The next room was where the child had slept. Only a small body had mussed this sheet and coverlet. The room and furnishings looked scary—or would look that way to a child. No kid stuff, no fluff. A bed in the corner and a dark wood dresser and a creaky cane chair. A grim place. Not right for a child.
I checked in the drawers and found a few clothing items that surely belonged to the little girl. Left-behind stuff. I took what there was because it was more than we had for her. It fit easily in one small bag. I searched in her daddy’s room again for anything that might belong to her. I found a child’s book, a woman’s headband, and nothing else.
For no good reason, I stopped in the kitchen and rinsed and stacked the dishes. I collected the trash and bagged it. Despite the mess, it went quickly, and so I washed the dishes, leaving them to dry in the drainer. Finally, I swept the floor and added that litter to the trash bag. If Mr. Bridger did return home, then he’d have a nice surprise. Because he might come home, right? His note had been uncertain, really, hadn’t it?
As I washed and cleaned, I considered. The only right and reasonable thing to do was to keep the little girl safe until he returned, or until we knew for sure he wouldn’t.
Trisha. I tried speaking the name aloud, but it sounded wrong. Gran had already fixed on the name Ellen. Would it be so wrong to call her that? Would the child care? It wasn’t likely to do her any harm for a short time. Forcing Gran back to reality would be cruel. She would find her way back to the truth on her own. Surely she would, given time.
“Wait and see” seemed to be the wisest course. Meanwhile, if I kept the child safe and happy, then we were doing our old friend’s bidding and helping the child at the same time. Liam was bound to show up soon.
Many doubts traveled with me as I crossed the ridge and descended the path back to our house.
The child’s mother, I dismissed. I didn’t know anything about her. But Liam, I knew him, yet I had no idea how to reach him. Presumably the sheriff could figure it out, but only if I told him, and if I did, the law might not choose to respect Mr. Bridger’s wishes, and that would likely kill Gran and let down Mr. Bridger.
By the time I reached home, I had decided what to do. I would call the hospitals and see what I could find out about Mr. Bridger. Until then, I’d keep my own counsel. We saw few people. Only Gran and I, and Mr. Bridger, knew baby Ellen had been born and then lost. Gran seemed to have misplaced the knowledge, for a while anyway. Mr. Bridger wouldn’t talk out of turn about anyone else’s business.
If Mr. Bridger recovered and returned home, or when Liam turned up—well, I could feel pleased, knowing I’d helped out a longtime family friend and neighbor. In the meantime, would it hurt to let my grandmother have her small fantasy?
When I reached home, I came in the back door quietly, not sure what I’d find. Gran was asleep, and the child was snuggled against her. They fit like two pieces, snug and tight. I hadn’t realized the degree of tension in the child’s face until I saw her now, unafraid and secure.
It was a sweet, loving scene. Maybe George Bridger hadn’t meant this as a twofold solution, but rather threefold. For him, for us, but also for the child. The safety and love of this child.
Her clothing fit easily into a drawer in my dresser. I returned to the living room and considered waking them. A nap this time of day might make sleeping hard tonight, but I let them be. It was obvious we were going to have a guest, at least for this night.
In my room, I removed the blanket from the side rail of the small crib, the one that had blocked my view of the bed’s interior. I stripped the small sheet. It had needed washing for close to two years. Then I removed the mattress and the hardboard beneath it. I unhooked the hinges and folded the crib. This crib was too small for a child of two years. I stored it in the back room.
Where should the child sleep tonight? With Gran? I didn’t think so. Maybe on the sofa where she could see that Gran was nearby? Or with me? There was plenty of room in the double bed, and I didn’t mind the idea, but thus far the child hadn’t shown any signs of warming up to me. Maybe after supper, she’d be more open and approachable.
Simple was best. Eggs and toast and juice. Jelly, of course. Gran and I’d put up that jelly several years ago. The eggs came with the grocery delivery. Luckily, the last delivery had been recent and the milk was fresh.
I started singing as I cooked. It had been a while. I had a fair voice, and Gran used to sing with me before her breath got so short. Neither of us had done much singing in the last couple of years. This felt odd yet exhilarating. I was on the third verse into Gran’s favorite, “Church in the Wildwood,” and was planning to launch into “Barbara Allen” next as I stirred the eggs. The smell of toast filled the air, and I felt eyes on me.
Big eyes. Eyes so richly dark despite the amber flecks that they reminded me of the brown waters of Cub Creek when the sunlight flickered through the branches overhead and reflected on the moving surface.
Softly, I said, “Hello there. How are you, sweetie? Hungry?”
She looked down at her feet.
I poured the eggs into the pan and then stepped away long enough to pull out a chair. “You can sit here if you’d like.” I turned back to the stove as if I couldn’t care less.
Gran groaned as she moved from her bed, then her cane tapped the wood floor.
“What do I smell? Breakfast for supper?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I called back.
“What do you think about that, my sweet Ellen?” Gran said.
A pang of guilt seized me. This child had her own name. Her own family. An identity. How much damage was this doing?
Gran said, “I’ll pay a visit to the ladies’ room and be right back.”
The child had a momentary look of panic on her face as Gran left the room, but she stayed seated. I took a chance. I set the glass of juice in front of her and asked kindly, “What’s your name, honey? What would you like me to call you?”
She took a sip of the juice.
I tried again. “Are you worried about your grandpa? Your mommy and daddy?”
The child, her little fingers hardly spanning the circumference of the glass, eyed me warily and set the drink carefully back on the table.
Gran was already returning from the bathroom. The floor planks squeaked as she progressed. Record time, it seemed to me.
Once more I asked, “Trisha? That’s your name, right, honey?”
“Toast. Jelly. Please.” She spoke in a toddler voice, turning her l’ s into w’s and leaving off the last consonants.
As Gran shuffled into the kitchen and pulled out her chair, the child fixed those creek-brown eyes on me and said, “Sweet Ellen.”
It sounded like “Swee Ewwen,” and the words and voice reached into my chest with exquisite pain. I faced the stove. I held my breath, closed my eyes, and waited for it to pass.