The two sat across the table. Tannie kept her comments to a minimum so Daisy and I would have the chance to connect. Looking at the woman, I had a hard time believing she was only two years younger than Tannie. At forty-three, Tannie’s skin showed the kind of fine lines that suggested too much cigarette smoke and not enough sun protection. Daisy had a pale, fine-boned face. Her eyes were small, a mild anxious blue, and her lank light-brown hair was pulled back and secured in a messy knot held together with a chopstick. Several loose strands were trailing from the knot, and I was hoping she’d remove the chopstick and have another go at it. Her posture was poor, her shoulders hunched, perhaps because she’d never had a mother nagging her to stand up straight. Her nails were bitten down so far it made me want to tuck my own fingertips into my palms for safekeeping.

While I savored my sandwich she picked away at hers, breaking off small portions she mounded on her plate. One out of three bites she’d put in her mouth while the others she set aside. I didn’t think I’d known her long enough to beg for one. So far I’d left her in charge of the conversation, but after thirty minutes of chitchat, she still hadn’t brought up the subject of her mom. This was my lunch hour. I didn’t have all day. I decided to jump in myself and get it over with. I wiped my hands on a paper napkin, crumpled it, and tucked it under the edge of my plate. “Tannie tells me you’re interested in locating your mother.”

Daisy glanced at her friend as though for encouragement. Having finished her meal, she started gnawing on her thumbnail in much the same way a smoker would light a cigarette.

Tannie gave her a quick smile. “Honestly, it’s fine. She’s here to listen.”

“I don’t know what to say. It’s a long, complicated story.”

“I gathered as much. Why don’t you start by telling me what you want?”

Daisy’s gaze flicked across the room behind me as though she were looking for a way to bolt. I kept my eyes fixed politely on her face while she struggled to speak. I was trying to be patient, but silences like hers make me want to bite someone.

“You want… what?” I said, rolling my hand at her.

“I want to know if she’s alive or dead.”

“You have any intuitions about that?”

“None that I can trust. I don’t know which is worse. Sometimes I think one thing and sometimes the opposite. If she’s alive, I want to know where she is and why she’s never been in touch. If she’s dead, I might feel bad, but at least I’ll know the truth.”