Light on snow_ a novel - Anita Shreve [40]
“Who was it, then?” she asks.
“A detective. His name is Warren. He’s the one trying to find you.”
“Oh God, I thought so,” she says. “How did he know I was here?”
“I don’t think he did,” I say. “He came to tell my dad that they’d found a flashlight. . . .” I stop, fearing another collapse. “At the . . . you know,” I say quickly.
“Your dad didn’t tell him I was here?”
“No.”
“Oh God,” she says again, but I hear relief and not panic in her voice this time.
“It’s okay,” I say. “He left. He won’t be coming back. Not in this weather.”
“I’ve made you an accomplice,” Charlotte says.
Accomplice, I repeat silently. I love the word.
She runs her hand over the pink sweater in her lap.
“You want something to eat?” I ask.
“Not right now.”
“I should let you sleep,” I say.
“Don’t go,” she says.
She rises from the chair and sets the jeans and sweater on the cushion. She makes her way to the bed, draws back the covers, and climbs in. It seems such an ordinary gesture in such an ordinary room that I have to remind myself of the awfulness of her crime. Uncertain as to what I should do, I sit on the floor next to the bed, my legs folded beneath me.
“Do you know anything about the baby?” she asks.
I am surprised by the bravery of the question, but I’m afraid to answer it in case she begins again to cry. In the dusk of the bedroom, I can barely see her face. She lies like a child, with her hands tucked under her cheek. I think I can smell her: a warm, yeasty smell, not unsweet.
I take a deep breath and speak rapidly. “She’s going to be fine,” I say. “Really fine. But she’s lost one finger. Her toes and everything else are good, though. I don’t know which finger.”
“Oh,” Charlotte says. It’s a small oh, not a wail, but a sound that sinks away into the corners.
“She’s being cared for by a foster family,” I say. I speak carefully now, each word a potentially treacherous step, likely to unleash an avalanche of tears.
“Where?” Charlotte asks.
“We don’t know,” I say. “I don’t think they plan on telling us. They’re calling her Baby Doris.”
“Doris,” she says, clearly surprised.
“We don’t know why,” I say. “It might be a system they have. You know, like naming hurricanes.”
“Doris,” she says again, and I can hear a note of indignation in her voice. She sits up a bit.
“That won’t be her name . . . you know . . . later,” I say.
“Someone will change it,” she says.
“Probably.”
Charlotte’s head falls back against the pillow. “It’s an awful name,” she says.
“You could get her back,” I say quickly. “I’m sure you could get her back.”
She doesn’t speak.
“Don’t you want her back?” I ask.
“I can’t take care of her,” Charlotte says. Her voice is curiously flat, devoid of emotion. “I have nowhere to live,” she adds.
“Nowhere at all?” I ask.
She rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling. My eyes have adjusted to the dark and I can see her profile: the slightly jutting chin, the lips pressed together, the open eyes, the fabulously long lashes, the smooth forehead. “No,” she says.
“You must have lived somewhere,” I say.
“Well, of course I did,” she says. “I just can’t go back.”
I want to ask why, but I tell myself to be careful, to be patient the same way my dad has to be patient when starting up his truck. “How old are you?” I ask instead.
“Nineteen,” she says, rolling back toward me. “So it’s just you and your father?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to your mom?”
“She died,” I say.
Charlotte reaches out a hand and touches my shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she says. Her fingers linger a moment longer, and then she draws them back into the covers. “How old were you?”
“I was ten,” I say.
“You’ve had a rough time, haven’t you?”
I shrug.
“I had a sister, too,” I say. “Her name was Clara. She was a year old. She died with my mom in the car accident.”
I expect the hand on the shoulder again, but it stays where it is inside the covers. “What did she look like?” Charlotte asks.
“Clara?”
“Your mom. What did she look like?”
“She was pretty,” I say. “Not too tall, but thin. She had long light