Orphan Train (30 page)

“Did he know you’d had a baby?”

“No, I don’t think so. We never talked about it. It seemed like too much to burden him with. The war had taken a toll on him; there were a lot of things he didn’t want to talk about either.

“Jim was good with facts and figures. Very organized and disciplined, far more than Dutchy was. Honestly, I doubt the store would’ve done half as well if Dutchy had lived. Is that terrible to say? Well, even so. He didn’t care a whit about the store, didn’t want to run it. He was a musician, you know. No head for business. But Jim and I were good partners. Worked well together. I did the ordering and the inventory and he upgraded the accounting system, brought in new electric cash registers, streamlined the vendors—modernized it.

“I’ll tell you something: marrying Jim was like stepping into water the exact same temperature as the air. I barely had to adjust to the change. He was a quiet, decent, hardworking man, a good man. We weren’t one of those couples who finish each other’s sentences; I’m not even sure I could’ve told you what was going on in his head most of the time. But we were respectful of each other. Kind to each other. When he got irritable, I steered clear, and when I was in what he called one of my ‘black moods’—sometimes I’d go days without saying more than a few words—he left me alone. The only problem between us was that he wanted a child, and I couldn’t give him that. I just couldn’t do it. I told him how I felt from the beginning, but I think he hoped I’d change my mind.”

Vivian rises from her chair and goes to the tall bay windows. Molly is struck by how frail she is, how narrow her silhouette. Vivian unfastens the silk loops from their hooks at each side of the casing, letting the heavy paisley curtains fall across the glass.

“I wonder if . . .” Molly ventures cautiously. “Have you ever wondered what became of your daughter?”

“I think about it sometimes.”

“You might be able to find her. She would be”—Molly calculates in her head—“in her late sixties, right? She could very well be alive.”

Adjusting the drape of the curtains, Vivian says, “It’s too late for that.”

“But—why?” The question feels like a dare. Molly holds her breath, her heart thumping, aware that she’s being presumptuous, if not downright rude. But this may be her only chance to ask.

“I made a decision. I have to live with it.”

“You were in a desperate situation.”

Vivian is still in shadow, standing by the heavy drapes. “That’s not quite true. I could have kept the baby. Mrs. Nielsen would’ve helped. The truth is, I was a coward. I was selfish and afraid.”

“Your husband had just died. I can understand that.”

“Really? I don’t know if I can. And now—knowing that Maisie was alive all these years . . .”

“Oh, Vivian,” Molly says.

Vivian shakes her head. She looks at the clock on the mantel. “Goodness, look at the time—it’s after midnight! You must be exhausted. Let’s find you a bed.”

Spruce Harbor, Maine, 2011

Molly is in a canoe, paddling hard against the current. Her shoulders ache
as she digs into the water on one side and then the other. Her feet are soaking; the canoe is sinking, filling with water. Glancing down, she sees her ruined cell phone, the sodden backpack that holds her laptop. Her red duffel topples out of the boat. She watches it bob for a moment in the waves and then, slowly, descend below the surface. Water roars in her ears, the sound of it like a distant faucet. But why does it seem so far away?

She opens her eyes. Blinks. It’s bright—so bright. The sound of water . . . She turns her head and there, through a casement window, is the bay. The tide is rushing in.

The house is quiet. Vivian must still be asleep.

In the kitchen, the clock says 8:00
A.M
. Molly puts the kettle on for tea and rummages through the cupboards, finding steel-cut oats and dried cranberries, walnuts, and honey. Following the directions on the cylindrical container, she makes slow-cooked oats (so different from the sugary packets Dina buys), chopping and adding the berries and nuts, drizzling it with a little honey. She turns off the oatmeal, rinses the teapot they used the night before, and washes the cups and saucers. Then she sits in a rocker by the table and waits for Vivian.

It’s a beautiful, postcard-from-Maine morning, as Jack calls days like this. The bay sparkles in the sun like trout scales. In the distance, near the harbor, Molly can see a fleet of tiny sailboats.

Her phone vibrates. A text from Jack.
What’s up?
This is the first weekend in months that they haven’t made plans. Her phone
brr
s again.
Can I c u later?

