He brushed a stray curl off her forehead. “Everything will be fine this time. I feel it in my bones.”
“You said that last time, and look what happened.”
When Brad tried to kiss her, Scottie turned her head away. “Don’t, Brad. I’m not in the mood.” She couldn’t remember the last time they’d made sensual love together, like in the beginning of their relationship when they came together as one, like they were the only two people on the planet and the only thing that mattered was satisfying their hunger. The nights of drunken lust still happened—tearing each others clothes off and having ravenous sex on the floor in front of the fire or in the backseat before they even got out of the car—but she found it hard to get excited about Brad cramming his cigarette-and-beer tasting tongue down her throat first thing in the morning.
“Come on, baby, I missed you so much.” He jammed his knee between her legs and began to paw at her pajamas.
Scottie bit her lip until she tasted blood. She knew from experience it was best to grin and bear it. It would be over soon. Sex never lasted long anymore.
An hour later, Scottie was feeding Mary a bottle when, out of habit, she clicked on the television, forgetting about her self-imposed ban on the news. Standing at the entrance of the park, Joyce Jackson, a young African-American reporter announced, “The body of the young woman discovered in Monroe Park on Thursday of last week has been identified as twenty-one-year-old Melissa Sabin from Portland, Oregon.”
So her name wasn’t Trisha after all?
Joyce held her hand to her earpiece and listened while Mike Conrad, the newscaster in the studio, asked, “Any word on the cause of death?”
The reporter shook her head. “Not yet, Mike. The medical examiner’s office has promised preliminary autopsy results by the end of the day. We’ll continue to follow this breaking story and have more for you at noon.”
Panic gripped Scottie’s chest. She leaned down and kissed Mary’s forehead. “Don’t worry. I won’t let them take you from me.”
She turned off the television. The autopsy would reveal that Melissa Sabin had recently given birth and was nursing a baby when she died. It wouldn’t take the police long to realize the baby had gone missing from the scene. Human interest would escalate and every investigative reporter in the area would jump on the story. At twenty-one, Melissa Sabin was just a child herself. Scottie assumed her parents were the ones who identified the body. Would they try to gain custody of the baby? According to Mabel, they were both alcoholics and the father abusive. Mary was better off in foster care.
Scottie set the bottle on the coffee table and paced the room while she burped the baby. The scene unfolded in her head. The police would show up at her door. They’d handcuff Scottie and haul her off to jail while the neighbors watched from behind closed curtains. Mary would go to live with her alcoholic, abusive grandparents in Oregon while Scottie spent the next ten Christmases in a correctional center for women.
She placed her hand on her belly. She didn’t stand a chance of carrying this baby to term under such stressful circumstances.
No way Brad would go along with adopting the baby now. He would turn Scottie into the police before he implicated himself in the kidnapping of a child he didn’t even want. After his long flight from California and being up all night, he would probably sleep past noon. And since he wasn’t a news junkie, as long as she kept the television turned off, he might not hear about the identification of the body until he went to work late that afternoon. Scottie figured she had until six o’clock, when the local news aired, to make her move. Until then, she needed to stay calm. To do that, she needed to keep busy.
She strapped Mary in the baby swing, opened her laptop, and created a new Word document. Her fingers flew across the keyboard as the words came to her. The story had been on her mind for months, and she needed to get her thoughts on paper while her feelings were still fresh.
She was seven hundred words in when Brad appeared in the kitchen. “Please don’t tell me you’re planning to post a story about the homeless on the Internet,” he said, reading the document over her shoulder. “Connecting yourself to those homeless people is lunacy. You can never let anyone know about your relationship with those people in Monroe Park. Which means you can’t sell your photographs either. All the time you spent on your series was wasted.”
She slammed the laptop closed. He was right, of course. Her photographs would forever link her to Melissa Sabin. She’d been planning on using the proceeds from her series to start a new life. “I’m not stupid, Brad,” she said, although she felt like an idiot. “I’m not planning to post my story. I just needed to get these thoughts off my chest.” She went to the refrigerator and poured him a glass of orange juice. “Why are you up so early, anyway?”
