Orphan Train(79)

Spruce Harbor, Maine, 2011


“You’re looking remarkably normal,” Lori the social worker says when Molly shows up at the chemistry lab for their usual biweekly meeting. “First the nose ring disappears. Now you’ve lost the skunk stripe. What’s next, an Abercrombie hoodie?”

“Ugh, I’d kill myself first.”

Lori smiles her ferrety smile.

“Don’t get too excited,” Molly says. “You haven’t seen my new tramp stamp.”

“You didn’t.”

It’s kind of fun to keep Lori guessing, so Molly just lifts her shoulders in a shrug. Maybe, maybe not.

Lori shakes her head. “Let’s have a look at those papers.”

Molly hands over the community service forms, dutifully filled out and dated, along with the spreadsheet with the record of her hours and the required signatures.

Scanning the forms, Lori says, “Impressive. Who did the spreadsheet?”

“Who do you think?”

“Huh.” Lori juts out her bottom lip and scribbles something at the top of the form. “So did you finish?”

“Finish what?”

Lori gives her a quizzical smile. “Cleaning out the attic. Isn’t that what you were supposed to be doing?”

Right. Cleaning out the attic.

The attic actually is cleaned out. Every single item has been removed from every single box and discussed. Some things have been brought downstairs, and some unsalvageable pieces thrown away. True, most of the stuff got put back in the boxes and is still in the attic. But now the linens are neatly folded; breakables are carefully wrapped. Molly got rid of boxes that were oddly sized or misshapen or in bad shape and replaced them with new thick cardboard boxes, uniformly rectangular. Everything is clearly labeled by place and date with a black Sharpie and neatly stacked in chronological sequence under the eaves. You can even walk around up there.

“Yeah, it’s finished.”

“You can get a lot done in fifty hours, huh?”

Molly nods. You have no idea, she thinks.

Lori opens the file on the table in front of her. “So look at this—a teacher put a note in here.”

Suddenly alert, Molly sits forward. Oh shit—what now?

Lori lifts the paper slightly, reading it. “A Mr. Reed. Social studies. Says you did an assignment for his class . . . a ‘portaging’ project. What’s that?”

“Just a paper,” she says cautiously.

“Hmm . . . you interviewed a ninety-one-year-old widow . . . that’s the lady you did your hours with, right?”

“She just told me some stuff. It wasn’t that big a deal.”

“Well, Mr. Reed thinks it is. Says you went above and beyond. He’s nominating you for some kind of prize.”

“What?”

“A national history prize. You didn’t know about this?”

No, she didn’t know about this. Mr. Reed hasn’t even handed the paper back yet. She shakes her head.

“Well, now you do.” Lori folds her arms and leans back on her stool. “That’s pretty exciting, huh?”

Molly feels like her skin is glowing, like she’s been slathered in some kind of warm honeylike substance. She feels a grin growing on her face and has to fight to stay cool. She makes an effort to shrug. “I probably won’t get it or anything.”

“You probably won’t,” Lori agrees. “But as they say at the Oscars, it’s an honor to be nominated.”

“Load of crap.”

Lori smiles, and Molly can’t help it, she smiles back.

“I’m proud of you, Molly. You’re doing well.”

“You’re just glad I’m not in juvie. That would count as a fail for you, right?”

“Right. I’d lose my holiday bonus.”

“You’d have to sell your Lexus.”

“Exactly. So stay out of trouble, okay?”

“I’ll try,” Molly says. “No promises. You don’t want your job to get too boring, do you?”

“No danger of that,” Lori says.

THE HOUSEHOLD HUMS ALONG. TERRY KEEPS TO HER ROUTINE, AND Molly pitches in where she can—throwing in a load of laundry and hanging it on the line, making stir-fries and other veggie-heavy dinners for Vivian, who doesn’t seem to mind the extra cost and the lack of living creatures on the menu.

After some adjustment, Jack has warmed to the idea of Molly living here. For one thing, he can visit her without Dina’s disapproving glare. For another, it’s a nice place to hang out. In the evenings they sit on the porch in Vivian’s old wicker chairs as the sky turns pink and lavender and red, the colors seeping toward them across the bay, a magnificent living watercolor.

One day, to everyone’s shock and amazement except Molly’s, Vivian announces that she wants to get a computer. Jack calls the phone company to find out how to install Wi-Fi in the house, then sets about getting a modem and wireless router. After talking through the various options, Vivian—who as far as anyone knows has never so much as nudged awake an electronic keyboard—decides to order the same matte silver thirteeninch laptop Molly has. She doesn’t really know what she’ll use it for, she says—just to look things up and maybe read the New York Times.