Page 8 of Lillian

“So…” My sister starts, looking at me with intent eyes. “Think she’ll show this time?”

“I don’t know. Part of me hopes she doesn’t,” I admit. Then I go on with a grimace, when I hear how that comes across. “AndI know that makes me an awful person, but she’smydaughter. Despite what some piece of paper says.”

“It doesn’t make you an awful person. It makes you human,” Kim says with such conviction that it makes me feel a little better for admitting it out loud.

“But the other part of me hopes she does show because that means she went another few weeks picking Gracie over the needle. And she deserves that kind of love, ya know?”

“Shehasthat kind of love, Lil. She’s had that for four years. You’ve given her that,” she says, pointing at me in emphasis, and I’m brought back to that day that completely changed the trajectory of my life. All in less than twenty-four hours.

A fuckingbabystares back at me from inside the box. Newborn, by the looks of it. Premature even. Wrapped in what looks like the white blanket they swaddle babies in at the hospital. Who the ever lovingfuckleaves a baby in a box on the sidewalk?

I look up and around to check if anyone else is seeing this shit. But my eyes snag on the fire department doors. I was so caught up in my own head, in the drama with Lincoln, that I didn’t even realize where I was.

The fire department. Of course. The fire department with the safe haven drop box. They could have at least made it twenty more yards to place the child in the box itself. The warm, safe box, away from any manic depressive drivers. Where the baby would have been tended to immediately.

Part of my brain is trying hard not to judge the mother—or father—of this sweet baby. To tell myself at least they gotthis far. But the bigger part of me is so beyond frustrated that anyone could abandon…her? Him?

I kneel down next to the box and gently, so gently, place one hand under the neck to stabilize the head and the other around its back and pull it out. She. Definitely a beautiful baby girl.

“Hey, sweet girl. What a mess, huh?” I murmur to the little girl whose eyes are switching from open to closed like she’s still learning. This baby has to be no more than a few days old. And shaking hard.

It’s not a particularly cold fall day. I’m sweating a little in my long sleeves and jeans. “You’re all bundled up, too. Are you cold?” Hugging her close to my chest, I bend down to see if there is an extra blanket or clothes or anything in the box. There’s not. Just a piece of paper.

My brow furrows, but I pick it up with one hand, open it, and read:

Her name is Grace.

That’s it. Four words. The handwriting is messy, hurried. There is no apology for abandoning her baby or instructions of any kind. No background information. Nothing.

“Well, Grace,” I coo to the baby, who has slipped into sleep. It really is a beautiful name. I’ll give the mother that. “Let’s get you inside where it’s nice and warm.”

Leaving my car, which is kind of haphazardly parked on the road and a tiny bit on the sidewalk, I swoop down, grab the box in one hand, and walk toward the fire department doors.

A bell chimes as I walk in, and a man pops his head around from what looks like a break-room before coming to stand behind the small front desk.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” He seems a little young to be a firefighter with his boyish features but friendly all the same.

“Um… How do I start?” I huff a half-laugh before explaining my sort of car accident out front. Then continue in a much more somber tone. “I got out and saw this box,” I lift it up for emphasis, “and the baby was in it with this note.” I hand that over. “I think she was supposed to be dropped off in the safe haven box, but the mom didn’t make it that far.”

“Jesus fu–,” the kid—man—starts to say. “Fudge. Here. Let’s get the little girl looked over.”

I follow him through a hallway to where a small room is. In it, I see the baby box from the inside. To the left is what looks like a first aid slash changing station. “Set her here?” I ask, nodding to it.

“Please,” he says as he puts on a pair of gloves. As he starts to examine her, he mutters to himself, “Shaking quite a bit. Probably addicted.”

Horror sluices through me. Not cold at all. A budding sort of hatred ignites in me, right along with a fierce need to protect this little girl. Grace.

“You can go if you’d like. We can take it from here,” the firefighter says to me from over his shoulder. The thought of leaving feels incredibly wrong. I pause.

“What’s going to happen to her?” My voice trembles a little, and I bite my lip.

“I’m not really sure. Typically, we’d call one of the adoption agencies we have listed. It’s easier when a baby is abandoned in the safe haven box. He or she can usually go right to an adopted family. But she wasn’t actually dropped offin the box,so I imagine we’ll be calling DCS, and she’ll be put into the system.”

Arizona’s Department of Child Safety. Maybe he reads the sadness on my face because he rushes to reassure me. “Don’tworry. She’ll be placed with a family long-term until she’s able to be adopted. People love babies.”

“Right…” I mutter, mind racing. “Thanks.” I barely hear myself say it as I turn around, plan forming, and pull out my phone. It rings for barely five seconds before she picks up.

“I need your help,” I tell my sister.

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