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When I wake up—and I am only out for a second—I hear the young woman screeching like a raven. I am pushing myself to sit up when Lola comes from the back and nearly steps on me before realizing that I am there on the floor.
“Girl!” Her voice rises a full octave higher than I thought it would go, and she reaches out drawing me up to my feet. “What happen?” she asks, clipping the last of her word in her concern.
“She just fainted.” The young woman on the other side of the counter says, and I try to push Lola off of me but she won’t set me free.
“You et today?” she asks, letting her accent grow broad and wide.
“Yes, Lola. I et,” I say, emphasizing the “et” part. “Stop. I’m fine.” But I’m not really—I know this because the moment before the world narrowed to a pinprick comes rushing back. The young woman is touching my arm, and I don’t pull away. I’m trying to remember her name. I think I know it. I glance at her then back to Lola, “She knew my mother before she died.” Lola’s hand draws up, and she touches the top of her forehead, the middle of her chest and each shoulder. Her fingers touch her lips, and she sends a kiss off to God on the wings of a prayer for a woman she never met.
She wants to ask, I can tell, but she doesn’t. I love her a little bit more for her quiet prayer. She knows what it is to lose somebody; I see it in her eyes. She understands that talking about it isn’t always easy. I wonder if anybody ever prayed over my mother before. “You sure you is all right?” I nod, and she turns to go back to handling the dry-cleaning that will need extra pressing if she leaves it much longer.
“I’m so sorry,” the young woman says, and I just shake my head. She hasn’t done anything. I’ve been feeling queer for weeks, and I thought it was just Warren being gone.
“You said he got into a gray car with decals on the back? Was it Cal?”
“I didn’t know his name. He was tall, dark-haired, tattoos, like you said.” Her brows are still drawn together.
“Gray car, with decals? Was there anybody else in the car?”
"No. I don't think so."
So Warren wasn't waiting for him. He just let him use his car. “Hm. That’s odd. You told the police that?”
I don’t have the best memory, and everything since my mom died has been kind of a blur, but the night I heard that they’d found Cal dead in that field, Warren went away. Was Cal never in his car because he was already dead in a field over by Neoga? I know Warren didn’t tell me he was leaving for the demo like he said he did. I know he didn’t. He was running. He was gone for weeks, and when he came back and asked me to come here with him, he was all secretive and quiet. He didn't let me tell anybody where I was going, and even made me rewrite the note to Leslie, because I had said they should look me up if they ever got to St. Louis.
“Yeah, I told them. So they never caught him?” Her words bring me back out of my thoughts, and I’m frustrated because I feel like I was on to something and now the train of thought is leaving without me aboard.
“They found him; he’s dead.” Of course, I know that’s not true. They didn’t find the person who killed my mother. Cal was already gone, and Warren never lets anybody drive his car. I guess the train hadn’t quite left. Did Warren kill my mother?
“You said you heard them through the door. Did you hear her call him anything?”
She shakes her head. “No. I heard the yelling and kind of rushed on past. I really didn’t want to get involved. I’m so sorry.” The door opens, and a blast of cold comes in with a flurry of snow. I nod, because I can't say anything else with other people in the shop. Why would Warren kill my mother? Why would he argue with her? What business did he have with her? What am I missing?
I finish processing her clothes and write her name, Molly White, in my memory. I will have to find her and talk to her more, ask her more questions about my mom coming to the bookstore, ask her more questions about the tall, dark-haired, tattooed man she saw that day.