Orphan Train

him; there were a lot of things he didn’t want
     to talk about either.
    “Jim was good with facts and figures. Very organized and disciplined, far more than
     Dutchy was. Honestly, I doubt the store would’ve done half as well if Dutchy had lived.
     Is that terrible to say? Well, even so. He didn’t care a whit about the store, didn’t
     want to run it. He was a musician, you know. No head for business. But Jim and I were
     good partners. Worked well together. I did the ordering and the inventory and he upgraded
     the accounting system, brought in new electric cash registers, streamlined the vendors—modernized
     it.
    “I’ll tell you something: marrying Jim was like stepping into water the exact same
     temperature as the air. I barely had to adjust to the change. He was a quiet, decent,
     hardworking man, a good man. We weren’t one of those couples who finish each other’s
     sentences; I’m not even sure I could’ve told you what was going on in his head most
     of the time. But we were respectful of each other. Kind to each other. When he got
     irritable, I steered clear, and when I was in what he called one of my ‘black moods’—sometimes
     I’d go days without saying more than a few words—he left me alone. The only problem
     between us was that he wanted a child, and I couldn’t give him that. I just couldn’t
     do it. I told him how I felt from the beginning, but I think he hoped I’d change my
     mind.”
    Vivian rises from her chair and goes to the tall bay windows. Molly is struck by how
     frail she is, how narrow her silhouette. Vivian unfastens the silk loops from their
     hooks at each side of the casing, letting the heavy paisley curtains fall across the
     glass.
    “I wonder if . . .” Molly ventures cautiously. “Have you ever wondered what became
     of your daughter?”
    “I think about it sometimes.”
    “You might be able to find her. She would be”—Molly calculates in her head—“in her
     late sixties, right? She could very well be alive.”
    Adjusting the drape of the curtains, Vivian says, “It’s too late for that.”
    “But—why?” The question feels like a dare. Molly holds her breath, her heart thumping,
     aware that she’s being presumptuous, if not downright rude. But this may be her only
     chance to ask.
    “I made a decision. I have to live with it.”
    “You were in a desperate situation.”
    Vivian is still in shadow, standing by the heavy drapes. “That’s not quite true. I
     could have kept the baby. Mrs. Nielsen would’ve helped. The truth is, I was a coward.
     I was selfish and afraid.”
    “Your husband had just died. I can understand that.”
    “Really? I don’t know if I can. And now—knowing that Maisie was alive all these years
     . . .”
    “Oh, Vivian,” Molly says.
    Vivian shakes her head. She looks at the clock on the mantel. “Goodness, look at the
     time—it’s after midnight! You must be exhausted. Let’s find you a bed.”

Spruce Harbor, Maine, 2011
    Molly is in a canoe, paddling hard against the current. Her shoulders ache as she digs into the water on one side and then the other. Her feet are soaking;
     the canoe is sinking, filling with water. Glancing down, she sees her ruined cell
     phone, the sodden backpack that holds her laptop. Her red duffel topples out of the
     boat. She watches it bob for a moment in the waves and then, slowly, descend below
     the surface. Water roars in her ears, the sound of it like a distant faucet. But why
     does it seem so far away?
    She opens her eyes. Blinks. It’s bright—so bright. The sound of water . . . She turns
     her head and there, through a casement window, is the bay. The tide is rushing in.
    The house is quiet. Vivian must still be asleep.
    In the kitchen, the clock says 8:00 A.M . Molly puts the kettle on for tea and rummages through the cupboards, finding steel-cut
     oats and dried cranberries, walnuts, and honey. Following the directions on the cylindrical
     container, she makes slow-cooked oats (so different from the sugary packets Dina buys),
     chopping and adding the berries and nuts, drizzling it with a little honey. She turns
     off the oatmeal, rinses the teapot they used the night before, and washes the cups
     and saucers. Then she sits in a rocker by the table and waits for Vivian.
    It’s a beautiful, postcard-from-Maine morning, as Jack calls days like this. The bay
     sparkles in the sun like trout scales. In the distance, near the harbor, Molly can
     see a