He gulped down the juice, then licked his lips. “I’m working a double shift to make up for my vacation time. So don’t wait up for me.” He started down the hall toward the front of the house, then stopped. “I’m warning you, Scottie,” he said, without turning around. “Don’t get too attached to that baby. I haven’t made up my mind about keeping her yet.”
Don’t get too attached? That was like telling an addict not to get hooked on heroin. Maybe not the best analogy, but it adequately described the way Scottie felt. She’d more than grown attached to the baby. Mary gave new purpose to her life. She filled a void inside of Scottie that had been empty for far too long.
Scottie only hoped Brad didn’t force her to choose.
She glanced at the clock on the oven. Ten minutes before eleven. Almost time for the party to start. Anna’s parents were throwing a party for Anna’s friends and their children, complete with a magician dressed like Santa Claus. Go figure. Scottie had regretted her invitation, as if they’d actually expected her to come.
If only I can get through the day.
While the baby dozed in the swing, Scottie piddled around the house in her pajamas, trying not to think about what lay ahead for her. She did several loads of laundry and wrapped presents for her family, even though she wouldn’t be around to hand them out on Christmas Eve. When Mary woke from her nap, Scottie gave her a bath, then left her in her crib to stare at the mobile while she showered. She dressed as if she had somewhere to go in a pair of designer jeans, her favorite cashmere sweater, and her tall black boots that Brad thought sexy.
The long hours of the afternoon loomed before her. Once she finalized Mary’s adoption and the new baby was born, she would add more structure to her days. In the mornings, she would take the children on playdates or to run errands or to swim at the club during the summertime. She would work at her computer while they napped in the afternoons, then the three of them would go on long walks or special outings before dinner. She would mold her career to fit her new lifestyle, at least while the children were still little.
Scottie put the baby down for a nap after her two o’clock feeding. She then removed her rolling suitcase and a large duffle from the attic and filled them with clothes—several outfits plus underwear and toiletries in the rolling suitcase for herself, and everything she’d bought for the baby plus diapers, blankets, and burp cloths in the duffle for Mary. She stored both bags in the coat closet beside the front door, easy access for a quick escape.
With nothing to do but wait for the first edition of the local news at five, she browned a pound of ground beef and spooned it into a crockpot with the rest of the ingredients for a chili dinner no one would be home to eat. She wrote long letters on monogrammed stationery to her family. One for her mother and one for her father, which she would leave on the kitchen counter, and one to Will, which she would deliver in person. If her plan went accordingly, her parents would never read the letters, but if something went wrong, she wanted them to hear the story in her own words.
10
Mary woke from her afternoon nap with a fever. “You’re burning up, little girl. Can you tell me what hurts?” As Scottie lifted her from the crib, the baby threw up all over h
er cashmere sweater. Not your typical baby spit-up after a bottle feeding but the rancid vomit of the truly ill.
Mary began to cry, a pitiful moaning sound Scottie had not heard from her before.
The hairs stood up on Scottie’s neck. She had yet to get to the chapter on childhood illnesses in her baby research. She didn’t have any children’s Tylenol or Motrin, not that she would know how to administer it. She snapped her fingers, remembering the fancy baby thermometer one of her mother’s friends had given her at the shower. She found it in her supplies, ripped open the package, and inserted the thermometer in Mary’s ear. When the thermometer beeped, its digital display read 102 degrees.
“Think, Scottie,” she said out loud to herself.
She went to the bathroom and dampened a washcloth with cold water. She laid Mary on the changing table and rubbed her body all over with the wet cloth. She rinsed the washcloth and repeated the process several times. She picked the baby up and sank to the nearby rocker in despair. She wouldn’t be able to leave town tonight. Taking a sick baby on the road was simply too dangerous.
