ONE HUNDRED CALLS

"Put her on the phone."

I did it immediately.

Sophie held the handset with both hands. The instant she heard her mother's voice, her lower lip began to shake again.

"I'm sorry, Mommy. I know. I'm not lost."

I got up and moved toward the window, far enough to give them privacy, close enough that I could still see her.

I had imagined seeing Elena again. In weak moments, in hotel rooms, in the back of cars after too much wine. Sometimes I was angry. Sometimes she apologized. In none of those versions did a child have to reassure her that I wasn't dangerous.

When Sophie handed back the phone, Elena gave me her address and told me to stay on the line until she reached home.

"Of course."

"Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like this is a normal favor."

I watched Sophie rub the bear's ear between her fingers.

"I don't know how to say any of this. But I will stay on the phone."

Sal arranged the car and an appropriate child seat. I could have kissed him for thinking clearly.

During the drive, Sophie kept her hand on the food bag beside her. Elena remained on the line. Every time I heard her breathing change, I told her which street we were on.

She met us outside a narrow apartment building above a dry cleaner.

I recognized the way she ran before I fully recognized her face.

She caught Sophie as soon as the car door opened, knelt on the sidewalk, and pressed her mouth to the child's hair.

"You cannot do that again. Do you understand? I didn't know where you were."

Sophie dissolved against her.

"I wanted to find him."

Elena shut her eyes. I stood beside the car with two sandwiches in a paper bag, unable to do anything useful.

She was thinner. Her hair was tied up badly, strands coming loose around her face. The coat she wore had a small repair at the wrist.

She looked up at me.

For a moment, all I could see was the woman who used to sit backward on my kitchen stool and steal strawberries from my plate.

Then she stood, putting Sophie behind her hip.

"Thank you for bringing her home."

It was a dismissal delivered with manners. That was always how Elena sounded when she was angriest.

"Can I come up?"

Her gaze flicked to Sal.

"You. Not an entourage."

He stayed by the car. I followed them upstairs.

The apartment had mismatched chairs, a faded sofa, and an upright piano with tape holding a strip of veneer in place. Music sheets covered the lid. A small blue dress hung drying over the kitchen radiator.

Elena sent Sophie to wash her hands.

"She said you haven't been eating," I said.

Her face tightened.

"The music school closed. Several private students canceled. I had a bad month. She shouldn't have brought it to you."

"She's six. She noticed her mother was hungry."

"Don't explain my daughter to me."

I set the bag down carefully.

"You're right."

That seemed to throw her more than an argument would have.

Sophie returned and pulled out the second sandwich.

"He got this one for you. You have to eat it while it's warm."

Elena sat. Her daughter stayed beside her, supervising every bite.

I looked around the room, trying not to look as though I was assessing it. There were framed drawings instead of expensive art. A grocery list on the refrigerator. A child's raincoat hooked beside the door.

An entire life had happened here without me.

When Sophie went to find something in her bedroom, I asked the question that had been burning since the lobby.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Elena stopped chewing.

I saw the hurt before the anger covered it.

"I did."

"I never got anything."

She folded the sandwich wrapper. Once, then again, aligning the edges with unnecessary care.

"I called you more than a hundred times. I sent messages. I went to your office."

"Elena, I would have answered."

She stood so abruptly the chair scraped the floor.

"You did answer. That was the problem."

From a cupboard, she took a shoebox. Inside were a few photographs, an ultrasound printout, and an old phone with a cracked screen.

She plugged it in.

"I kept it for the pictures. I stopped looking at the messages."

The screen lit slowly. She entered a code I recognized as her mother's birthday.

My number was saved under my name and a little music note.

I remembered teasing her about it. She'd said a dollar sign would be rude.

Call after call appeared below it. Some lasted only seconds. Others had never connected.

Then the messages.

I need to tell you something in person.

Please call me. It matters.

I don't want you hearing this from anyone else.

The reply made the room feel very small.

I've met someone else. What we had was a mistake. Don't contact me again.

"I didn't write that."

Elena looked at my face. This time, she didn't immediately look away.

"It came from your number."

"I know."

"There was a photograph."

She swiped. I saw myself outside the Plaza with a blonde woman's hand apparently tucked beneath my jacket.

I remembered the event. There had been six of us in that photograph. The woman was a donor's wife. Someone had cropped the others out and altered where her arm rested.

"There's an original. I can find it. We weren't alone."

Elena pressed her fingers against the chair back.

"You were overseas when I first called."

"My phone had malfunctioned. I left it at the office and traveled with a replacement."

I stopped.

A broken phone. A trusted relative. A story so petty it should never have been able to destroy a family.

Elena watched me work it out.

"I came to the tower when I was pregnant," she said. "I wore the green dress because it still buttoned. I thought if you saw me, you'd listen."

I remembered that dress. I remembered undoing its buttons.

"Who met you?"

She glanced toward Sophie's room.

"Your cousin. He said you didn't want me. He told me to stop embarrassing myself."

Only one cousin had managed my schedule, my private phone, and the parts of my life I thought were safe because he was family.

"Nico."

Elena nodded.

Behind her, the piano held a photograph of a newborn wrapped in a white blanket.

Nico had known about that baby.

And I had trusted him enough to stop looking for her mother.