Tons of home work
, she types.

Study 2gether?

Maybe. Call u later.

When?

She changes the subject:
ME postcard day.

Let’s hike Flying Mtn. Fuck hw.

Flying Mountain is one of Molly’s favorites—a steep five-hundred-foot ascent along a piney trail, a panoramic view of Somes Sound, a meandering descent that ends at Valley Cove, a pebbled beach where you can linger on large flat rocks, gazing at the sea, before circling back to your car or bike on a fire road carpeted with pine needles.

Ok.
She presses send and immediately regrets it. Shit.

Within seconds, her phone rings. “
Hola, chica,
” Jack says. “What time do I pick you up?”

“Umm, can I get back to you?”

“Let’s do it now. Ralph and Dina are holy rolling, right? I miss you, girl. That stupid fight—what was it about, anyway? I forgot already.”

Molly gets up from the rocker, goes over and stirs the oatmeal for no reason, puts her palm on the teakettle. Lukewarm. Listens for footsteps, but the house is quiet. “Hey,” she says, “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

“Tell me what?” he says, and then, “Whoa, wait a minute, are you breaking up with me?”

“What? No. It’s nothing like that. Dina threw me out.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“She threw you . . . When?”

“Last night.”

“Last night? So . . .” Molly can practically hear the wheels turning. “Where are you now?”

Taking a deep breath, she says, “I’m at Vivian’s.”

Silence. Did he hang up?

Molly bites her lip. “Jack?”

“You went to Vivian’s last night? You stayed at Vivian’s?”

“Yes, I—”

“Why didn’t you call me?” His voice is brisk and accusatory.

“I didn’t want to burden you.”

“You didn’t want to
burden
me?”

“I just mean I’ve relied on you too much. And after that fight—”

“So you thought, ‘I’ll go burden that ninety-year-old lady instead. Much better than burdening my
boyfriend
.’”

“Honestly, I was out of my mind,” Molly says. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“So you hiked over there, did you? Somebody give you a ride?”

“I took the Island Explorer.”

“What time was it?”

“Around seven,” she fudges.

“Around seven. And you just marched up to her front door and rang the bell? Or did you call first?”

All right, that’s enough. “I don’t like your tone,” Molly says.

Jack sighs.

“Look,” she says. “I know this is hard for you to believe, but Vivian and I are friends.”

There’s a pause, and then Jack says, “Uh-huh.”

“We have a lot in common, actually.”

He laughs a little. “Come on, Moll.”

“You can ask her.”

“Listen. You know how much I care about you. But let’s get real. You’re a seventeen-year-old foster kid who’s on probation. You just got kicked out of another home. And now you’ve moved in with a rich old lady who lives in a mansion. A lot in common? And my mom—”

“I know. Your mom.” Molly sighs loudly. How long is she going to be beholden to Terry, for God’s sake?

“It’s complicated for me,” he says.

“Well . . .” Molly says. Here goes. “I don’t think it’s so complicated now. I told Vivian about stealing the book.”

There’s a pause. “Did you tell her that my mom knew?”

“Yeah. I told her you vouched for me. And that your mom trusted you.”

“What’d she say?”

“She totally understood.”

He doesn’t say anything, but she senses a shift, a softening.

“Look, Jack—I’m sorry. I’m sorry for putting you in that position in the first place. That’s why I didn’t call you last night; I didn’t want you to feel like you had to save my butt once again. It sucks for you, always doing me a favor, and it sucks for me, always feeling like I have to be grateful. I don’t want to have that kind of relationship with you. It’s not fair to expect you to take care of me. And I honestly think your mom and I might get along better if she doesn’t think I’m trying to work all the angles.”

“She doesn’t think that.”

“She does, Jack. And I don’t blame her.” Molly glances over at the tea service drying in the rack. “And I have to say one more thing. Vivian said she wanted to clean out her attic. But I think what she really wanted was to see what was in those boxes one last time. And remember those parts of her life. So I’m glad, actually, that I was able to help her find these things. I feel like I did something important.”

She hears footsteps in the upstairs hall—Vivian must be on her way downstairs. “Hey, I’ve gotta go. I’m making breakfast.” She flicks on the gas burner to warm the oatmeal, pouring a little skim milk into it and stirring.

