Travellers in Magic by Lisa Goldstein

my best to find your daughter. Whether she wants to be found is up to her. I’ll give her a message from you, whatever—”
    â€œShe has to get away from him.”
    â€œI can’t do that. Your daughter’s of legal age—She is of legal age, isn’t she?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAll right then. If she tells me herself that she wants to end the marriage—”
    â€œShe does—”
    â€œThen I’ll help her. But not otherwise. If she won’t leave him I can give her the name of a women’s shelter, in case she changes her mind. I know a counselor there. Do you understand?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOkay. I need to know some things about your daughter—her husband’s name, their last address if you know it. Do you have a picture of them?”
    She does. The photograph she shows me must have been taken shortly after the two eloped: The daughter is wearing what looks like a bridal wreath, a circlet of flowers. She is beautiful, with light brown hair and blue eyes. I can’t tell what she’s thinking; she has the vacant expression of the very young. Her mother seems to have gotten all the wisdom in the family.
    Her husband looks nearly twice her age. He is unsmiling, almost grim. He has long, greasy hair, a short beard, and wears a black leather vest over a t-shirt. He stands a little in front of her, casting her partly in shadow. “What does she do?” I ask.
    â€œNothing, as far as I know,” Ms. Green says. “He won’t let her leave the house.”
    â€œWhat about him? He looks like a Hell’s Angel.”
    â€œI wouldn’t be surprised.” For the first time she looks away from me, down toward her lap. She smooths her busy skirt. “I don’t like to think about it.”
    â€œHow long has she been with him?”
    â€œAbout four months. They got married right after they met.”
    â€œWhere did she meet him?”
    Ms. Green looks away again. “She says it was in a park.”
    We talk a little more, and then I give her my standard contract and explain about my fees. She signs the contract and writes a check for my retainer.
    As soon as she leaves the nausea I’ve been fighting the past few weeks returns. I run down the hallway to the bathroom and make it just in time to throw up into the toilet. As I stand and catch my breath I wonder why the hell they call it morning sickness. Mine seems to go on all day.
    I make my way back to the office. I’ve got to do something about this, I think. I’ve got to decide. I flip through the calendar on my desk. The doctor’s appointment is in two days, on March 19.
    Dora Green had given me the last address she had for Carolyn and her husband, and had told me that her daughter had been taking classes at the university. It’s past four o’clock, though, and in this sleepy northern California town the university is probably closed for the day. I decide to visit Carolyn’s neighborhood.
    Before I leave I call a contact in the Department of Motor Vehicles and ask her to run a check on Jack Hayes, Carolyn’s husband; on Carolyn Green; and on Carolyn Hayes. Then I pick up my coat and purse, lock the office door, and step out into the hallway.
    The landing smells even worse than usual, frying grease and floor polish. They say that your sense of smell improves when you’re pregnant, but in the past few weeks I’ve discovered that this doesn’t nearly go far enough. What I think actually happens is that your entire skin becomes a giant olfactory gland.
    The temperature outside is in the thirties, and the sun is barely visible through the clouds. It’s the coldest March people in this town can remember. Wind burns my ears. My well-dressed client, I remember, wore a plush padded overcoat. I wrap my thin cloth coat around me and get into my car.
    The car’s heater kicks in just as I drive up to Carolyn’s address. I sit in