Read Online Moving Is Murder by Sara Rosett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sara Rosett
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Livvy’s unending crying. Shouldn’t she quiet down when I comforted her? Shouldn’t I be able to figure out what was wrong?
I sighed again and glanced around the interior of the van in the dim light. Cass sat in this same seat right before she died. I got that creepy feeling I always get in a car wash, the gloomy half-light and the sense of enclosure. A fine layer of soap bubbles coated the van and intensified my uneasiness as it cut off my view of the cinderblock walls. I flipped the wipers on to open a small clearing. Get a grip. I sat up straighter. Cass didn’t even die inside the van. There was no reason to feel so uncomfortable. I glanced around the interior. Someone had cleaned up the personal items that were scattered over the passenger seat and floorboard the day she died. Probably returned them to Joe.
I opened the glove compartment and shifted the maps, flashlight, tapes, and napkins around. Where was the EpiPen? Joe said he kept one in the van. Had the police returned it to Joe with Cass’s purse? I flipped the compartment door shut and eased the van slowly through the dryer. Then I hit the accelerator hard, knowing that without the loud water noises the motion and tire noise of the van might keep Livvy asleep.
It worked. It was a blissfully quiet drive home. I was even able to think about Livvy’s crying with a little perspective. She had always cried loud and often. Livvy was not one of those babies who slept for twenty hours every day. My books said she fell into the “high maintenance baby” category. But, this was extreme, even for her. Was she getting sick? I dreaded her first cold. I knew she wouldn’t be able to tell me what was wrong,where it hurt. I decided to call a doctor when we got back home or, I amended, find a doctor.
“I’m sorry, but Dr. Henry isn’t taking new patients,” the cool voice said without a hint of regret.
I hung up and looked for Dr. Williams in the phone book. I finally found it under Northwest Family Health in the Yellow Pages. She was taking new patients and could see Livvy in six weeks. “You can try our Urgent Care Department. I’ll transfer you,” the receptionist said. I took their first opening, Friday at 10:30.
I sat on our kitchen steps with the thick phone book splayed open on my lap, hoping our neighbors wouldn’t call Child Protective Services. Faintly, I could hear Livvy crying in her crib. I had done everything I could think of: feeding, burping, diaper changing, playing, cuddling, singing, and rocking. She seemed to want to eat, but after a few moments, she’d jerk her head away and cry.
I felt like crying myself. So I put her down in her crib and shut the door. I was amazed that Livvy, so small and powerless, could almost push me to my limit. When I was pregnant a friend told me, “You have to have a place where you can put your baby down and walk away when you get so frustrated you can hardly stand it.” At the time I thought she was crazy. How could a sweet, helpless baby push someone over the edge? Now I understood.
I rubbed my forehead and tried to think of something to do outside. I looked over at the van still parked in our driveway, where I had left it as I hurried to get inside, feed Livvy, and put her down for her nap before I ran it across the street to Joe’s driveway.
“If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.” My dad’s steady voice sounded in my head. It was a hot spring day when he showed me how to wash a car. He unlooped the vacuum cleaner cord and said, “Doing it right includes vacuuming the inside and cleaning the tires, too.”
I found the handheld vacuum and the extension cord. Sliding back the door on the passenger side, I tossed paper cups and a discarded newspaper into the trash, then I vacuumed up pine needles, lint, dried grass, pebbles, and tiny paper scraps. Neatness hadn’t been high on Cass’s priority list. When I turned the handheld vacuum off to close the sliding door and move up to the
I sighed again and glanced around the interior of the van in the dim light. Cass sat in this same seat right before she died. I got that creepy feeling I always get in a car wash, the gloomy half-light and the sense of enclosure. A fine layer of soap bubbles coated the van and intensified my uneasiness as it cut off my view of the cinderblock walls. I flipped the wipers on to open a small clearing. Get a grip. I sat up straighter. Cass didn’t even die inside the van. There was no reason to feel so uncomfortable. I glanced around the interior. Someone had cleaned up the personal items that were scattered over the passenger seat and floorboard the day she died. Probably returned them to Joe.
I opened the glove compartment and shifted the maps, flashlight, tapes, and napkins around. Where was the EpiPen? Joe said he kept one in the van. Had the police returned it to Joe with Cass’s purse? I flipped the compartment door shut and eased the van slowly through the dryer. Then I hit the accelerator hard, knowing that without the loud water noises the motion and tire noise of the van might keep Livvy asleep.
It worked. It was a blissfully quiet drive home. I was even able to think about Livvy’s crying with a little perspective. She had always cried loud and often. Livvy was not one of those babies who slept for twenty hours every day. My books said she fell into the “high maintenance baby” category. But, this was extreme, even for her. Was she getting sick? I dreaded her first cold. I knew she wouldn’t be able to tell me what was wrong,where it hurt. I decided to call a doctor when we got back home or, I amended, find a doctor.
“I’m sorry, but Dr. Henry isn’t taking new patients,” the cool voice said without a hint of regret.
I hung up and looked for Dr. Williams in the phone book. I finally found it under Northwest Family Health in the Yellow Pages. She was taking new patients and could see Livvy in six weeks. “You can try our Urgent Care Department. I’ll transfer you,” the receptionist said. I took their first opening, Friday at 10:30.
I sat on our kitchen steps with the thick phone book splayed open on my lap, hoping our neighbors wouldn’t call Child Protective Services. Faintly, I could hear Livvy crying in her crib. I had done everything I could think of: feeding, burping, diaper changing, playing, cuddling, singing, and rocking. She seemed to want to eat, but after a few moments, she’d jerk her head away and cry.
I felt like crying myself. So I put her down in her crib and shut the door. I was amazed that Livvy, so small and powerless, could almost push me to my limit. When I was pregnant a friend told me, “You have to have a place where you can put your baby down and walk away when you get so frustrated you can hardly stand it.” At the time I thought she was crazy. How could a sweet, helpless baby push someone over the edge? Now I understood.
I rubbed my forehead and tried to think of something to do outside. I looked over at the van still parked in our driveway, where I had left it as I hurried to get inside, feed Livvy, and put her down for her nap before I ran it across the street to Joe’s driveway.
“If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.” My dad’s steady voice sounded in my head. It was a hot spring day when he showed me how to wash a car. He unlooped the vacuum cleaner cord and said, “Doing it right includes vacuuming the inside and cleaning the tires, too.”
I found the handheld vacuum and the extension cord. Sliding back the door on the passenger side, I tossed paper cups and a discarded newspaper into the trash, then I vacuumed up pine needles, lint, dried grass, pebbles, and tiny paper scraps. Neatness hadn’t been high on Cass’s priority list. When I turned the handheld vacuum off to close the sliding door and move up to the
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