Jack sighs. “You’re a major pain in the ass, did you know that?”

“I keep telling you that, but you don’t want to believe me.”

“I believe you now,” he says.

A
FEW DAYS AFTER
M
OLLY ARRIVES AT
V
IVIAN
’
S
,
SHE TEXTS
R
ALPH
to let him know where she is.

He texts back:
Call me.

So she calls. “What’s up?”

“You need to come back so we can deal with this.”

“Nah, that’s okay.”

“You can’t just run away,” he says. “We’ll all be in a pile of shit if you do.”

“I didn’t run away. You kicked me out.”

“No, we didn’t.” He sighs. “There are protocols. Child Protective Services are going to be all over your ass. So will the police, if this gets out. You have to go through the system.”

“I think I’m done with the system.”

“You’re seventeen. You’re not done with the system till the system is done with you.”

“So don’t tell them.”

“You mean lie?”

“No. Just . . . don’t tell them.”

He’s silent for a moment. Then he says, “You doing okay?”

“Yup.”

“That lady is okay with you being there?”

“Uh-huh.”

He grunts. “I’m guessing she’s not a certified foster care provider.”

“Not . . . technically.”

“Not technically.” He laughs drily. “Shit. Well, maybe you’re right. No need to do anything drastic. When’re you eighteen, again?”

“Soon.”

“So if it’s not hurting us . . . and it’s not hurting you . . .”

“That money comes in handy, huh?”

He’s silent again, and for a moment Molly thinks he’s hung up on her. Then he says, “Rich old lady. Big house. You’ve done pretty well for yourself. You probably don’t want us to report you missing.”

“So . . . I still live with you, then?”

“Technically,” he says. “Okay with you?”

“Okay with me. Give Dina my best.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” he says.

T
ERRY IS NOT PARTICULARLY HAPPY TO FIND
M
OLLY IN THE HOUSE
on Monday morning. “What’s this?” she says, her voice a sharp exclamation. Jack hasn’t told her about Molly’s new living arrangements; apparently he was hoping the situation would somehow magically resolve itself before his mother found out.

“I’ve invited Molly to stay,” Vivian announces. “And she has graciously accepted.”

“So she’s not . . .” Terry starts, looking back and forth between them. “Why aren’t you at the Thibodeaus’?” she asks Molly.

“It’s a little complicated there right now,” Molly says.

“What does that mean?”

“Things are—unsettled,” Vivian says. “And I’m perfectly happy to let her bunk in a spare room for the moment.”

“What about school?”

“Of course she’ll go to school. Why wouldn’t she?”

“This is very . . . charitable of you, Vivi, but I imagine the authorities—”

“It’s all worked out. She’s staying with me,” Vivian says firmly. “What else am I going to do with all these rooms? Open a bed-and-breakfast?”

Molly’s room is on the second floor, facing the ocean, down a long hall at the opposite side of the house from Vivian’s. In the window in Molly’s bathroom, also on the ocean side, a light cotton curtain dances constantly in the breeze, sucked toward the screen and out again, billowing toward the sink, an amiable ghostly presence.

How long has it been since anyone slept in this room? Molly wonders. Years and years and years.

Her belongings, all that she brought with her from the Thibodeaus’, fill a scant three shelves in the closet. Vivian insists that she take an antique rolltop desk from the parlor and set it up in the bedroom across the hall from hers so she can study for finals. No sense in confining yourself to one room when there are all these options, is there?

Options.
She can sleep with the door open, wander around freely, come and go without someone watching her every move. She hadn’t realized how much of a toll the years of judgment and criticism, implied and expressed, have taken on her. It’s as if she’s been walking on a wire, trying to keep her balance, and now, for the first time, she is on solid ground.

Spruce Harbor, Maine, 2011

“You’re looking remarkably normal,” Lori the social worker says when
Molly shows up at the chemistry lab for their usual biweekly meeting. “First the nose ring disappears. Now you’ve lost the skunk stripe. What’s next, an Abercrombie hoodie?”

“Ugh, I’d kill myself first.”

Lori smiles her ferrety smile.