That night, at bedtime, the child’s lips developed a tiny tremor as she pressed them together. Her eyes were big and tinged with fear. I asked her where she’d like to sleep. I reminded her of where Gran slept, as if a soul anywhere in the house could miss that bed jutting out into the living room floor. I pointed at the sofa.
“I can make up a bed there for you.” Then I held out my hand and said, “Come with me.”
She took my hand, but in a skittish way, and I was careful not to clasp her little fingers too tightly.
I turned on the light in my room and said, “I sleep here. Used to be Gran’s room, but she wanted to be closer to the stove because she gets cold easily. So I sleep here, but you can see it’s a big bed, and there’s plenty of room. If you like, you can share my bed.”
She’d gone to the bathroom and used the toilet already on her own. Night was sometimes different for young ones, but I didn’t have any Pull-ups and hadn’t seen any evidence of them at Mr. Bridger’s place, so hopefully, bed-wetting wouldn’t be a problem.
We stood there while she took in the room. She was quiet and self-contained, such a little bit of a person. Not a big talker, for sure. I released her hand. Instead of leaving the room, she stopped in front of the bookcase. The books, I thought at first, but then saw her eyes had fastened on a rag doll. Mine. Gran had made it for me and, of course, I’d saved it for . . . Yes. For Ellen. Not this child. I’d saved it for when my Ellen would be old enough to play with it.
I picked up the doll. I cradled it in my arm and straightened her skirt and braid, then I offered it to this little girl. She took it and mumbled something. Thank you, I think she said. She walked to the living room and sat on the sofa, clutching the doll tightly to her.
Gran was already asleep. Not surprising. It had been quite a day for her. Wryly and devastatingly I thought, It’s not every day that one’s lost great-granddaughter returned home.
The child looked at me, not crying, but her dark eyes were swimming in unshed tears, and she said, “Mommy?”
Wrong. This was very wrong. This child was asking where her mother was. I knelt by the sofa and smiled kindly. “Tomorrow, sweetie. We’ll find her tomorrow.”
I covered a pillow with a pillowcase and pulled the afghan from the back of the sofa. There was no nightie in her stuff, and I wasn’t about to strip her down to her undies and expect her to sleep like that in a strange house with people she didn’t know. It wouldn’t be civilized. I moved to take off the shirt she was wearing because I could see there were multiple layers on her little body, but she pulled back and nearly disappeared into the folds of the sofa. If she wanted to sleep in her day clothes, virtually her whole wardrobe, then she could. If she were still here tomorrow afternoon, I’d figure out something better.
The exterior doors were securely locked, and my bedroom door stayed open, as usual.
I changed into a nightgown, and after a last check on Gran and the child who appeared to be sleeping, I tucked myself in. I tossed a lot. Too much was on my mind. Too many emotions swirled in my head to think clearly about what was best to do. Did I really have a choice? It wasn’t only about me. In fact, for me, this probably wasn’t a good thing no matter how one justified it. To get attached, to have the responsibility . . . my plate was already full with Gran.
The clouds moved off. It was still night, but the moon was full, and suddenly its light parted the night and lit the pathway through the house to my bed. The mattress shifted as a small weight climbed on board. I opened my eyes a sliver and saw her looking at me. Those dark eyes, so deep, stared at me. I felt her loneliness. Not truly fear. If she was afraid, it was because she was alone. I pulled the covers up over her shoulders ever so gently.
She put her thumb in her mouth and closed her eyes. Her long lashes brushed her cheeks.
I whispered softly, “Good night, sweet girl. Sleep well.”
She was a child in need of shelter and comfort. What harm could kindness do?
As I’d promised myself, and whatever fates might have been listening and might seek to hold me accountable, I drove into town to call the hospitals. It wasn’t easy to find one old man who’d gone to a hospital in an area that stretched from Charlottesville to Richmond. I tried the most obvious ones, but no one was willing to confirm he was there . . . or they didn’t know . . . or he hadn’t been. That was the problem.
It was time to visit the man in town. He was “our” lawyer, after all, and speaking to him would surely be more discreet than straight-out walking into the sheriff’s office.
His office was in a small stone building. Grand had pointed the building out to me on a shopping trip before he died. The name on the door read DUNCAN BROWNE, ESQ., ATTORNEY AT LAW.
A well-dressed lady was seated at the desk in the main room. I asked to see Mr. Browne.
“I’m Hannah Cooper, the granddaughter of Ed and Clara Cooper. He knows them.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Cooper. What would you like to see Mr. Browne about? Perhaps we could make an appointment?”
“Is he here?” I experienced a brief flashback of having stood at an etched-glass storm door while a certain boy’s mother tried to keep me away from her son. I bit my lip to keep from speaking harshly. I didn’t like gatekeepers any better than I liked information brokers. “I need help finding our neighbor Mr. Bridger. I think he went to the hospital, but I don’t know which.”
“You could check with the sheriff’s department.”
I didn’t answer. She was right, of course, in one respect, but on the other hand, it would not serve my purpose—a purpose I certainly could not explain. In that silence, a man spoke.
“Miss Cooper?”
I turned. A man stood in the office doorway. Behind him was an impression of dark wood, leather, and books.
He moved forward, extending his hand. “I’m Duncan Browne. I imagine your grandparents have spoken of me?”
They had, but rarely. In my head, he was the Man in Town. He wasn’t wearing the brown suit I’d imagined but a nice dark-blue one with a silky green tie. Gray was sprinkled through his hair, and his face was tanned and lined. His eyes were clear. I liked him instantly.
He cast a quick glance at the desk lady, then looked back at me. “Would you like to come into the office? Is there something I can help you with?” As I followed, he asked, “May I call you Hannah?” Then he motioned me toward a chair facing his desk.
“Of course.” I sat in the offered chair, and he settled into his own.
“How’s your grandmother?”
“She’s well. Our neighbor George Bridger told us he was going to the hospital but didn’t say which one. I tried calling around but no luck.” I looked down. I didn’t like lying. Even omissions were a form of lying. Prevarication, Grand had said to me, was a fancy word but still a lie.
“I don’t know whether he went to Charlottesville or Richmond. I presume Charlottesville, but I couldn’t locate him. I was in town, and I thought of you, that you might be able to find out where he is. He’s not back home yet, and I’m worried.”