Risky Baby Business Page 5

  When Liz first arrived at the facility in the Haridwar district of India, some two hundred kilometers northeast of Delhi, she hadn’t understood or appreciated the rationale behind the policy. But as she worked with the fifty or so children living at the ashram, she began to see that their parents had presented them with a chance to be healthy, safe and cared for in a warm, communal setting. The older children helped to care for the younger kids. All of the students learned skills that would benefit them once they reentered the real world.

  Liz knew that she, a single woman of moderate means, would have had little hope of adopting a perfectly healthy India-born child. Even a special-needs child would be placed in a two-parent home first, but Liz had felt such a powerful connection to Prisha from the moment she’d taken over the infant’s care, she’d begun to dream of bringing her home to the United States where Prisha could get the medical help she needed.

  Liz knew that many babies were born with a slight intoeing—a condition commonly called “pigeon toes.” But Prisha’s metatarsus adductus was only part of the problem. Her left leg was shorter than the right and there appeared to be some internal tibial torsion, or twisting of the bone between the knee and the ankle. Without surgery, the little girl would never be able to walk normally.

  By the time Liz left the ashram, Prisha was flourishing, although she couldn’t do many of the things babies her age were supposed to do. She could roll over, though. Quite a task considering only one foot functioned the way it was supposed to.

  Liz had watched the tiny infant—she’d been a mere five pounds at birth—first with respect, then affection, then love. Prisha never complained. Rarely cried. And always accomplished what she set out to do—no matter how tough the hurdle.

  Humming with anticipated joy, Liz quickly scanned the photos on the Web site. None included Prisha.

  “That’s odd,” she murmured, switching screens to access her e-mail. Prisha was such a sweet-natured baby that all of the older girls loved to carry her with them, including her in their games, contests and even school lessons.

  Twenty-nine e-mail messages were waiting for her. Not surprising since Grace copied Liz on every stupid joke currently surfing the Net. As usual, Liz deleted them without reading any. She did stop to check out any notes Grace included. One missive said: “Since you’ve turned into such a cat lover, I thought you’d like these shots.”

  Liz quickly scanned the attached photos. “Oh, Grace, you’re such a soft-hearted boob.” After a second of consideration, Liz selected two shots to print. They were cute photos, and Reezira loved kittens. Which explained how two felines had found their way into Liz’s household.

  Liz had never owned a pet of any kind as an adult. When you traveled as much as she did, the idea sounded selfish. She didn’t plan to get a pet until after Prisha was completely and officially hers.

  As the printer did its thing, she scrolled down the list of new messages until she found one from Jyoti. She clicked on it.

  My dear friend, may all be well with you. I have news that will concern you, but please don’t let it alarm you too much. Our darling Prisha is ill. A fever has been traveling through the ashram. It’s accompanied by pain in the limbs and some vomiting. A volunteer doctor from Delhi has visited and declared that nothing can be done except to keep the children hydrated and warm. Which we are doing, of course. I will do my best to keep you informed of how she is doing, but for now I must rush away to help with the many. Namaste, J.

  A chill passed through her. Her rational mind leapfrogged about: Kids get sick all the time. She’ll bounce back right away. There’s nothing I could do even if I were there. She’ll be fine.

  But dark thoughts quickly followed. Prisha was under-weight for her age. She wasn’t able to move around and exercise so her lungs weren’t as strong as they should be. She’d been prone to sinus infections since birth. She needed someone to put eucalyptus oil in a vaporizer and rock her until her breathing eased. She needed a mother. She needed Liz.

  “I brought your money.”

  David looked over his shoulder. He’d finished his work for the day and was just cleaning up his tools. He’d been so lost in thought remembering the slightly rueful twist to Liz’s smile that he hadn’t even heard the head of the homeowners’ association walk up.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Well, it was some problem,” she corrected herself. “I know you prefer cash, but the association works on a two-signature check system. The last time I did this, the bank objected to our making the check out for cash, so this time I had to get Roxanne, our treasurer, to make it out to me, then I cashed it. I just hope nobody accuses me of embezzlement.”

  He counted the twenties then stuffed them into the deep pocket of his coveralls. He’d first adopted the style of clothing as a sort of camouflage. Within days of his arrival in Vegas, he’d observed that a certain age group, namely men over sixty, favored the one-piece jumpsuit. He’d figured by assuming the dress code of the retired set, he’d look older. And be less visible. Since then, he’d discovered the clothing was also practical for the climate: loose fitting to allow for movement of air.

  “I’ll give you a receipt.”

  She actually looked relieved when he suggested it. Normally, he was reluctant to put his signature on anything, but he figured he could forge his made-up name pretty well after four years. Funny, he thought, how long old habits, like signing your name a certain way, stay with a person.

  He walked to the cab of the truck and opened the glove compartment. The hinge was bad and its long, lingering squeak sounded like nails on a blackboard.

  “Ooh, that’s awful. You should oil it.”

  He knew that. But he figured the sound would alert him if anyone tried to poke around in his truck.

