Maybe it was the expression on the woman’s face.
She didn’t look like someone trying to keep Nora from us.
She looked terrified of what Nora might do if we surprised her.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“My name is Elaine.”
“How do you know my daughter?”
Elaine looked through the café window.
Nora was laughing at something a customer had said.
I hadn’t heard my daughter laugh in eight years.
Elaine lowered her voice.
“I used to run a small women’s shelter about forty minutes from here.”
Michael and I stared at her.
“Nora came to us four years ago.”
I felt the air disappear from my lungs.
“Four years ago?”
“She was twenty.”
“Where was she before that?”
Elaine closed her eyes briefly.
“With a man she couldn’t easily leave.”
My stomach turned.
“What man?”
Elaine looked at both of us.
“I think you should sit down.”
We moved to a small patio around the side of the café where Nora wouldn’t easily see us.
Every part of me hated it.
My daughter was alive only yards away.
I wanted to run inside.
Touch her face.
Hear her call me Mom.
But Elaine repeated the same warning.
“If you surprise her, she may panic and leave.”
That stopped me every time.
Elaine told us Nora had arrived at the shelter late one night.
She had almost nothing with her.
No phone.
Very little money.
No bag.
She was exhausted and frightened.
At first, she gave them a different name.
Weeks passed before she admitted she had family elsewhere.
Months passed before she admitted that she had disappeared when she was a teenager.
“She told you about us?” I asked.
“Eventually.”
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“Then why didn’t you call the police?”
Elaine met my eyes.
“Because Nora was already an adult by the time she came to me. And she begged me not to contact anyone.”
Michael’s expression hardened.
“You knew she was a missing person.”
“Not when she first arrived.”
“But you eventually knew.”
“Yes.”
“And you did nothing?”
Elaine remained calm.
