by Diana Orgain
CHAPTER SEVEN•
The Second Week—Crying for Assistance
I awoke, still groggy, to Laurie’s hunger cries at 3 A.M. I leaned over the bassinet and picked her up. She was soaked all the way through her little jammies.
I poked Jim. “You’re the night shift, remember?”
“Yeah,” he murmured.
“She’s wet. She needs a full costume change.”
No answer.
“Jim! Wake up.”
“Mmmhmm.”
Laurie wailed. I put her right next to his ear. No movement.
“How can you sleep through this?”
Men!
I walked down the dark hall, to her nursery, bumping into the walls as I went. Somehow it seemed easier to get out of bed and change Laurie myself than try to get Jim up.
I switched on the light, rousing Laurie and me into wakefulness. She continued to complain throughout the entire diaper and pajama routine.
I was so exhausted I buttoned her pajamas wrong and had to undo everything, then redo it. I vowed to buy only pajamas with zippers in the future.
I made my way back to our bedroom, now fully awake, thinking about our cars getting broken into. Could George have done it? I couldn’t imagine George breaking into our cars; besides, how would he even know we had his bags? If not George, then who?
I recalled the mundane items in the bags. Why would anyone want them? Had I missed something?
I collapsed into the rocker with Laurie, trying to soothe her into quiet mode.
Michelle hadn’t returned my call. Maybe I should go over there tomorrow. After all, what else did I have to do all day?
Sleep?
Ha.
I filled the time the best way I could and dialed the only person I could think of that would be up at this ungodly hour, my girlfriend, Paula, in France. Paula and her husband, David, had relocated several months ago. David worked for a top consulting firm. In order to move up in his career, he’d been “asked” to take an assignment in France and relocate his family.
I jiggled Laurie in my arms and listened to the phone ring. With no sleep, I felt incapable of doing the math on the time difference. I figured it must be sometime in the afternoon. Her voice mail kicked on and I left a sluggish, incoherent message.
I logged on to the computer and e-mailed her.
Tried to call you. Lots to tell, but its 4am here and even though I can’t sleep because Laurie is awake I can’t really type with her in my arms either. Thinking of you. Call or email when you get the chance.
XOXOXOX.
I finally successfully placed Laurie in her bassinet and crawled back into bed as the alarm went off at 6 A.M. Every earlier attempt had been fouled by Laurie’s startle reflex; as soon as I set her down, her little arms would shoot straight up as though she were falling.
Jim jarred awake. “Were you up all night?”
“Practically.”
He rubbed my back. “Oh, honey, why didn’t you wake me?”
“I tried.”
“You did?”
My eyelids felt like sandpaper, and my arms and back were sore from rocking Laurie. “Yeah.”
He stroked my hair. “If she wakes up again tonight, get me up.”
If she wakes up again?
“Nite-nite,” I whispered, falling into a fitful sleep.
The phone woke Laurie and me. I glanced around, surprised to see that Jim had already left for the office. The clock glowed 9 A.M. No wonder. Had I really slept three hours straight? I felt much better. What a difference a little sleep made.
I grabbed the ringing phone.
“Where have you been? I called and called yesterday.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“What have you done with my granddaughter? I need to see her before she doesn’t recognize me. And I finished her knit cap.”
Uh-oh.
“Green?”
“No. I ran out of that yarn. Orange.”
I laughed. “Come over. I need to run a couple errands.” After yesterday’s ordeal with Mr. Creepy and the cars being broken into, I didn’t want Laurie in tow. Just in case.
I made my daily list while waiting for Mom.
To Do:
1. Find George.
2. Ask Michelle if she told George I have his bags.
3. Learn how to use hideous breast pump.
4. Catch up on z’s.
5. Restart diet.
6. x E-mail Paula.
7. Send out birth announcements.
8. Make birth announcements.
I dug in my closet, searching for something to wear. Fortunately, my bones weren’t as achy as the day before and some of my pregnancy bloat was starting to disappear. I tried on a pair of nonmaternity slacks. They actually fit.
