But I can’t leave her to go across the street to the Sutcliffs’. What if Willa wakes and gets out of bed disoriented and feverish and falls down the stairs? What if she wakes and calls out and there is no one here?
I can’t leave her. All I can do is plunge, squeeze, press—over and over and over—as I pray to God that Mama won’t stay on the south side for as long as she said she would.
The Almighty surely must be looking down on me with pity, because in just a little while I hear the front door open and Mama’s voice. She and Maggie have come back.
I practically fly down the stairs.
Maggie is holding the basket Mama had prepared that morning and Mama holds something else. They both turn toward me and I see that Mama holds an infant in her arms, wrapped up in Maggie’s coat. It’s whimpering, and the little voice is hoarse, like this child has been crying for a very long time and no one has cared. For just a second I forget what sent me careening down to them.
“What is it, Evie?” Mama says, and I realize I must have fear in my eyes.
And then I remember. “It’s Willa.”
