The door opened. Gran was there, up and using her cane and feeling well enough to be curious.
“Where’d you go, Hannah? I—” She broke off. “Why look here. Hey there, sweet girl.” She paused, she frowned, and then Gran broke into the biggest smile I’d seen in two years. Her whole face lit up. “Well, there you are, my sweet Ellen. Where’d you get to, honey?”
Chills raced through my body. Feeling wrenched by her tone and words, I cautioned her. “Gran, I don’t . . . this isn’t . . . I don’t know who this child is.”
“Ellen. Our sweet baby Ellen. Gran’s got cookies, little miss. Can you smell ’em? Come in here where it’s warm.” She let go of the doorjamb and held out her spotted, wrinkled hand.
The morning was a tad chilly, but it was nowhere near cold, and this child was dressed in bulky clothing. She gave Gran one long look, then scooted out of the chair. The child went straight to her, taking the offered hand.
What was I supposed to do? Snatch her back?
For now, it seemed well enough. Gran would come to her senses soon. She was indulging her own imagination and avoiding pain that seeing a toddler might cause. Gran took flights of fancy from time to time. Aggravating sometimes but always harmless. At least the child was safe for the meanwhile.
I slipped on my outside shoes and walked across the yard to the driveway. I thought of driving, but if something were going on in the woods between here and the main road, I’d likely miss it in the car. I walked fast downhill to the low point in our drive and then up the slope to the main road. It was a fair walk, and when I stepped onto the asphalt, I stood there looking both ways. No one was in sight. Not a soul. Not a single car passed. I walked along the narrow dirt shoulder far enough each way to see around the curves. Finally, a car did go by, and then a truck. They barely slowed.
I had plenty of time to consider, and the only thing I could think to do was call the sheriff’s office when I got back to the house.
After that? What would happen?
My Ellen would’ve been about this age, this size. Except for the dark eyes and darker hair, this could be her. My heart gave a tug. No wonder Gran was confused.
What if the little girl was abandoned here on the state road? Had found her way down our driveway?
“Nonsense,” I said. No one drops off a child the way they might do with a dog or cat that had become inconvenient. If no family claimed her, the sheriff and social services would take her and find her a reasonable home. I mean, for heaven’s sakes, look at Gran and me—an old woman who’d passed her expiration date a long time ago and a youngish woman who’d been fatally broken before life had even given her a real try. Stuck out here in this Hollow. Cocooned out here. Not that Gran wasn’t an amazing woman, but she took most of my time. No sane authority would allow me, twenty-one and with no means or prospects, to take charge of a child not my own.
This worry was pointless. This child’s people would be searching for her. Or suppose she’d been kidnapped?
I looked up and down the road again, almost expecting to see kidnappers returning. Driving dark, dangerous cars and armed, no doubt. I stared up the road. Would I fight them? I would. I would welcome a fight that had a ghost of a chance of being won.
No kidnappers, then. Maybe hikers or tourists. They didn’t deserve a child if they couldn’t be bothered to keep track of her when in the woods.
I was being ridiculous. It was because I dreaded having to do what I must, and I feared for Gran, body and soul, if it came to taking the child away right at the moment.
Back down the driveway, and at the house, Gran and the child were seated at the kitchen table. Gran had pulled out the cookies. Only crumbs were left. A half-filled glass of milk was on the table in front of the little girl, and she wore some of it as a mustache.
From the kitchen doorway, I asked, “Did she tell you her name or why she was on the porch?”
“Her name’s Ellen, silly.” She turned to the child. “Still hungry?”
The child’s blue jacket was hung on the back of the chair. I picked it up and checked the pockets. Something crumpled, a tiny noise deep in a pocket.
I felt it again. Something there. I reached in and pulled out a note.
I recognized George Bridger’s hard, tight scrawl. It read:
Liam’s girl needs a home. Her mama left her. I’m sick. Going to the hospital and likely not coming back. Take care of Trisha. Regards to Clara.
The last time I’d seen Mr. Bridger was in the autumn. September? He’d mentioned his son was coming to visit. Liam. Liam had left years ago. Mr. Bridger had mentioned his daughter-in-law, too. Had they ever arrived? They must have, judging by this note.
Likely, he’d said. Was there a possibility Mr. Bridger would return home? Was he asking me to take charge of the child until he knew for sure? Or was he asking me to do a favor for him as an old family friend? Whatever the reason, this was not an everyday kind of request.
I pressed my hands to my chest to calm my heart.
No, this was not merely a favor he was asking. I saw the child with such clarity it was like heaven itself had etched her features. He could’ve dropped this child in town on his way to the hospital. George Bridger had meant this twofold—as an answer to his problem and as a gift to us.
It wasn’t a gift we could keep. This was someone’s child. Liam and his wife’s. But where were they?
Gran reached for her cane and pushed up from the table. “Ellen and I are going to read a story.”
“What?”
“I promised.”
The child scooted around me, still unsure, and when Gran’s bulk hit the bed and it sagged, I helped her get her swollen legs up onto the mattress. The girl—Trisha, I reminded myself—stood at the foot of the bed like a statue.
“Prop the pillows, Hannah.” Gran was intent. “Get the ones from the sofa, too. We need extra.”
I did as she instructed. Gran patted the bed beside her and held out her hand. The child scrambled up and scooted into the crook of her arm.
“Fetch us a book, will you?” Gran waved her free hand in the direction of my room.
The storybooks. They’d been mine, and my mother’s before me. They’d been in the bookcase in my bedroom for many years. The bookcase next to the crib. The crib I’d never taken down because taking it down meant . . .
Acceptance. Surrender.
Gran was talking to the child in a soft, comforting voice. I went to my room. I grabbed a few books and took them into the living room. The child looked up at me and held out her hands.
And grabbed my heart with her tiny fingers. It actually hurt.
My hands shook as I gave her one book and put the other two on top of her little legs.
While I was there, I eased off her shoes and put them at the foot of the bed where she could see them.
“Gran. Are you two comfy?”