Orphan Train(88)

“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 brrs 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.”