Nothing seemed to relieve Mary’s discomfort. She vomited three more times during the next hour and her fever spiked to one hundred and three degrees. Scottie tried rocking her and walking her around the house. She didn’t think feeding her formula was a good idea, so she tried water in the bottle instead, which pacified Mary long enough for Scottie to watch the five o’clock news.
Wally Warner—the old man newscaster with a fake tan and gray hair glued to his head with hairspray—led off with the story Scottie had been dreading. “In the case of the twenty-one-year-old homeless woman discovered in Monroe Park on Thursday, the medical examiner has released the shocking autopsy report just minutes ago. Joyce Jackson has been following this story all day, and is standing by in Monroe Park.” Joyce appeared the screen. “What can you tell us, Joyce?”
“Well, Wally, according to the medical examiner, the autopsy showed that the young woman, one Melissa Sabin, had recently given birth and was still nursing the baby at the time of her death.” The camera panned to the scene behind her where police were questioning a group of bystanders. Scottie recognized Buck and Miss Cecil. “Sources tell police that Melissa Sabin was seen with the baby the evening before she died from hypothermia.”
Great. Scottie turned off the television. Just when she thought things couldn’t get worse. If even one of those homeless people broke their pledge, her Christmas goose was cooked. Scottie’s phone vibrated on the coffee table with texts from Brad insisting she turn on the television, and from Will: Please tell me the baby on the news isn’t the one in your living room.
She reached for the phone and thumbed a quick response: IDK what u r talking about.
Scottie considered her options. She could do as Brad suggested and leave Mary in the emergency room at one of the area hospitals—St. Mary’s, perhaps, or VCU. At least the baby would get the medical attention she obviously needed. But then they’d capture her on the security camera and the footage would be played over and over on the national news, just like when the poor UVA student went missing last year. No judge would let her off the hook for anything less than ten years.
She could hand the baby over to the police and explain that she’d hadn’t meant any harm, that she’d only been trying to offer the baby food and shelter until the body was identified. She looked down at Mary who was peering up at her through glassy eyes. “I don’t like that option either, little one. No way am I giving you up that easily.”
The third option, and the only one that made any sense to Scottie, was to take the baby and leave town until the whole thing died down. She would return with her birth certificate, and no one would ever know. And the case of the missing baby in Monroe Park would remain unsolved.
But first she needed to get Mary’s fever down.
Scottie scrolled through her contacts and clicked on Anna’s mobile number. She answered on the second ring. “We missed you at the party today, Scott. But I’m sure you had more pressing matters to attend to than watching babies fight over rattles.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. I’m babysitting for my cousin’s little girl, which is why I’m calling. Is Dave home from work yet?”
“Not yet, but I expect him any minute. Why, what’s wrong?”
“My cousin and her husband went to DC for the night. The baby is sick, vomiting with fever, and my cousin isn’t answering her cell phone.”
“How high is the fever?” Anna sounded concerned.
“A hundred and three.”
“That doesn’t sound good. You should probably take her to Patient First.”
“I would, except my cousin forgot to leave me her insurance card. Or any medicine. I don’t even have infant Tylenol.”
“Okay, let me think a minute.” Anna paused. “Dave should be home any minute. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind running down to take a look at her.”
“I’d bring her to you—”
“No, don’t do that! It’s cold out. You stay put, and we’ll be there as soon as we can. Besides, this will give me a chance to bring you your Christmas present.”
Scottie ended the call. Cradling Mary in the crook of her left arm, she dropped to her knees and crawled over to the Christmas tree. She searched through the presents until she found Anna’s—a framed black-and-white photograph of Emily she’d taken at their Fourth of July picnic.
Mary started crying again and didn’t let up until Anna and Dave arrived an hour later. Scottie was frantic when she handed the baby over to Dave.
“So this is your cousin’s baby?” Laying her down on the sofa, he listened to her heart and lungs with his stethoscope.
