he strode out to the courtyard, where my friends and I were playing, he called out, "Which one of you is Mary?"
At least five of us raised our hands-it was a Catholic orphanage, after all. But I felt, as he smiled vaguely at each of us in turn, like he'd reached inside me and crushed my heart with his hand. I hadn't seen him in almost a year, but I recognized him instantly. I'd grown a bit; I think that's why he didn't know me at first.
"What about Edel… or Trudy?" he said. "We called our girl Trudy when she was a baby. Trudy Engle."
I was too thrilled to remain hurt. As soon as I stepped forward, he said, "Well, there you are," and pulled me close. I felt the strange smoothness of his freshly shaved jaw during that brief moment when he pressed his face against my forehead. He used to have rough whiskers when Uncle Teddy took me to visit him up at the lumber mill.
He told me to pack my clothes-he was moving me in with Aunt Kate. The laughter and taunts from some of the older girls when he reminded them of my original name were like blanks fired from a pistol. They were like the loud pop-pop-pop from a clown's dummy pistol in the circus that came to Scranton every summer. The circus had a free night for "Foundlings and Other Unfortunates." We all screamed and clung to one another when we were little and heard that clown's gun the first time, but the next year and the years after, we didn't even flinch. We fought over peanuts and candy in the stands while the clown did those same old tired gags. The elephant never left its tent on foundling night-sometimes the acrobats took the night off too. We were left with that dumb clown and a dog act, and who cared about them? We got free bags of goodies. Similarly, who cared about those girls calling me that stupid nickname? I had a father; they didn't. He was taking me away. They were staying there at the home.
"Well c'mon, let's get your things," Father said. He was carrying the lovely white suitcase that had once belonged to my very own mother.
"She hasn't many things," Mother Beatrice scolded when we were in the long, low-ceilinged dormitory hall. "Certainly not enough to fill a large suitcase like that, Mr. Engle. I don't know what a girl would do with such an expensive-looking piece of luggage. If you'd given us more notice, we'd have gladly packed her essentials in a parcel as we do for our half-orphans who are lucky enough to have family to go to."
A few of my friends-Dorothy, Marge, Mary Hempel, Little Mary-they'd all followed us inside, and now they gaped at Father like he was a film star-it wasn't every day a real father showed up at St. Cat's. I realized that I was gazing up at him the way they were, more like an awestruck fan than a daughter. I moved closer to him, and I even thought for a moment that I should hold his hand-the way daughters did with their fathers in the movies. But he accidently jabbed me in the shoulder when he tossed the suitcase on the bed, then he pulled a handkerchief from his vest to wipe his forehead. It was so hot up there in the ward on summer days you could barely breathe sometimes.
Mother Beatrice was busy examining my mother's suitcase, and that really bugged me. It was my mother's, why did she have to touch every inch of it? Finally, she turned ...