Except for the waist.
I found a flowing silk blouse that I could leave un-tucked to hide the fact that the button was held in place with a rubber band. Hey, progress was progress, and I’d do anything not to have to wear maternity pants.
What did they say about pregnancy weight: nine months up, nine months down? I sighed at my reflection in the mirror and hurriedly put on lipstick.
I left Laurie with Mom cooing over her and made my way to Michelle’s.
I parked in front of the house and found myself checking the street for anyone hanging around. No shady characters or car thieves, but since I hadn’t seen anyone before, I didn’t exactly feel secure.
I rang Michelle’s doorbell.
No answer.
I rang the bell again, puttering around a bit, waiting. There was no chipping paint to pick at, so I traced the outlines of the numbers of her address. About fifteen times.
I dug out my cell phone and dialed her. It rang and rang; finally her voice mail clicked on.
Hmm. Maybe she went somewhere? To get groceries?
Buy herself more wine?
When I turned to leave, I saw the day’s newspaper was still on the stairs. I peered through the tiny window, made of brick glass, on her front door. It was meant to let light in but keep Peeping Toms out. I couldn’t see a thing inside.
An uneasy feeling was building inside me. I decided to check around the house and see if I could find any accessible windows. I fought the paranoia flaring up.
It’s probably nothing, Kate.
I peeked into the mail slot at the garage. A gold hard-top Mercedes was visible. I went around to the side of the house and tried to reach the dining room’s stained glass windows, but they were too high.
A heavy planter box was nearby. I dragged it about a foot so I could climb onto it and look through the window. Even on my tiptoes I wasn’t tall enough.
I retreated to the front of the house and spotted several thick phone books on the curb. When was the phone company going to stop printing those? With everyone searching the yellow pages online, I couldn’t imagine a need for them much longer. But thankfully they hadn’t stopped yet as they might just give me the boost I needed.
I grabbed the books and placed them on top of the planter box then climbed up holding on to the old window trim, praying it wouldn’t give. I was able to pull myself high enough to peer through the window into the dining room.
Michelle was sprawled across the floor.
I rapped sharply on the window. She didn’t move. I swallowed the fear in my throat and rapped again.
Nothing.
Maybe she’s fainted. Maybe she’s passed out drunk.
I started to climb off the phone books and lost my footing. I fell off the planter box, tearing my slacks on a protruding nail.
I sat dumbfounded on the cement, the back of my right thigh throbbing from the fall.
Michelle!
I picked myself up and hobbled to the front of the house and up the steps again. Leaning on the doorbell, I willed Michelle to
get up and answer the door.
In a last-ditch effort, I tried the knob. It turned in my hand. Pushing it open, I called, “Michelle! Michelle!”
I ran to her and turned her over.
Her body was limp. She was pale as a ghost, her black hair strewn across her face. I brushed it away with my hand. “Michelle? Oh Michelle, please don’t be dead,” I whispered even though I knew she was.
Oddly, she had a peaceful expression. There was a small cut on her temple where blood had trickled. I imagined her collapsing and cutting her head against the coffee table.
I looked around the room and noticed two wineglasses on her coffee table. She’d had company. My God, what could have happened?
I dialed 9-1-1 from Michelle’s phone.
After I reported Michelle dead, the operator said, “I’m sending someone now. Did you try CPR?”
“Oh my God. I don’t think . . .”
The operator instructed me to feel for a pulse.
I knelt next to Michelle and took her hand in mine, placing two fingers over her wrist. I confirmed the lack of a pulse.
“Ma’am, the police will be there shortly. Please don’t touch anything in the house,” the operator instructed. “Stay on the line.”
I remained kneeling next to Michelle, helplessly holding her hand and feeling a heaviness in my gut.
Someone had killed Michelle. My high school friend. Someone had killed her, had murdered her husband. Someone had broken into my cars.
I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to think his name. It popped into my head anyway.
George? Charming, flaky, pain-in-the-ass George.
Please, no. Please, don’t be behind this.
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