Maybe I agreed because I thought that I might get to hear Franny’s voice. Or maybe because of the way he was looking at me. When the operator asked me for the listing, I said her name slowly, “Leah. Leah Dugan.”

He handed me a pen and then opened the palm of his hand so that I could write the number down. I held his hand open and wrote, watching the ink seep into the lines of his skin. When I was finished, he made a fist, like he got what he came for.

“Now call.”

“Why? What is it you want me to find out?”

“Your father. Find out who he is.”

I laughed. Because he thought the solution was so simple. Because of how the ink had rubbed off in his palm and made it look like blood.

“It’s not going to help.”

“Maybe it will.”

“No.”

“Maybe he can explain about the dream. The one with all the screaming in it.”

I looked out through the blurry glass. I felt safe inside with him. Like we were invisible. Invincible. I should have asked him why it was so important to him. Why he needed to believe that my father could fix the mess I was in. But I didn’t.

Instead, I unclenched his fist and punched in the numbers and pretended they were Leah’s eye sockets. I pressed hard against the metal squares, poking and pushing until I heard a faint ringing in my ears. Up to the point that she answered, I wasn’t sure if it was real or just my heart pulsing inside my head. She said hello more than once. I held the phone close to my ear, pressing it tightly to my chin. I counted for seven seconds and then right before I thought she was going to hang up I spoke.

“Hi.”

I could hear her breaths on the other side of the phone. Like butterfly wings clapping together.

“Matilda?”

“Yup.” I answered, as if I called every day.

“Is everything alright?”

“It’s great.”

“Matilda, are you in some kind of trouble?”

“How is Franny?” I asked. I twisted my fingers into the cord and then stopped.

“She’s okay.”

More quiet.

“How are you?”

Daryl looked at me for a minute and then opened the accordion doors and went outside.

“I’m fine.”

“Is there something you need?”

“Why?” I had planned a heartbreaking beginning to this conversation, but that was the only word that came out, and when it did, it sounded muffled.

“Matilda, is there something you want?”

“Yes. Tell me why.”

“I don’t know what you want.”

“Why are you covering for Therese?” Calling my mother by her first name made me feel rebellious.

There was a few seconds of silence. “Your mother loves you, and even though it may not seem like it, she’s doing what is best for all of us.”

“My mother is a bitch.”