Scottie nodded. “My cousin Elizabeth. She lives in North Carolina.”
“That’s funny. I’ve never heard you mention her.” Anna sat down on the sofa beside the baby. “And what’s this little one’s name?”
“Mary. My cousin doesn’t get up this way very often. Their sitter fell through at the last minute. They dropped the baby off on their way to Washington to a client dinner. They’ll only be there for one night.”
Dave continued his examination of the baby. “I’ve seen a lot of this virus in my office in the past few days, vomiting and high fever. Has she been able to keep anything down?” he asked.
“Only a little bit of spring water.”
“How old is she?” he asked.
“Four months,” Scottie said.
Dave glanced at his wife. “Did you bring in the bag of samples?” Anna removed a plastic bag from her purse, and handed it to him. He dumped an assortment of Motrin and Pedialyte on the coffee table. He filled a small applicator with orange liquid and inserted it in Mary’s mouth. “Repeat this dosage every six hours if her fever persists. Feed her Pedialyte until the vomiting subsides, then ease her back into her formula.
“Be aware of the signs of dehydration.” He began to tick each one off on his fingers as he spoke. “If she goes more than six hours without wetting a diaper. If her urine is dark and smells strong. If she doesn’t produce tears when she cries. There are others, you can Google them, but those are the most prominent ones.” Stuffing his instruments in his black doctor’s bag, he stood to go. “I mean this, Scottie. Regardless of whether you have an insurance card for this baby or not, if you have any concerns about her health, take her to the hospital right away.”
Scottie bit her lip. “I understand.”
“Okay, then. Anna, I’ll wait for you in the car.”
Because of his gentle manner and special way with children, Dave was one of the most sought after pediatricians in the area. Anna and Dave met in Boston, when she was at Boston College and he in medical school at Harvard. They’d only been dating for six months when she brought him home to meet her family and friends. Scottie had liked Dave from the start.
Tonight, however, Dave’s manner was brisk, professional but lacking his usual cheery disposition. When he refused to look Scottie in the eye an
d neglected to kiss her cheek on his way out, Scottie knew he suspected something amiss about the baby.
“Did you hear about the missing baby in the Monroe Park case?” Anna asked Scottie when the two of them were alone.
Scottie felt her best friend watching her, waiting for a response. “Yes, I heard that. It’s terrible,” she mumbled, unable to meet her friend’s eyes.
Anna wrapped her arms around Scottie and the baby. “You know you can call me anytime. But Dave… well, you understand. He can’t risk losing his license.”
11
Mary’s fever broke within the hour but the vomiting and diarrhea persisted throughout the night and into the next morning. Sitting in the rocking chair in the nursery, Scottie had dozed off and on in between changing dirty diapers and soiled linens and keeping a watchful eye on the baby for dehydration.
Brad didn’t come home at all, which was fine by Scottie. She didn’t have the energy for an argument she could never win.
Anna texted once, right after she left, a message she was sure came straight from Dave’s mouth: You are playing a dangerous game, Scottie. If anyone asks, we were never there.
Will texted off and on throughout the night, each text more pleading than the next. Any other time of year, her brother would have shown up at her door, but he was swamped at work with end-of-the-year finances.
At 8:15 pm: If u r in some kind of trouble, I want to help.
At 9:20 pm: I’m still at the office but I can be there in minutes.
At 10:38 pm: Talk to me, Scott.
At 10:44 pm: I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.
At 12:15 am: Answer me, damn it.
Not wanting to involve Will anymore than was necessary, she decided to wait until Mary turned the corner before she responded. She needed his help, and she was prepared for him to bombard her with questions. She only hoped she could convince him he was better off not knowing the answers.
At six thirty, she turned on the television in her bedroom and scrolled through the local channels, relieved to find there’d been no further developments in the missing baby case during the night. The situation was out of her control. Scottie felt like a sitting duck, waiting for someone to take aim and fire at her.
Merry Mary Page 5
