“Where Molly?” she asked in a whiny voice.
“We’ll see her soon, honey.”
I started up the walkway.
The house was gray. Almost a dark gray, which seemed fitting somehow. Like some kind of statement from its occupants. Or from the house, regarding its occupants.
The window trim was white, but also filthy from years of weather. It was not a shabby or poor house. It was large and fairly new. But little if any pride showed through in the care that had been taken of it. The yard was overgrown, the windows streaked with months of old rain.
“Where Molly?” Etta asked again.
I almost snapped at her.
I didn’t. I stopped myself in time.
We were both nervous. And we had melded our nervousness into being nervous together. But we were nervous over two entirely different issues. And she could only tell me what was on her mind.
I stopped walking for a second or two. And it came over me. What was really at stake here. I had a lot of my worldview riding on this moment. I was about to find out if the world was really a place where a mother would put her child out on the street for no good reason.
The idea that I had almost snapped at my daughter when she was to blame for nothing . . . the pain at the thought of my almost hurting her in that small way . . . I guess it just brought it all together for me.
Being forcibly separated from my daughter had been the worst thing that had ever happened to me. Hands down. If Molly had done something horrible, that would be a bad thing to find out. Because I was traveling with her. But what if she hadn’t? That would be even worse. How would I fit that into my view of what was possible in the world? Where could I file it in my brain?
“We’re going to go talk to Molly’s mother,” I said to Etta.
Gently. Because she was my daughter. And that, after all, is a sacred trust.
I walked up onto the porch and knocked.
At first, no reply.
As I waited I was looking through the front window. Not peering in like a Peeping Tom. Just seeing what I could see from the doormat. The place was packed to overflowing with knickknacks and little bits of statuary. Vases and ornately framed photos. If the whole house held true to what I saw of the living room, I couldn’t imagine how a family of people would even fit in there.
I got a deep, sinking feeling at the idea that no one would answer the door. Then what would we do? It was an outcome I hadn’t thought to anticipate.
I knocked again, and at almost that exact same moment the door swung inward.
The woman who stood in the doorway looked nothing like Molly. She was small and slight, with perfectly straight blonde hair. Pinned up in the back, with every hair just so. She wore an apron over a polka-dot housedress. There was something pixie-like about her. She looked like an old photograph of a model housewife from a black-and-white 1950s laundry detergent ad, except in color. Well. Marginally in color. Her dress was gray, like the house.
She smiled at Etta, and then at me. It looked to be a genuine enough smile.
“Yes? Something I can do for you?”
It struck me suddenly that I had no idea what to call her. I didn’t know her name. I wanted to call her Mrs. Blank. Mrs. Molly’s Last Name. But I didn’t know Molly’s last name. It made me marvel at what I was doing here. Trying to help or defend this girl I didn’t even know.
“I’m a friend of your daughter Molly’s,” I said.
Her face changed.
I won’t say it went dark, or cold. That would be a bit of a stereotypical way for things to go. But it wasn’t like that. It’s hard to explain the change I witnessed. I think the best description would be to say she seemed to vacate herself in that moment. To leave the area, leaving her body in place. I looked into those same light-brown eyes and it seemed as though no one was at home inside.
She wasn’t answering. While I waited, my heart began to pound harder. I guess because I had a sense that this was not about to go well.
“You are Molly’s mother?” I asked. Just in case I had the wrong house or something.
She nodded. It was only the tiniest gesture. Nearly imperceptible. She offered no words to go with it.
“Molly’s been in a bad way since she left Utah. She’s been living on the street in LA. Sleeping in an old packing crate. In a very sketchy neighborhood. She’s lost too much weight. I don’t know if you know any of this.”
I waited. Again. At first, nothing happened at all.
Then she seemed to rouse herself to speak.
“And you know my daughter how?”
“We were thrown together in a strange way. I lost my little baby girl, Etta.” I indicated the girl in question with a flip of my chin. “We’d gotten separated. Molly found her and got her back to the police so she could be returned to me.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. In that moment, she seemed marginally at home behind those eyes.
“How do you go about losing a little girl?”
You’re a fine one to talk, I thought.
I didn’t say it. Blasting her with my anger would get me nowhere. Though I had plenty of ammunition.
“She was taken from me in a violent carjacking.”
“Oh,” she said. Her tone seemed to change. The look in her eyes softened. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She looked past me and out to the street. I turned to see what she found so interesting. All I saw was my mother’s car parked at the curb. I wondered if she was looking to
