She wasn't anywhere downstairs, nor in her room, nor mine, nor anywhere else on that floor.

Aunt Hattie said no, she wasn't out, but that she was sure she didn't know where she was.
She must be somewhere in the house.
I went upstairs then, another flight.

There wasn't anywhere else to go, and Mother must be _somewhere_, of course.

And it seemed suddenly to me as if I'd just _got_ to find her.

I _wanted_ her so.
And I found her.
In the little back room where Aunt Hattie keeps her trunks and moth-ball bags, Mother was on the floor in the corner crying.