CHAPTER EIGHT
Sarah hoped a few drops of blood wouldn’t spoil Victoria Tiger’s Native American dessert. Ginsu knives were every bit as sharp as advertised and slicing pumpkins called for a high level of food-prep dexterity.
“Thanks so much for helping.” Victoria walked around her scrupulously clean, commercial grade kitchen, explaining the nuances of “Pumpkin Corn” dessert while trying every trick she knew to make baby Andrew happy.
“Andy won’t let me cook. He screams when I put him down.”
Sarah wondered how much more volume the little boy could muster if his feet touched the floor.
Shut up you little bastard. So many unworthy thoughts. She wanted none of them. Sarah selected an ear of blue corn from the colander in the kitchen sink and did her best to ignore the audio portion of motherhood.
“Careful not to slice into the cob.” Victoria tried to tickle Andrew into submission, but the baby wouldn’t be distracted. She used one hand to set the temperature on her oven, and Andy took it to the next level.
How much snot could that little nose produce? Andrew had no interest in having it removed. He screamed louder when Victoria wiped his face with a wet paper towel, louder still when she ran through her repertoire of funny faces, and loudest of all when she lifted his tiny shirt and blew on his belly.
Sarah wondered exactly what aspects of motherhood Victoria found enjoyable. Birthing a child was bad enough. After that came sleepless nights, dirty diapers, childhood illnesses, temper tantrums, peer conflicts, teacher parent conferences, bad attitudes, broken hearts, driver’s license, college entrance exams, tuition bills, bad marriages, divorces. Then grandchildren started the process all over again.
She raked the severed corn kernels with just a few of her own epithelial cells into a pie pan and put it into the oven to bake.
Why didn’t she see the attraction that was so obvious to every other woman in the world? Sarah had zero understanding of the most basic building block of human culture. Marie hadn’t gotten it either. Maybe there was a defective family unit gene passed down from mother to daughter. Sarah wanted Victoria to explain the nesting instinct in terms a non-believer could understand. She almost worked up the courage to ask the question.
Instead, she asked, “Is this a traditional Creek dish?”
Victoria made a show of checking on the blue corn. She propped Andrew on a hip, slipped an oven mitt over one hand, using her teeth for leverage, and carried the slightly parched corn over to the stovetop.
“It’s kind of embarrassing,” Victoria said, barely loud enough to be heard over Andrew’s caterwauling.
“The Creek are totally integrated into white society.”
Andrew took a break from crying for a moment. It lasted until Victoria made a madhouse happy-face.
“They have nothing of their own.” Victoria looked as though she might be about to give Andrew a lesson in tear production. “They have forgotten everything.”
“Thank God for people like Hashilli.” Victoria choked on the name.
“Who?”
“You’re doing that all wrong.” Victoria pushed Baby Andrew into Sarah’s marginally-willing arms. She adjusted the heat under the pumpkin slices and sprinkled blue corn kernels into the orange mush.
“Now for the whole wheat flower and honey.” She stopped suddenly in the middle of her project and stared at Sarah. “Well, will you look at that?”
Sarah turned her attention to Baby Andrew. The little boy looked into her eyes as though they were the most fascinating things he had ever seen. A smile spread over his face in jerky increments like timelapse photography of a blooming flower.
Andrew touched Sarah’s nose with a tiny hand and disarmed her with baby noises that made her want to cover him with kisses.
“I think I get it now.” Sarah meant to keep the thought internal, but Andrew had weakened her defenses with baby magic.
“What?” Victoria held her hands out to take the baby, but Sarah wasn’t ready to relinquish possession.
“I think your ‘Pumpkin Corn’ dessert is burning.”
Andrew grasped a few strands of Sarah’s hair and made the most of it. It only hurt a little.
She studied Andrew’s face. No features he could call his own. The baby’s eyes were seriously blue. She hoped they’d stay that way. She’d seen eyes like that only once before.
Robert Collins. Damn! What made me think of him?
Owl Dreams Page 8
