The sooner I found such a person, the better.
I woke up again because a tone on my new cell phone announced a text. It was light. Etta was still fast asleep.
The clock said it was after nine.
I picked up the phone carefully, without waking her.
It was a number I didn’t recognize. No message, just an attachment. When I opened it, I realized it was from Grace Beatty.
It was the police report she had spent most of the night taking from Molly.
It was long. Pages and pages long. That girl could really talk. That girl described just about every minute of the night she spent with my little Etta.
My heart sank lower and lower as I read. It burned over every detail that made it clear how wrong I had been.
When she gave Etta the whole box of goldfish crackers and ate nothing.
When she gave her all the apple juice and went thirsty.
When she tried to stand in front of trucks and cars and flag them down and they wouldn’t stop for her.
When she thought one of those boys was coming up the hill to find them but it turned out they were looking on the hill across the street.
When she made it clear how scared she was.
I remembered something Grace had said to me on the phone. She had a hellish night protecting your little girl.
It sounded like hell, what she was describing. For her. For Etta, well . . . Molly spoke of singing to her, and chanting with her, and playing clapping games to keep her busy and as happy as possible. Of holding her tightly as she slept.
Something hit me, almost physically from the feel of it. It felt like a fastball connecting hard at the pit of my throat.
The “prayers” I had said out on the roof. Except they were not prayers, because they were not to any deity. They were to whoever had Etta. My silent pleas that the person comfort her. Help her not to be so afraid.
Molly had been the answer to those prayers. Even as I was pushing them out into the night. And I had all but snubbed her. Because I didn’t understand why she took so long to call. Because I hadn’t waited to hear her side of the story.
I figured Grace would be off shift by now, so I didn’t try to call her at the station. I texted her in return.
I wrote:
I’ve been a fool. Please set up a meeting with the girl when you think she’s ready. I need a do-over.
It was more than an hour before she texted me back this:
Thought you might feel that way. We’ll give her a couple of days. New foster homes are hard.
I knew it would be a tough couple of days. For both of us.
Della was an older woman. Old enough that one would think she’d be retired from her career as a marital, family, and child counselor. Her hair was gray. Not white, but a rich mixture of tones of vibrant gray. It was piled up on her head in a careful style. She had a quick and unselfconscious smile, despite a jumble of teeth that looked both too large and too numerous for her mouth.
“The first thing I want to say,” she told me, looking up from the questionnaire I had filled out, “is that it’s very soon. You say here this all happened two nights ago. I can’t tell you for a fact that any trauma symptoms you’re not seeing won’t be coming along shortly. But let’s be optimistic for now. Why do you think your daughter is doing so well?”
It was a question that caught me off guard.
Etta was sitting quietly in a corner of the office, playing with a teddy bear and a doll. She had been playing for most of the session. I had been doing the work. Except for Etta listening to a series of words and looking at some pictures, I was the one conducting the evaluation with Della. I guess it made sense, given that Etta was so young. For all intents and purposes almost preverbal.
“I’m not sure I understand the question,” I said.
“All right. Let me try to make it clearer. You say your daughter is extra clingy and cries when you get out of her sight. That’s to be expected, of course. But in a situation as dramatic as hers, frankly, I expected far worse damage. As I say, it’s early. But she’s doing very well, considering the experience she had to go through. I was just wondering if you had any thoughts on why that might be.”
“I was hoping you would,” I said. “Being the therapist and all.”
It was a little bit of a snarky comment. I expected her to react to it that way. She didn’t. She smiled. Spoke calmly and evenly.
“But you must appreciate how removed I am from the situation.”
“That’s true. I’m sorry.”
“So . . . any thoughts?”
“Well . . . ,” I began. I took a deep breath. Sighed it out. “She did have somebody with her during that time.”
“Oh?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw her scribbling on her pad. “You didn’t mention that.”
Right. I hadn’t. And I had been aware that I hadn’t. I had felt myself skirting around the issue every time I hadn’t brought it up. The only thing I didn’t know was why.
I wasn’t saying anything. So she added, “Tell me more.”
“It was a teenage girl. Living on the street, apparently. She found Etta strapped into her car seat on the sidewalk. And she stayed with her and took care of her until she could get her back to the police.”
“I see,” she said.
“Molly,” Etta said, without looking up from her toys.
Which I found a bit startling. I suppose it’s possible that it was coincidental. But I think it makes more sense to believe
