“It’s just for one night,” she said while I was thinking.
“Okay. I guess it’s good enough for one night.”
But there was a hefty dose of denial in those pronouncements. And I think we both knew it. Somehow we were both willing to pretend that I could solve her homelessness problem tomorrow. In a single day.
“You sure you don’t need to use the bathroom one last time?”
“Positive,” she said.
She was sitting on the edge of the rollaway bed. We had made it up for her with sheets and a blanket. I had brought out two bottles of water and a plastic cup. A towel and washcloth, because I had learned that you bring your guest a towel and a washcloth. It had been ingrained in me as part of some kind of social contract. But it was absurd in this case, because she wasn’t allowed near any of my mother’s four bathrooms, despite the fact that I had snuck her into the downstairs one once.
Etta was running around the garage like a maniac. The soles of her light-up sneakers were flashing blue and red sparkly lights. She was nearly bouncing off the walls. She looked like she was imitating a pinball in a machine.
Again she had slept far too much on the drive. I would probably never get her to sleep.
Molly was watching her bounce around.
“You can come get me,” she said. “You know. If you need to sleep and you want somebody to look after her.”
“That’s not fair to you,” I said.
“I don’t mind. But . . . Oh. Never mind. That won’t work because I can’t come into the house to watch her. But if you didn’t mind her being out here . . .”
I could feel us skirting around an uncomfortable truth. The garage was not good enough for Etta, and we both knew it. I had put Molly in accommodations that were not up to par for my own daughter. And I knew that was wrong.
“What else can I get you before bed?” I asked her. Ignoring the rest of the problems.
“Nothing. I’m fine. This is fine.”
“Okay. We’ll leave you, then. The light switch is here.”
I pointed to it on my way to the door that led into my mother’s kitchen.
Suddenly Molly was flying across the garage to me, her feet bare on the concrete floor.
“Thank you,” she said.
And she threw her arms around me. Enveloped me in a hug.
I just stood a moment. Not hugging her back. I wasn’t sure what to do with all that emotion. I had never been good with emotion. We hadn’t been a huggy family. We hadn’t been overtly loving toward one another.
Still, I couldn’t bring myself to simply reject this girl who had so little. Who wouldn’t have a toothbrush or a change of clothes if I hadn’t bought them for her.
I wrapped my arms around her in return.
“You’re welcome,” I said. “Tomorrow we’ll figure out how to get you someplace better.”
But it was the wrong thing to say. I could feel it. I could feel her muscles turn to lead. She pulled away from me. Turned her back and shuffled over to the bed. Shoulders slumped. Dejected. She didn’t want nicer accommodations. She wanted to be with Etta and me.
I took hold of Etta’s hand.
“Good night, Molly,” I said.
“Night, Molly,” Etta chimed in.
“Good night,” she said.
It was clear from her tone that she was hurt.
I took Etta into the house. I left a note on the table for my mother to find in the morning. It said, briefly, that Molly had been invited to sleep in the garage but it was only for one night. And to please, if she was angry about it, resist the temptation to take it out on the girl. To please come take it out on me instead.
I took Etta upstairs and listened carefully. My mother was asleep. And seemed to have stayed asleep through our arrival. And I was thankful for that small favor.
It was about one in the morning when I lost it. Etta was still wide awake. Still bouncing off the walls. She wanted stories. She wanted to play. I was exhausted. I was accidentally falling asleep every couple of minutes, only to have her bounce me awake again.
I put her in her toddler bed with the crib sides for just a minute.
“I’ll be right back,” I said. “I’m just going to check on Molly.”
“Molly, Molly, Molly!” she shrieked.
I stood out in the hall for a minute, listening. Waiting to see if she had wakened my mother. When I heard nothing, I crept down to the garage.
I opened the door from the kitchen. Or, actually, the laundry room right off the kitchen. Molly was in bed in the dark, faced away. The garage had a pattern of windows on the top half of its automatic door. Light from the streetlamp on the corner spilled in and fell over her.
“Are you asleep?” I whispered.
“No,” she said. At normal volume.
“Did you really mean what you said about looking after Etta?”
“Sure. Bring her in here.”
“No, I thought you should come upstairs to watch her.”
“What about your mom?”
“She’s asleep.”
I felt a wash of shame as I said it. I could even feel my face heat up. “We can sneak you in without her noticing” didn’t feel like the right statement. I wanted to have said something more like “I’ll stand up to her for you.” But, beyond its being hard for me to stand up to her, I couldn’t tell my mother what she had to tolerate in her own house. That was the problem with my living there.
“Okay,” she said.
She either didn’t recognize the pathetic nature of the subtext, or she chose to ignore it.
She followed me up to my room.
Etta had climbed out of her toddler crib. Which I had no idea she was able to do.
“Well, that’s the end of an era,” I said.
I know Molly couldn’t have understood my meaning. But she didn’t
