Mildred Charlotte Wilson's Arc

Chapter 2 of 12

The caseworker's signature sat on the folded page in Mildred's pocket. Under it, the document listed an agency address. She drove there the next morning, sure the building would point her to where the woman had gone. She parked and looked up. No sign. Boarded windows. A rusted fence around a cracked lot. The address was old. The agency was gone. She pressed her face to a gap in the boards. Empty desks. Dust. No mail, no notice, nothing to say where the staff moved. Mildred kicked the fence and swore. Another dead building. Another door with no handle. She had come chasing a clue and found only a shell. She sat on the curb and pulled out the page again. The address meant nothing. But the caseworker's name was still real. A name could be searched. A name could be called. She had wasted the morning on a place when she should have chased the person. A soft glow moved at the edge of the lot. A cat stepped through the broken fence. Its fur seemed lit from inside, pale light rippling along its back. It padded to her and sat, tail curled, watching her with calm green eyes. Mildred laughed once, tired. "You live here now?" The cat wore a thin collar. A small tag hung from it. Mildred reached slow, and the cat let her turn the tag. A phone number was scratched into the metal. Below it, a name and one word: RETIRED CASEWORKER. Her breath caught. She looked from the tag to the empty building. The woman had left this place, but someone nearby still knew her. Mildred stood too fast. The cat slipped back through the fence. She didn't chase it. She had the number now, and a number beat a boarded window. She dialed with a shaking thumb. It rang four times. A woman answered, voice thin and slow. "I'm looking for the caseworker who signed my file," Mildred said. She read the name off the page. Silence stretched. Then the woman said, "That's me. I don't do that work anymore." Mildred gripped the phone. "You handled my relinquishment. Thirty-five years ago. I need to know my mother's name." A long pause. "I remember the cases. I don't keep the names in my head, child. Those are sealed." A breath. "But I kept notes. Old ones. Off the record." Mildred's heart slammed. "Where?" "Come to me," the woman said. "I'll tell you what I can. Not on the phone." She gave a town name and hung up. Mildred lowered the phone. The building had been a dead end. But it had held a cat, and the cat had held a thread. She folded the page and stood. The caseworker was alive, willing, and hours away. The address had failed her. The person had not.