Page 5 of One Small Secret

Five hours later, I’m cursing like a sailor. He’s kept up his end of the deal, but I should have added that he also needed to sleep.

He’s capable of sleep. He was asleep when Moira left him. What the heck am I doing wrong? I grit my teeth and swing him back and forth in my arms. Where is Moira? At what point should I comb the streets of town looking for her frozen corpse?

Mom’s phone is still going to voicemail when I call. I’ve rocked him, fed him, cuddled him, but he just won’t close his eyes and sleep. I drag the two of us into my bed, dump a bunch of pillows on his side of the floor so that, if he rolls over or tries to crawl off the bed, at least he'll have a soft landing.

He can crawl, by the way. He even toddles a bit, so I’m thinking that makes him more of a toddler than a baby. That is what makes a toddler a toddler, right? They toddle?

I put some lullabies on my phone and even though he’s still awake, I close my eyes. Partway through the night I awaken with a foot in my face. I groan, tuck the foot under the covers, and fall asleep.

The next time he wakes me, he's crying. I glance at my phone. Three a.m. I grit my teeth and drag myself to the kitchen to make a bottle. When I get back to the room, I just hand it right to him. He can feed himself, so he's either advanced or perfectly normal—I don’t even know—but thankfully, it means I can just go back to sleep.

When I jerk later, it isn’t from crying or some random body part in my face. The sun is shining in my eyes through my curtainless window. I really need to make time to buy some blinds for my windows. I groan. What time is it?

I grab my phone from my nightstand and pound on the touchscreen with my thumb. Crap. It’s dead. Note to self—don’t play lullabies all night unless the phone is plugged in. If I ever decide to quit the hospitality business and write a baby how-to book, that will be chapter one. Work starts at 9 a.m. and the sun wasn’t in my face when I woke up yesterday. I want to jump out of bed, but Moira’s baby is still fast asleep, his face relaxed in guileless innocence. The devilish foot and wailing mouth are still, and he looks almost cherubic.

Cherubs are definitely overrated. Holding my breath, I slide carefully out of bed. I plug in my phone. I haven’t slept past 7 a.m. in years. Please don't let this be the day I break that trend.

I run to the bathroom, turn on the sink, and splash water on my face. My mascara from yesterday drips down my cheeks. My hair is a disaster. I look like a raccoon who stuck its paw in a light socket.

My phone pings to life and I dash out of the bathroom and grab it. If Moira hasn’t texted me yet, she's dead to me. I know people say blood is thicker than water, but she's only a stepsister, and a former one at that. We share no blood. We only lived together for one year, and she was a rotten teenager the entire time. I flip open my phone case and nearly drop the phone.

Bold white numbers flash 9:45. I’m epically late on my second day of work. Moira is for sure dead to me, because I’m going to kill her. I don’t know her son’s name. She left no instructions, no car seat or stroller. All I have is a diaper bag with enough formula for a few days and an even smaller supply of diapers.

No one has texted me.

I silently scream and dial Mom.

On the third ring she picks up. “Hel—”

“Mom, do you know where Moira is?”

“Of course I do. I dropped her off.”

My heart is starting to do something weird. Moira had better be drunk off her butt, so she needed a ride from Mom. “Dropped her off where?”

“At the airport.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. What. Is. Happening. “Mom, why did Moira go to the airport?”

“She didn’t tell you? I thought she went to see you last night. I picked her up right by your place.”

“She told me nothing, but she did drop something off.”

“Oh, that’s sweet of her.”

“No, Mom, it isn’t sweet of her. Did you know she has a baby?”

There’s a pause on the other end of the phone. “Moira?”

“Yes, Mom. Moira.” Who else would I be talking about? “When was the last time you saw her before yesterday?”

“It’s been two years, but I thought that was because she was waiting until she had good news for us. Yesterday she had the best of news, but…” Mom trails off. I can tell she's processing what I just said. “What do you mean, she has a baby? She didn’t have the baby last night.”

“That’s because she left him here with me.” I want to scream, but I’m keeping my voice down because the last thing I need is for him to wake up. Instead, my voice is all hissy and growling. “I don’t even know his name.”

“It’s a boy?” Mom’s voice goes watery.

“Yes, it's a boy, and I am going crazy calling him babe and little mister. When will Moira be back? And why wouldn’t she have asked us about leaving him? Mom, you have to come over. I’m late, and it's only my second day.”

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