  He pulled a pen from his chest pocket and opened his two-copy receipt book to a fresh page. After sliding the cardboard protector sheet into place, he printed the name of the association and the amount she’d given him, then shifted the tablet to the left to remind himself that the signature he was signing should read David Baines. He added just enough flourishes to render it virtually illegible.

  “Here you go,” he said, ripping off her copy.

  She turned suddenly and with her back to David, yelled, “Don’t be late, Eli.”

  David looked past her and spotted a kid peddling away as if the devil were on his tail. The boy, a hulky, wide-shouldered kid in his mid-teens, maybe fifteen or sixteen, was dressed in a black-and-gray football jersey and denim jeans that were easily three sizes too big. The kid’s baseball cap was on backward. David couldn’t make out the logo, but noticed it matched the color of his bike—bright red.

  Crissy heaved a weary sigh. “My stepson. Lives with his mother in Phoenix, but his school is off-session, and she’s working so we have the pleasure of his company.” Her tone made it clear the pleasure was anything but.

  “He was such a sweet kid when his dad and I first married. Then the evil teen fairy took away his brains and left a snarling, surly, hormone-driven mouth in his place,” she said, laughing humorlessly at her joke. “I honestly don’t know how his mother stands all that attitude and rudeness on a regular basis. A month is almost more than I can take.”

  He noticed her husband’s name didn’t come up. Probably because the guy was never around. Either he left before dawn and returned well after David was done for the day, or the gossips were right and the guy was a real jerk. David had overheard two women talking the day he was hired to do the landscaping.

  Three board members had been required to approve his bid and sketches. When Crissy left the room to talk to her daughter—a fashionably dressed princess in pink at least five years younger than her half brother, he’d overheard the other two women discussing Crissy’s family.

  “That boy is a terrorist waiting to happen,” the gray-haired woman in the Sam’s Town Windbreaker had predicted.

  “His father needs to step in now or they’ll lose him to a gang. T
oo bad the man is always away on business.”

  David had never had the liberty of being a rebellious teen. His grandmother would have castrated him. Or kicked him out. Maybe people who knew unconditional love could afford to thumb their noses at the ones giving it, but that hadn’t been his experience.

  He started to clear his throat to get her attention back on the receipt he was still holding when a flash of purple caught his eye. He turned toward the house where he’d shared a glass of tea earlier. A slender woman in navy shorts and a royal purple tank top sprinted across the lawn and took off jogging down the street.

  He used his sleeve to wipe a bead of sweat out of his eye. Running? In this heat? Was she nuts?

  “Ugh,” Crissy said, her gaze following Liz. “Self-discipline is one thing, but self-abuse? No, thank you.”

  When David didn’t comment, she added, “Early evening is a terrible time of day to run. Traffic is bad. The pollution in the air is ghastly. And visibility is worse than at night. I sure hope she doesn’t get run over.”

  David was surprised by her concern. He almost changed his opinion of her, until she added, “I don’t know what would happen to her place if she were killed. Probably her family would sell it, but I suppose there’s a chance she might have willed it to those women who are living with her.”

  Her disapproval of Liz’s roommates was obvious. Curious, David asked, “You don’t like them?”

  She snatched the receipt from his fingers. “They don’t belong here. This is a family neighborhood, not a refugee camp. Did Liz tell you what they did for a living before they snuck into America? They were prostitutes.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I have prostitutes living next door to me. Not that I’m planning to sell, but can you imagine what that kind of information would do to the property values around here?”

  Her tone positively dripped with repugnance.

  He slammed the door of his truck with such force the bang made her jump. He didn’t say anything. This wasn’t his problem. Besides, he didn’t know why he was surprised by her attitude. Snobs abound in this world--even in relatively ordinary neighborhoods like this one.

  “Oh, I almost forgot, the association approved the extra expenditure for the vacant lot around the corner. I put together a couple of sketches of what I think might work. Do you mind coming in a minute?”

  Yes, he did. But money was money.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  The word repeated in her head every time her right heel hit the pavement. Only a stupid person would take off jogging at this time of day in this heat. If not for the wind, she probably would have melted into a puddle before she was ten blocks from home.

  Normally, she ran in the morning. The earlier the better. But she’d overslept this morning and had had to race to her breakfast meeting with her sisters. Now she was running to get the frustration of not being able to help Prisha out of her system. So far away. So little she could do.

  A soft cry escaped from her lips. Liz set her jaw and picked up the pace. Whimpering and moaning wouldn’t help. Staying focused on her goal would. She’d made several online acquaintances who had undertaken a challenge similar to hers. One, a single woman like Liz, had recently celebrated her daughter’s fifth birthday with a trip to Disneyland.

  See? Happy endings do exist.

  There were differences in their cases, of course. Her friend was an executive with a prominent fast-food chain. Money was not a problem. Also, the child she’d adopted came from Calcutta, which didn’t fall under the Central Adoption Resource Agency boundaries. That adoption had been faster than normal—a mere eight months, start to finish. Liz had been told to expect the process to last at least a year, if not two.

  Liz could only pray that Prisha would survive that long. The child was a fighter, but how long could the spirit flourish when the body faced so many obstacles? If Prisha were here—receiving daily, one-on-one encouragement and treatment—her medical condition might not be life-threatening. But she wasn’t here, and Liz couldn’t do anything to help.

