Читать книгу Mr. Elliott Finds A Family - Susan Floyd - Страница 7

RAAAH! Raaah, raaah! Raaaahhh!

Bethany Ann Bellamy woke to the wail. She rolled over and groaned, steeling herself against the sound, vowing she wasn’t going to be the one to get up.

Not this time.

Just ten days old, Bernadette was Carrie’s responsibility. Beth Ann shut her eyes tightly in a vain attempt to ignore the plaintive cry of the small infant. An ache throbbed behind her left temple. She had been painting nonstop for the past month, her career as a watercolor artist just beginning to flower. With a small show in Sunnyvale opening in a matter of weeks, she didn’t have time—

Raaah! Raaah, raaah! Raaaahhh!

Beth Ann pulled the pillow around her ears. Couldn’t Carrie hear that?

Raaah! Raaah, raaah! Raaaahhh!

The unhappiness in the cry propelled Beth Ann out of bed. If she didn’t get Bernie, Iris surely would. At eighty-seven, Iris needed every moment of rest she could get. Having Carrie, pregnant and cranky, around the past months had taken its toll on all of them. Pushing her feet into worn slippers and pulling on a faded green chenille robe, Beth Ann stumbled out into the hall, her eyes bleary with sleep deprivation, her subconscious still wrestling with a problematic sap green splatter in the center of a near perfect watercolor wash. She heard a creak in Iris’s bedroom.

“I’ve got her, Grans,” Beth Ann whispered as she shuffled past.

Raaah!

Poor Bernie. It wasn’t her fault. Beth Ann padded quietly to the small room where Bernie and Carrie slept. At the sound of the door squeaking open, Bernie stared up at her, distress in her large eyes. Then her tiny mouth opened.

Raaah! Raaah, raaah! Raaaahhh!

Beth Ann scooped up the infant, gently cradling her head, pressing her close to her chest. Bernie instinctively sought to connect with a nipple.

“Shh. Bernie-Bern-Bern,” Beth Ann crooned as she rocked her, supporting her head, pushing her higher up on her shoulder. “You’re okay, sweetie. Shhhh, shhh. Bernie’s okay.”

Raaah, raaah, raaaahh, raaaahh.

“Let’s go find your mommy. Where’s your mommy?”

Raaah, hiccup, raaah?

“I know, sweetie. You’re so hungry.”

Still rocking Bernie, Beth Ann swiftly negotiated the narrow halls and sharp angles of the sixty-year-old, one-story bungalow that she and Carrie had grown up in. In the large kitchen, she took out a bottle of prepared formula from the fridge, shook it vigorously and popped it in the microwave, her hand automatically pressing buttons. As they waited, Beth Ann tickled Bernie’s rounded cheek. Twenty-eight seconds later—ding!

“Where’s your mommy, sweetheart?” Beth Ann whispered as Bernie fought against the rubber nipple, her tiny head turning away in her frustration to find suction.

Raaah, raah. Gulp. Success.

Bernie sucked greedily and stared intently at Beth Ann, her infant, frog-like eyes, protruding and blurry. Beth Ann kissed her small pink forehead, still peeling, and ran a gentle finger across the fine dark fuzz that couldn’t conceal the pulsing soft spot.

Then Beth Ann saw Carrie’s carefully formed round letters on a thick, manila legal-sized envelope lying conspicuously on the kitchen table.

I’m going crazy! I’ve got to get out of here.

I’m going back to Christian. Bernie will be fine with you.

I owe you one.

Caroline

Careful not to jostle Bernie, Beth Ann sat on a kitchen chair stunned.

No. She hadn’t. Even with postpartum depression, Carrie wouldn’t— Carrie couldn’t—

With one hand, Beth Ann opened the envelope and stared in disbelief at the quarter-inch stack of crisp, new hundred dollar bills. Back to Christian. Bernie suckled away, none the wiser, her seven pounds heavy against Beth Ann’s arm.

Yes, she had.

Her half sister had abandoned her baby.