Orphan Train

and
     hands it to Molly.
    The page is titled Carmine Luten—Minnesota—1929 .
    “They didn’t change his name?”
    “Apparently not,” Vivian says. “Look—here’s the woman who took him out of my arms
     that day.” She points at the screen with a curved finger, urging Molly to scroll down.
     “An idyllic childhood, the piece says. They called him Carm.”
    Molly reads on: Carm, it appears, was lucky. He grew up in Park Rapids. Married his
     high school sweetheart, became a salesman like his father. She lingers over the photographs:
     one taken of him with his new parents, just as Vivian described them—his mother, slight
     and pretty, his father tall and thin, chubby Carmine with his dark curly hair and
     crossed eyes nestled between them. There’s a picture of him on his wedding day, eyes
     fixed, wearing glasses, beaming beside a round-cheeked, chestnut-haired girl as they
     cut a many-tiered white cake—and then one of him bald and smiling, an arm around his
     plumper but still recognizable wife, with a caption noting their fiftieth wedding
     anniversary.
    Carmine’s story has been written by his son, who clearly did lots of research, even
     making the pilgrimage to New York to scour the records of the Children’s Aid Society.
     The son discovered that Carmine’s birth mother, a new arrival from Italy, died in
     childbirth, and his destitute father gave him up. Carmine, it says in a postscript,
     died peacefully at the age of seventy-four in Park Rapids.
    “I like knowing that Carmine had a good life,” Vivian says. “That makes me happy.”
    Molly goes to Facebook and types in the name of Carmine’s son, Carmine Luten Jr. There’s
     only one. She clicks on the photo tab and hands the laptop back to Vivian. “I can
     set up an account for you, if you want. You could send his son a friend request or
     a Facebook message.”
    Vivian peers at the pictures of Carmine’s son with his wife and grandchildren on a
     recent vacation—at Harry Potter’s castle, on a roller coaster, standing next to Mickey
     Mouse. “Good Lord. I’m not ready for that. But . . .” She looks at Molly. “You’re
     good at this, aren’t you?”
    “At what?”
    “Finding people. You found your mother. And Maisie. And now this.”
    “Oh. Well, not really, I just type in some words—”
    “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day,” she breaks in. “About looking
     for the child I gave away. I never told anybody this, but all those years I lived
     in Hemingford, anytime I saw a girl with blond hair around her age, my heart jumped.
     I was desperate to know what became of her. But I thought I had no right. Now I wonder
     . . . I wonder if maybe we should try to find her.” She looks directly at Molly. Her
     face is unguarded, full of longing. “If I decide that I’m ready, will you help me?”

Spruce Harbor, Maine, 2011
    The phone rings and rings in the cavernous house, several receivers in different rooms trilling in different keys.
    “Terry?” Vivian’s voice rises shrilly. “Terry, can you get that?”
    Molly, sitting across from Vivian in the living room, puts her book down and starts
     to rise. “Sounds like it’s in here.”
    “I’m looking for it, Vivi,” Terry calls from another room. “Is a phone in there?”
    “It might be,” Vivian says, craning to look around. “I can’t tell.”
    Vivian is sitting in her favorite chair, the faded red wingback closest to the window,
     laptop open, nursing a cup of tea. It’s another teacher-enrichment day at school,
     and Molly is studying for finals. Though it’s midmorning, they haven’t yet opened
     the curtains; Vivian finds the glare on her screen too strong until about eleven.
    Terry bustles in, half muttering to herself and half to the room. “Jeez Louise, this
     is why I like landlines. I never should’ve let Jack talk us into cordless. I swear—oh,
     here it is.” She pulls a receiver out from behind a pillow on the couch. “Hello?”
     She pauses, hand on her hip. “Yes, this is Mrs. Daly’s residence. Can I ask who’s
     calling?”
    She nestles the receiver in her chest. “The adoption registry,” she stage-whispers.
    Vivian motions her over and takes the phone. She clears her throat. “This is Vivian
     Daly.”
    Molly and Terry lean in closer.
    “Yes, I did. Uh-huh. Yes. Oh—really?” She covers the receiver with her hand. “Someone
     matching the details I submitted had already filled out a