was”—Vivian lifts her knobby hands, splaying her fingers—“all lit up. You were talking up a storm.”
“Were you spying on me?”
“Of course! How else am I going to find out anything about you?”
Molly has been pulling things out of the chest and putting them in piles—clothes, books, knickknacks wrapped in old newspaper. But now she sits back on her heels and looks at Vivian. “You are funny,” she says.
“I’ve been called many things in my life, my dear, but I’m not sure anyone has ever called me funny.”
“I’ll bet they have.”
“Behind my back, perhaps.” Vivian closes the book. “You strike me as a reader. Am I right?”
Molly shrugs. The reading part of her feels private, between her and the characters in a book.
“So what’s your favorite novel?”
“I dunno. I don’t have one.”
“Oh, I think you probably do. You’re the type.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Vivian spreads a hand across her chest, her pink-tinged fingernails as delicate seeming as a baby’s. “I can tell that you feel things. Deeply.”
Molly makes a face.
Vivian presses the book into Molly’s hand. “No doubt you’ll find this old-fashioned and sentimental, but I want you to have it.”
“You’re giving it to me?”
“Why not?”
To her surprise Molly feels a lump in her throat. She swallows, pushing it down. How ridiculous—an old lady gives her a moldy book she has no use for, and she chokes up. She must be getting her period.
She fights to keep her expression neutral. “Well, thanks,” she says nonchalantly. “But does this mean I have to read it?”
“Absolutely. There will be a quiz,” Vivian says.
For a while they work in near silence, Molly holding up an item—a sky-blue cardigan with stained and yellowed flowers, a brown dress with several missing buttons, a periwinkle scarf and one matching mitten—and Vivian sighing, “I suppose there’s no reason to keep that,” then inevitably adding, “Let’s put it in the ‘maybe’ pile.” At one point, apropos of nothing, Vivian says, “So where is that mother of yours, anyway?”
Molly has gotten used to this kind of non sequitur. Vivian tends to pick up discussions they started a few days earlier right where they left off, as if it’s perfectly natural to do so.
“Oh, who knows.” She’s just opened a box that, to her delight, looks easy to dispose of—dozens of dusty store ledgers from the 1940s and ’50s. Surely Vivian has no reason to hang on to them. “These can go, don’t you think?” she says, holding up a slim black book.
Vivian takes it from her and flips through it. “Well . . .” Her voice trails off. She looks up. “Have you looked for her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Molly gives Vivian a sharp look. She’s not used to people asking such blunt questions—asking any questions at all, really. The only other person who speaks this bluntly to her is Lori the social worker, and she already knows the details of her story. (And anyway, Lori doesn’t ask “why” questions. She’s only interested in cause, effect, and a lecture.) But Molly can’t snap at Vivian, who has, after all, given her a get-out-of-jail-free card. If “free” means fifty hours of pointed questions. She brushes the hair out of her eyes. “I haven’t looked for her because I don’t care.”
“Really.”
“Really.”
“You’re not curious at all.”
“Nope.”
“I’m not sure I believe that.”
Molly shrugs.
“Hmm. Because actually, you seem kind of . . . angry.”
“I’m not angry. I just don’t care.” Molly lifts a stack of ledgers out of the box and thumps it on the floor. “Can we recycle these?”
Vivian pats her hand. “I think maybe I’ll hang on to this box,” she says, as if she hasn’t said that about everything they’ve gone through so far.
“S HE ’ S ALL UP IN MY BUSINESS !” M OLLY SAYS , BURYING HER FACE IN Jack’s neck. They’re in his Saturn, and she’s
“Were you spying on me?”
“Of course! How else am I going to find out anything about you?”
Molly has been pulling things out of the chest and putting them in piles—clothes, books, knickknacks wrapped in old newspaper. But now she sits back on her heels and looks at Vivian. “You are funny,” she says.
“I’ve been called many things in my life, my dear, but I’m not sure anyone has ever called me funny.”
“I’ll bet they have.”
“Behind my back, perhaps.” Vivian closes the book. “You strike me as a reader. Am I right?”
Molly shrugs. The reading part of her feels private, between her and the characters in a book.
“So what’s your favorite novel?”
“I dunno. I don’t have one.”
“Oh, I think you probably do. You’re the type.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Vivian spreads a hand across her chest, her pink-tinged fingernails as delicate seeming as a baby’s. “I can tell that you feel things. Deeply.”
Molly makes a face.
Vivian presses the book into Molly’s hand. “No doubt you’ll find this old-fashioned and sentimental, but I want you to have it.”
“You’re giving it to me?”
“Why not?”
To her surprise Molly feels a lump in her throat. She swallows, pushing it down. How ridiculous—an old lady gives her a moldy book she has no use for, and she chokes up. She must be getting her period.
She fights to keep her expression neutral. “Well, thanks,” she says nonchalantly. “But does this mean I have to read it?”
“Absolutely. There will be a quiz,” Vivian says.
For a while they work in near silence, Molly holding up an item—a sky-blue cardigan with stained and yellowed flowers, a brown dress with several missing buttons, a periwinkle scarf and one matching mitten—and Vivian sighing, “I suppose there’s no reason to keep that,” then inevitably adding, “Let’s put it in the ‘maybe’ pile.” At one point, apropos of nothing, Vivian says, “So where is that mother of yours, anyway?”
Molly has gotten used to this kind of non sequitur. Vivian tends to pick up discussions they started a few days earlier right where they left off, as if it’s perfectly natural to do so.
“Oh, who knows.” She’s just opened a box that, to her delight, looks easy to dispose of—dozens of dusty store ledgers from the 1940s and ’50s. Surely Vivian has no reason to hang on to them. “These can go, don’t you think?” she says, holding up a slim black book.
Vivian takes it from her and flips through it. “Well . . .” Her voice trails off. She looks up. “Have you looked for her?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Molly gives Vivian a sharp look. She’s not used to people asking such blunt questions—asking any questions at all, really. The only other person who speaks this bluntly to her is Lori the social worker, and she already knows the details of her story. (And anyway, Lori doesn’t ask “why” questions. She’s only interested in cause, effect, and a lecture.) But Molly can’t snap at Vivian, who has, after all, given her a get-out-of-jail-free card. If “free” means fifty hours of pointed questions. She brushes the hair out of her eyes. “I haven’t looked for her because I don’t care.”
“Really.”
“Really.”
“You’re not curious at all.”
“Nope.”
“I’m not sure I believe that.”
Molly shrugs.
“Hmm. Because actually, you seem kind of . . . angry.”
“I’m not angry. I just don’t care.” Molly lifts a stack of ledgers out of the box and thumps it on the floor. “Can we recycle these?”
Vivian pats her hand. “I think maybe I’ll hang on to this box,” she says, as if she hasn’t said that about everything they’ve gone through so far.
“S HE ’ S ALL UP IN MY BUSINESS !” M OLLY SAYS , BURYING HER FACE IN Jack’s neck. They’re in his Saturn, and she’s
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