Page 4 of One Small Secret

“No. I actually need to go. Your mom promised me some one-on-one time, but next time we should all get together.” She stands up and grabs her purse.

“We should. But we better hurry, I’m sure some agency will be calling you to New York and you’ll be off to catch your big break.”

Something sparks in Moira’s eyes. “You know me.”

It’s been so long since I've seen Moira’s eyes light up with excitement. I can't even think of the last time. She's still extremely thin. Chasing the dream of becoming a model meant Moira had made certain of that, but this thinness looks healthier. Her face is still angular, but not sharp, and the hollows look artistic instead of sallow. Would I really see her again soon? Or was this to be it for another few years? Any goodbye could be a long goodbye with Moira.

Moira stands in front of me and sighs long and deep. Then she leans forward and gives me a hug. She was way too cool for hugs in high school. I wrap my arms around her, expecting a quick squeeze and release, but she holds me tighter than I expected.

When she releases me, her eyes are partially wet.

Maybe she'll be back soon. Maybe tomorrow we can have dinner together and catch up. Something has changed in Moira—something big. Maybe she’s just grown up like we all have, but I think it’s something more.

She turns with a wave and before I know it, she's gone.

CHAPTER THREE

My eggs are rubbery and flavorless, but there’s no way I’m getting off this chair and taking the four steps around the kitchen island to grab the salt shaker. My feet are still a little numb and prickly, and salt isn’t good for me anyway. I need a grocery store run. I’m going to have to use Mom’s car again. I’d gotten so used to not needing one in Vietnam, that for some reason I thought I would be able to get away with it in Rosco.

I’ll call Mom tomorrow though. Tonight is all about pj’s and curling up on the sofa to watch whatever 1990s rerun I can find. I can choke down eggs and toast for one more day.

I rub the back of my neck and hobble past the table to my bedroom. I push open my door and stop. There’s a large, square, black bag, bedazzled with the image of Marylin Monroe, sitting at the foot of my bed.

What the heck? Did Moira snoop through my fridge and my bedroom? And how did she forget her bag?

I pull my phone out of my pocket, but I don’t have her number. I try Mom instead. She doesn’t pick up.

I text her.

Moira left a blinged-up bag here. Can you tell her to come pick it up sometime tonight or tomorrow? And send me her number, please.

I bend down to grab her bag and I hear a soft squeak somewhere in the room. My heart stops. Did Moira let in a cat, or something? If there's a cat in the bed, I’ll be freaking feral the next time I see her. The last thing I need is something depending on me for survival.

Sure enough, there's a lump on my bed near the pillows, and the blanket is moving. I shake my head and rub my eyes. Moira showing up is always bad news.

But when I get to the side of the bed, two round dark eyes are looking up at me and blinking, and they’re not cat eyes.

I put a knuckle in my mouth to keep from screaming and then look back at the bag on the floor.

That bag…It isn’t Moira’s purse. It’s a diaper bag.

And the lump in my bed is a baby. A freaking baby. This cannot be happening. Who stops by for the first time in years and leaves a baby? My hands start to shake and my cold toes are forgotten. How long is Moira going to be gone? She didn’t say what she and mom were going to be up to, but her comment about it being just the two of them suddenly takes on more meaning.

Okay, maybe she needed a night off, and for some reason, didn’t bother asking me if I was up to babysitting. But she never bothered to mention she was a mom. It’s not like the baby is little. I’m not good at guessing, but I would think it’s close to a year old.

I put my hand up like a stop sign in front of those blinking brown eyes as if telling the kid to wait, but that makes no sense at all. What’s it going to do, stand up and walk away? I dial Mom again. It goes straight to voicemail.

The baby makes another squeak, but this time it's short and its face scrunches together. I know that look. It’s probably going to cry if I don’t pick it up.

I take a deep breath. I’m not some monster. I like babies, don’t I? A little bit, at least? And objectively, this one is a pretty cute one, with soft, dark curls. It’s not the baby’s fault that its mom is so stinking inconsiderate. I square up my shoulders. So I have a baby for an evening. I can handle that. I’ll skewer Moira when she comes back, but I won’t keel over and die.

I pull the covers down just as the squawking sounds turn into real cries. The baby is in a blue onesie and darker blue sweatpants. A boy? I scoop him up. He's way past the point of needing help with his head. I sling him to my side and bounce him on my hip.

The crying stops, and those big brown eyes stare at me like I’m the surprise.

“Well then, Mister. I don’t know where your mama went. But you and I will have a pleasant evening. Let’s just make one very serious deal. I won’t call her any bad names if you don’t throw up or poop on me. Okay?” He doesn’t answer, but I’m going to hold him to it. “How do you feel about watching some TV?”

And that is what we do. After a few episodes, I get over the worst of my anger. The little guy isn’t bad company. He doesn’t complain about my choice of shows, and he hasn’t even made a mess anywhere. I did have to change his diaper once, at which point I confirmed my suspicions that he was in fact male.

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