  Her breath suddenly left her and she had to stop. Bending at the waist, she rested her hands on her thighs and tried to draw in enough air to keep her tears at bay.

  Prisha will be fine. She’ll get through this. And sometime within the next year, I’ll be flying over there to pick her up and bring her home with me.

  “Hey, whaswrongwithyou?”

  Liz lifted her head. Three boys on bikes. Not little boys. Young men, actually. They were too far away for her to see them clearly. Singly, none of the three would have appeared at all menacing, but as a group they gave off a sort of gangster vibe that made her wary.

  Liz didn’t answer. She took a breath and started jogging again, giving them wide berth. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been paying attention to where she was running and had wound up in the middle of a large and completely empty church parking lot. She passed by the building nearly every day and there were always cars around. But not today.

  “Damn.”

  The church occupied about a third of a block and was surrounded by residential neighborhoods, but the closest houses were well out of shouting range. She headed toward the intersection where there was bound to be traffic at this time of day. People on their way home to dinner. Busy, hungry people. Lots of them.

  “Hey, you. You’re that Gypsy, ain’t you?” One of the boys called after her.

  There was no missing the kid’s denigrating tone. Gypsy scum, she’d heard some boy say in the fourth grade. Her first introduction to prejudice.

  “Words can only hurt you if you let them,” her mother had said when Liz came home from school in tears. But Yetta was wrong. Words could be the precursor to violence. Liz had seen firsthand the tragic repercussions of ethnic hatred. Death and destruction had left a lasting impression on her mind.

  She stopped running. She hated confrontation of any kind. The smart thing to do was to walk away, but she’d learned the hard way that ignoring the problem often led to bigger problems.

  In Iraq she’d noticed the small group of men that gathered every day at a certain street corner. Sympathetic to all the horrors and losses the locals had incurred, she’d never reported them—even when one or two made lurid comments and taunting gestures.

  She’d paid a high price for minding her own business. These boys are young. Maybe, I can still reach them.

  She turned around. She had to hop over a low, white chain that directed foot traffic away from the newly seeded yard encircling the playground the church had recently installed. She could smell the scent of cedar from the red-orange shavings under the jungle gym.

  One of the boys swung his bike around to face her. He was biggest of the three and something about him seemed familiar. I’ve seen him before. Which made sense, she realized. He must know who she was since he’d called her a Gypsy.

  All three were wearing sloppy, oversized jeans that were belted almost below their butts. Their ball caps were pulled low over their foreheads making their chins, uniformly adorned with acne and half a dozen whiskers, their most prominent features.

  The glare of the setting sun put them in shadow. She blinked and stepped to one side. She wanted to see their eyes when she talked to them. She wasn’t afraid, even though she probably should have been. But this was broad daylight in a relatively public place, she reasoned.

  Plus, after what happened to her in Iraq, she’d learned self-defense. When she’d finally recovered sufficiently—physically—to travel, she’d gone to New Zealand to stay with a friend. The woman, a former relief worker Liz had met years earlier, taught yoga, meditation and self-defense at a youth hostel on the South Island. Her friend believed all women should know how to defend themselves.

  As the boys murmured to each other, Liz unconsciously prepared—hips square to her body, knees flexed to take advantage of her lower center of gravity. She consciously braced her shoulders and said, “Is it Gypsies you hate or women?”

  The leader slouched on the sea
t of his bike and grunted something she couldn’t make out. The smaller boy fidgeted and looked ready to hightail it. All three were white. The bikes they were riding probably could have fed the children at the orphanage for a year.

  “We heard about you—and the two hos you got livin’ with you. You got some kind of kinky sex thing going?”

  The last brought an edgy giggle from the other punks.

  Yep, neighborhood kids. This one, at least. They probably overheard their parents gossiping. The idea made her slightly ill. She’d done a good thing by opening her home to two desperate young women. How could that possibly be cause for scorn and ridicule?

  Anger made her take a step forward. “I know you, don’t I?” She pointed at the leader. “You live near me. I’ve seen you riding your bike around. What’s your name?”

  His barely audible curse wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before. A small-minded bully with a trashy mouth. Nothing new there. She decided to ignore him. “Is that what you think?” she asked his two friends. “That because my family is Romani, I’m an inferior person? Well, I’m not the one standing in a parking lot calling people names, am I?”

  The smallest boy, who was obviously younger than his friends, turned his bike in the opposite direction and took off peddling. The middle-sized kid groaned and tried calling him back. “Joey, get your ass back here, you coward.”

  Liz took a step closer. “He’s not the coward. You are. All bullies are cowards deep down. They take advantage of someone else’s weaknesses to harass them because it makes them feel powerful. Calling a girl names. Yeah, that’s real brave.”

  The boy she’d been addressing flushed scarlet and looked down. His pal, the leader, shoved his bike to the ground and advanced toward her. Although not full-grown, he was several inches taller than Liz and a good thirty pounds heavier. And she could tell by the vitriolic flow of curse words that spewed from his lips, this kid was in a rage.