Everything Leads to You

“But if I didn’t have parents or a brother. If Clyde Jones was my dad but you didn’t even know it. If, for all you knew, I had no one but you. You’d adopt her, right?”


“Of course,” she says, starting a search for Ava Wilder.

Three in the entire US. One in Leona Valley, a town that borders the desert.

We stare at the screen.

“Search for Tracey,” I say.

Charlotte’s hands fly across the keyboard.

Twenty-one Tracey Wilders in the US. Charlotte starts to scroll down the list and I see it before she does.

“Oh my God,” I say, and Charlotte gasps when she sees it: Tracey Wilder, Leona Valley, California. Next to her name is a phone number.

“Let’s call her.”

“Tracey or Ava?” Charlotte asks.

“Ava,” I say. “Definitely. Clyde wanted the letter to go to Caroline, but he said she could give the money to Ava. Tracey has nothing to do with it.”

We gather all of our stuff and Charlotte returns the microfilm to Joel-the-cute-librarian and we walk fast toward the exit.

“You call,” I tell her.

“Okay,” she says, “but let’s get in the car so it’ll be quiet.”

Down in the garage we can’t get service, so I have to drive up to the street; and even though Charlotte’s ability to have a successful phone conversation in no way requires my full attention, I pull into a loading zone because I’m too nervous to drive.

She dials the number and I lean in close enough to hear a boy’s voice say hello.

“Hi,” she says. “My name is Charlotte. Is Ava home, by any chance?”

There is a pause, and then the kid says, “No, she isn’t.”

“Would you mind taking a message?”

“Ava’s, um. . . I mean, I can? But I don’t know when she’d get it.”

“Oh,” Charlotte says.

“She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Is there another way to reach her? Another number?”

“I don’t really know where she is,” he says.

Charlotte bites her lip.

He says, “I can take your number, and if I talk to her I’ll give it to her, but I don’t know when she’ll get it.”

“Okay,” Charlotte says, and she leaves him her number.

“I’ll give it to her. If she calls, I mean.”

“Okay,” Charlotte says again. I can tell she doesn’t want to hang up and I don’t want her to either.

“Bye,” the kid says.

She doesn’t say anything, but soon there’s a click.

And now it’s just Charlotte and me, illegally parked in downtown Los Angeles, all of the answers lost in the vastness.





Chapter Five



On Monday, I go straight to the room Morgan’s been working on. I can play hard to get only for so long. Really, I am easy to get. And I keep thinking of how she drove all the way to Pasadena to pick up the sofa, and how she’s been saying nice things to Rebecca-who-has-a-boyfriend about me, and how she wants to show me this space she’s been working on, because she cares about her work and knows that I also care because we are aligned in this way among many others.

Her back is to me when I walk into the room. She’s putting up wallpaper, sponging the corners of a panel to smooth it out.

“This is gorgeous,” I say, because it is. The paper is the pattern of a night sky, panel after panel, with glowing stars forming constellations. It’s perfect for the little boy, who has an interest in science and whose room is shot primarily in night scenes.

She steps away and smiles at me. I allow myself to notice how good her arms look in her tank top, tan and strong but still unmistakably girl arms. And because the music room is finished and I knew that I wouldn’t be doing anything too hands-on today, I wore a skirt and a skimpy shirt to show off my girlishness, too.

“I’m mostly running errands today,” I tell her. “But I wanted to check it out. Since I couldn’t, you know, on Saturday.”

“That’s right,” she says. “You and Charlotte had a library party to attend.”

“We were actually doing something pretty interesting,” I say.

“I can imagine.” She turns back to her work and I watch her hands as they smooth down swirls and stars.

To the right is a bunk bed built out of light-colored wood.

“You built this?” I ask her, and she nods.

I climb the little ladder and sit on the top bunk. It would be so easy to forget that all around us people are working, moving planter boxes of trees to go on the opposite sides of windows, painting sets and assembling furniture, supervising and surveying and engaging in conversations. So easy, because here is a bunk bed and rumpled sheets, here is a model of a hot-air balloon floating from the ceiling, here is a white wall steadily becoming less white as Morgan applies panel after panel of deep blue wallpaper. It’s all a fantasy, so it’s easy, for a few minutes, to get lost in it.

“I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be on the top bunk,” I say, even though the idea has never occurred to me.

“And?”

“It’s great,” I say. “So cozy. You haven’t been up here?”

“Not since I finished building it.”

“Why don’t you join me?”