Orphan Train

However much Jack wants to believe that Terry’s fine and dandy with
     this plan, Molly knows that he steamrollered her into it.
    When Terry opens the door, she gives Molly a once-over. “Well, you clean up nice.”
    “Thanks. I guess,” Molly mutters. She can’t tell if Terry’s outfit is a uniform or
     if it’s just so boring that it looks like one: black pants, clunky black shoes with
     rubber soles, a matronly peach-colored T-shirt.
    Molly follows her down a long hallway lined with oil paintings and etchings in gold
     frames, the Oriental runner beneath their feet muting their footsteps. At the end
     of the hall is a closed door.
    Terry leans with her ear against it for a moment and knocks softly. “Vivian?” She
     opens the door a crack. “The girl is here. Molly Ayer. Yep, okay.”
    She opens the door wide onto a large, sunny living room with views of the water, filled
     with floor-to-ceiling bookcases and antique furniture. An old lady, wearing a black
     cashmere crewneck sweater, is sitting beside the bay window in a faded red wingback
     chair, her veiny hands folded in her lap, a wool tartan blanket draped over her knees.
    When they are standing in front of her, Terry says, “Molly, this is Mrs. Daly.”
    “Hello,” Molly says, holding out her hand as her father taught her to do.
    “Hello.” The old woman’s hand, when Molly grasps it, is dry and cool. She is a sprightly,
     spidery woman, with a narrow nose and piercing hazel eyes as bright and sharp as a
     bird’s. Her skin is thin, almost translucent, and her wavy silver hair is gathered
     at the nape of her neck in a bun. Light freckles—or are they age spots?—are sprinkled
     across her face. A topographical map of veins runs up her hands and over her wrists,
     and she has dozens of tiny creases around her eyes. She reminds Molly of the nuns
     at the Catholic school she attended briefly in Augusta (a quick stopover with an ill-suited
     foster family), who seemed ancient in some ways and preternaturally young in others.
     Like the nuns, this woman has a slightly imperious air, as if she is used to getting
     her way. And why wouldn’t she? Molly thinks. She is used to getting her way.
    “All right, then. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” Terry says, and disappears
     through another door.
    The old woman leans toward Molly, a slight frown on her face. “How on earth do you
     achieve that effect? The skunk stripe,” she says, reaching up and brushing her own
     temple.
    “Umm . . .” Molly is surprised; no one has ever asked her this before. “It’s a combination
     of bleach and dye.”
    “How did you learn to do it?”
    “I saw a video on YouTube.”
    “YouTube?”
    “On the Internet.”
    “Ah.” She lifts her chin. “The computer. I’m too old to take up such fads.”
    “I don’t think you can call it a fad if it’s changed the way we live,” Molly says,
     then smiles contritely, aware that she’s already gotten herself into a disagreement
     with her potential boss.
    “Not the way I live,” the old woman says. “It must be quite time-consuming.”
    “What?”
    “Doing that to your hair.”
    “Oh. It’s not so bad. I’ve been doing it for a while now.”
    “What’s your natural color, if you don’t mind my asking?”
    “I don’t mind,” Molly says. “It’s dark brown.”
    “Well, my natural color is red.” It takes Molly a moment to realize she’s making a
     little joke about being gray.
    “I like what you’ve done with it,” she parries. “It suits you.”
    The old woman nods and settles back in her chair. She seems to approve. Molly feels
     some of the tension leave her shoulders. “Excuse my rudeness, but at my age there’s
     no point in beating around the bush. Your appearance is quite stylized. Are you one
     of those—what are they called, gothics?”
    Molly can’t help smiling. “Sort of.”
    “You borrowed that blouse, I presume.”
    “Uh . . .”
    “You needn’t have bothered. It doesn’t suit you.” She gestures for Molly to sit across
     from her. “You may call me Vivian. I never liked being called Mrs. Daly. My husband
     is no longer alive, you know.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “No need to be sorry. He died eight years ago. Anyway, I am ninety-one years old.
     Not many people I once knew are still alive.”
    Molly isn’t sure how to respond—isn’t it polite to tell people they don’t look as
     old as they are? She wouldn’t have guessed that this woman is