I stopped. Turned around. I was getting mad, and Etta knew it. I could feel her shifting around. Getting ready to start fussing out loud.
I breathed out my anger. For her sake.
“Thank you,” I said to my mother. “Thank you for taking care of us and letting us live here until I can get this sorted through and do better for Etta and myself. I do recognize the generosity of the thing, and I appreciate it.”
In addition to the fact that it was true, and I’d meant it, it was an old last-ditch method I used with my mother when all else failed. She seemed to have no mechanism for relating to kindness. She had no comeback for anything suitably divorced from combat.
When Etta was asleep for the night, and I thought it was late enough to catch Grace Beatty at work, I called her on my cell phone.
“Beatty,” she said when she picked up.
“It’s Brooke,” I said.
“Oh. Brooke. How are things going over there? How’s Etta?”
“Well . . . ,” I said. Then I pulled in a deep breath that she could probably hear. “My mother says she’s doing fine and I’m the one who can’t handle what happened. And, much as I hate to ever say this about my mother, she might be right.”
“Got a good counselor?”
“I do.”
“Ready to have another go at thanking Molly?”
“Yes. I am. That’s why I called.”
“Good. Good for you. I’m going to hang up and call her social worker, and I’ll call you back with a phone number and address.”
I could have called and said what I needed to say. I didn’t.
In the morning I took Etta and drove over there in person.
I had taken out another credit card and put a new battery in my car, and I was driving again. But still, I could have stayed home and called.
The reason I didn’t?
I kept thinking about what that police officer had said to me. The uniformed cop who drove Etta and me to the hospital. He said that homeless girl loved Etta. That he could tell me that for a fact.
I thought if that was true, she might like to see her again.
I purposely braved rush hour traffic to get to Sherman Oaks before eight in the morning. Because I knew if I waited longer, she would probably be at school.
I took Etta out of her car seat in the back. The new car seat. One more charge on the new credit card.
As I did, I said, “Let’s go see Molly.”
“Molly!” she cried out. “Molly, Molly, Molly!”
It hit me that Molly might have already left for school. In which case getting Etta all excited like that would prove to be a serious mistake.
The apartment building had outdoor stairs and hallways, and doors that faced out onto the street. I knocked on the door of apartment B. At first, no answer. Though I could hear a flurry of activity on the other side of the door. It sounded like a herd of baby elephants running for cover.
Then, just as I thought no one ever would, someone answered the door. It was a woman of about forty with curlers in her hair. She looked tired and worn down. Also upset about being tired. She had an e-cigarette dangling from her lips. To say she did not look happy to see me would be a laughable understatement.
“What?” she said. “I’m trying to get the girls ready for school.”
“I’m here to see Molly.”
She snorted a laugh that sounded derogatory. As though it had been truly stupid of me even to consider such a plan.
“Molly, Molly, Molly,” Etta said from her perch on my hip.
“Yeah, I’d like to see Molly, too,” the woman said. “Nothing pisses me off more than having to call a girl’s social worker and tell them she’s gone. But that’s what I had to do last night, when Molly didn’t come home. I’m surprised nobody bothered to tell you.”
“She ran away?”
“Looks like it. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“Do you have any idea why?”
She stopped with her hand on the door. Clearly disappointed that she didn’t get to slam it yet. She sighed deeply.
“I could make you a wild guess, yeah. I disciplined her. Kids don’t like that if they’re not used to it. These kids, they been running wild forever and they’re not used to having to answer to anyone. Me, I reintroduce them to discipline. Some take it, some don’t.”
“What did she do wrong?”
“Skipped school. I called the school to see if she was there for her first day, and it turned out she never showed. So when she got home, I waited to see if she would fess up. She didn’t, so I let her have it.”
She started to swing the door again. I stopped it with my left hand. My right hand was holding Etta onto my hip.
“Let her have it? As in, struck her?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I got kids to look after,” she said.
Then she put her hip to the door and closed it against my will.
“Molly, Molly, Molly,” Etta chanted as I carried her back to the car. She no longer sounded excited. She was brokenhearted now. It made my chest hurt to hear her tone.
She chanted it again as I strapped her into her car seat. And again as I started up the car. “Molly, Molly, Molly.”
“I’m sorry, honey,” I said. “Molly wasn’t there.”
“Where Molly?”
“I’m sorry, honey. I don’t know.”
I texted Grace Beatty on her cell phone before driving away. Because I knew she would be off shift by then.
She’s gone, I typed. She ran away.
No answer.
I drove most of the way back to West LA before I heard the tone of her text coming through. Fortunately I was off the freeway and waiting at a stoplight when I heard it.
It said: Damn. I hate it when that happens.
I drove
