She's My Baby. Adrianne Byrd
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herself she was naming the wrong tune. As she followed the music, her confusion grew. It was coming from the kitchen.
Her usually dependable creative imagination had drawn a blank on what awaited her; but nevertheless, she put on a brave front and continued placing one foot in front of the other.
The moment she entered the kitchen, her gaze zeroed onto a frilly pink bassinette in the center of the kitchen table.
Leila blinked. When the image remained, she blinked again. It was still there and the looped music reverberated off the walls.
She rubbed her chest, certain that her heart was going to break through. “It isn’t. It can’t be.”
Her denial grew with each step while a knot tightened in the pit of her stomach. “It isn’t. It can’t be,” she repeated until she finally stopped to hover over the bassinette.
For half a heartbeat, Leila relaxed. The small, perfectly formed brown baby with rosy cheeks had to be a doll, which meant someone was playing a cruel joke. However, when the angelic child cooed softly, Leila jumped back in terror.
Who would—? When did she—? Where—?
“No. No.” She pivoted so fast she nearly tripped out of her pink slippers. Escaping the kitchen, she could only think to shout one name at the top of her lungs. “Sam!”
Leila bolted through the dining room and into the living room.
Both were empty.
“Sam!”
Swiveling, Leila tripped; but she saved herself from making a splat on the floor by dropping to her knees. Yet, adrenaline propelled her back to her feet and she was once again flying up and down the house.
Guest rooms—empty.
Bathrooms—empty.
Closets—empty.
“Sam…please. Don’t do this to me,” she begged.
Fear and anxiety knit a fine sheen of sweat across Leila’s brow, but she kept going. She reached an all-time low when she crawled on all fours to check beneath her own bed.
Samantha wasn’t there either.
Leila raked her fingers through her hair until her day-old mousse achieved the Bride of Frankenstein look and she nearly succumbed to the temptation to curl up into a ball. Then a thought occurred to her. She hadn’t checked outside. What if Sam was still out there, trying to unload her car or something?
Granted, it was far-fetched; but hope gave credence to the wild notion. Leila sprinted down the stairs, fluffy pink slippers and all; but before she reached the front door, a thin, high-pitched wail filled the house.
Leila skidded to a stop. The baby was crying. “What should I do?”
You should go check on her.
“But I don’t know how to take care of a baby.”
How hard could it be?
Leila mulled over the internal question. She was a smart woman in charge of a successful publishing company. Surely she could handle a baby.
The wail climbed a few octaves and Leila was forced to head into the kitchen. “Okay, okay. I’m here,” she soothed, rushing to the bassinette.
The baby stopped screaming…just long enough to draw a deep breath and then let it rip again.
With rattled eardrums, Leila panicked. She grabbed the bassinette by the handle and raced out of the house. So much for her being able to handle a baby.
“Sam!”
Garrick bolted upright, but was confused by what had awakened him. Yet, in the next second, a woman’s shrill voice penetrated his double-paned windows and he was out of the bed like a shot.
“Sam!”
Widening a slit in the venetian blinds, Garrick peered out to the house across the street. This was supposed to be a quiet neighborhood.
“Sam!”
Who’s Sam? His eyes lowered to the large pink basket she was carrying. A baby. Something was wrong with her baby?
Garrick turned and raced from the window. His heart lodged in his throat at all the wild possibilities. Was the baby sick, hurt, or worse?
“Sam!”
There was no snow this Christmas, but the cold December wind was an instant wake-up call against his bare chest. Yet, there was no way he was going to turn around now that he could also hear a baby screaming.
“Ma’am, ma’am. What’s wrong?”
“What?” The lady stepped back. “Who are you?” Her eyes raked him.
It hit him then that he was standing in his neighbor’s driveway in just his pajama pants. “I—I’m Garrick Grayson. Your new neighbor across the street.”
She took another step back but confusion still clouded her face. Actually, she looked every bit the part of a crazy woman with her hair standing straight on her head. Maybe this was trouble he didn’t need.
“Ma’am, you were screaming at the top of your voice. Is something wrong?”
She blinked out of her trance and glanced around the neighborhood.
Garrick looked as well and saw a few people milling out of their houses.
“Just great,” the woman mumbled under her breath. “Sam has turned me into a screaming lunatic.” She turned, clutched the bassinette tighter, and headed toward her front door.
Still concerned about the crying baby, he followed. “Who’s Sam?” he asked.
“My soon-to-be-deceased sister.” She entered the house. “Okay, little baby,” she cooed awkwardly. “You can stop crying now. Everything is going to be all right…I hope.”
Garrick frowned. “Ma’am. Is everything all right? Do you need me to call someone for you?”
“Call someone. That’s a good idea. I can call someone to come and help me with…uh—this baby.” She stopped in the foyer and then squeezed the large bassinette onto a slim table. “But who? Everyone is gone for the holidays.”
The baby wailed at full volume.
“Okay. Okay. I can do this,” she affirmed and reached for the baby.
Garrick still didn’t know what to make of any of this.
The baby, dressed in all pink, flailed tiny hands and feet as the screaming continued.
Dumbfounded, Garrick eyed the bizarre woman as she held the child away from her body as if the child were a stick of dynamite. “Have you ever held a baby before?”
“Uh, yeah—but never when one was crying like this. I think something is wrong with it.”
It? “I take it this is not your child?”
“Good heavens, no.” Her face twisted. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” she assured the child.
Garrick wasn’t too sure about that and apparently neither was the baby—if the screaming was any indication.
“Why won’t it stop crying?” the lady asked in obvious distress.
It again. “First, I’m guessing by all the pink that it’s a girl,” he said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Second, I’m thinking you would want to hold her a little closer to your body if you’re trying to comfort her.”
The lady looked as if he’d told her to jump off a cliff; but in the next second, she was bobbing her head in agreement. “Okay, okay. I can do that.”
She nearly did, too—until an unmistakable sound alerted them that the baby had just unloaded half her body weight into her diaper.