Page 72 of His Daughter

The elevator closed. The penthouse went quiet. Lena kicked her feet in the swing and blew a bubble. I sat on the couch and listened to the silence, and the word home sat in the room like something newly planted.

I fed Lena at noon, propped her on my hip while I answered emails on the laptop — the Garcia follow-up, a message from the Whitfield Foundation requesting additional documentation, three voicemails from funders Margot forwarded. I drafted the next section of the grant application one-handed, which was possible but not elegant.

Lena grabbed at the keyboard twice. I moved her hand. She grabbed again. I gave up and gave her a teething ring.

The intercom buzzed.

I stopped typing. After Kira, I checked every time. My eyes went to the screen by the front door. The concierge's voice came tinny through the speaker: "Ms. Calloway? A Lorraine Calloway here to see you."

I closed my eyes.

I did not invite my mother. I did not tell her I was here. I did not give her a reason to show up unannounced at a penthouse on the Upper East Side on a Tuesday afternoon without warning, without invitation.

I pressed the button. "Send her up."

The elevator opened, and my mother walked into the penthouse.

She was wearing coral lipstick, dangling earrings that caught the light, and a silk blouse with a pattern too formal for a daytime visit. Her perfume entered the room before she did — sweet and floral.

"Baby!" She kissed my cheek. Her lips left a coral mark. She was already moving past me, her eyes sweeping the penthouse, and then she spotted Lena in the swing.

"There she is!" She clapped her hands together. "There's my grandbaby!"

She crossed the room and scooped Lena out of the swing. Lena blinked up at this sudden, perfumed, dangling stranger and looked at me with distinct skepticism.

"Oh, look at you." Lorraine bounced her. "You are the most beautiful thing. Yes, you are. You look just like your daddy."

She carried Lena to the couch and sat down. Lena grabbed one of her earrings. Lorraine laughed and gently unhooked the tiny fingers.

"So." She crossed her legs and settled Lena in the crook of her arm. "How's Declan? Is he treating you right? That man is so handsome, Thea. I mean, really. Ray is handsome too, but Declan has that thing. You know what I mean."

"He's at work, Mom."

"On a Tuesday? He works too hard. Ray is the same way. Speaking of Ray, we went to the most wonderful show last night. A jazz thing at this place downtown — Ray knows the owner — and the music was just incredible. And afterward, we went to this little bar, and there was this singer, and Ray — "

"Mom, why are you here?"

Lorraine blinked. "What do you mean? I'm here to see you."

"You didn't call first."

"Since when do I need to call? You're my daughter." She adjusted Lena on her arm. "Besides, Ray has meetings all day, and I was just sitting at the hotel with nothing to do, so I thought — why not pop over and see my girl?"

There it was. She didn't come to see me. She came because Ray was busy.

I filed it in the place where I kept all of Lorraine's small injuries — the cabinet in my chest that was overfull and would never close.

"It's good to see you, Mom."

"It's good to see you too, baby." She kissed Lena's head. "Now, tell me everything. How's the living situation? Are you happy?"

My phone rang. Margot.

"Thea." Her voice was tight, no preamble. "Diane's housing placement is falling through. The shelter is threatening to discharge her. There's a paperwork issue with the referral authorization, and they won't accept it without your signature. I've been on the phone for an hour. They won't budge."

"Can you scan it and email it to me?"

"It's a wet signature. They need the original. The shelter director is leaving at four, and if we don't have the signed authorization in her hands by then, Diane and her kids are out tonight."