appear to be much older than Molly. She’s wearing a man’s ribbed tank top underan open shirt, shorts and flip-flops. Her eyes are puffy and the baby is fussing.
“Have you called for help?”
“I don’t have a phone and the last town’s forty miles back.”
“Let’s try my cell phone,” I offer, getting out of the car and handing it to her.
The baby glowers at me. It’s a boy, maybe fourteen months, and he smells like ripe fruit. His nose is running green sludge, and he has a rattling cough. As his mother dials the phone, he pokes a grubby finger at the buttons.
“Nothing,” she says after a moment. “No signal. Thanks anyway.” She hands back the phone. I resist the urge to clean it off on my shirttail.
The baby barks out a cough. The woman looks around. A breeze shimmers through the silver maples and a few dry leaves fall off, scattering. There is a folded umbrella stroller and a car seat in the back of the car.
The silence stretches out. I take a deep breath, violating my own better judgment as I say, “We’ll give you a ride.”
“You don’t have to do that.” Despite her words, the woman looks as if she might melt with relief.
Molly gets out of the car, map in hand. The cranky baby glowers at her.
“Really, you don’t,” the woman persists.
“It’s fine,” I assure her. “Where are you headed?”
“Honeymoon,” she says. “It’s my hometown. I’m moving back there, but this piece of crap car doesn’t want to cooperate.”
Molly finds the town on the map. It’s about fifty miles to the north on a road marked with a faint gray line, well out of our way. The smart thing to do would be to drive on until I get a cell phone signal and then call in the location of the breakdown.
Maybe I’m not so smart. I keep thinking if Molly were stranded, I’d want a nice woman to stop.
“Molly, can you give me a hand with the baby’s car seat?” I ask.
My daughter’s eyebrows lift, but she instantly complies.
I introduce myself and learn that the woman’s name is Eileen. Her baby is Josten. “His grandparents have never seen him,” she says. “I sure appreciate this.” Wrinkling her nose, she adds, “He needs a change.” She lays him on the backseat of her car. The creases of the seat are filled with bitsof broken cookies and dry cereal. “Last one,” she says, extracting a diaper from the bag.
The little one yowls as she peels off his romper and diaper. “Cut it out,” she snaps as he kicks at her. “Josten—oh, Josten. What a mess.” She digs in the diaper bag. “Shoot. I’m out of baby wipes.”
Molly looks on in horror for a moment, then grabs something from the quilt bag. “Here, use this.”
It’s a piece of an old Christmas tree skirt from Dan’s and my first Christmas together. You can’t really tell it was ever a tree skirt; it just looks like a green tablecloth.
“Are you sure?” Eileen asks.
“No problem,” I tell her.
“Thanks.”
Molly’s expression is priceless as she watches Eileen dry the kid’s tears and wipe his nose, then clean his bottom. This is a better justification for birth control than any lecture from me, although it means a sad end for the old tree skirt. Eileen puts on a clean diaper, but the romper is soaked through. The baby starts wailing again.
“I don’t have a change of clothes for him.” Eileen looks like she’s about to lose it, too.
I glance at the quilt bag, hesitating only a moment. At the bottom is a pair of Oshkosh overalls in candy pink. “This will probably work. It was Molly’s when she was about his size. See if it fits.” I answer the question in her expression. “I brought along a bag of old fabric scraps to add to the quilt I’ve been working on.”
“Then I can’t take this.”
“Sure, go ahead. I’ve got plenty. I have enough.”
She threads him into the overalls. The baby cries as she straps him into his car seat, the sobs punctuated with liquid coughs. Eileen gives him a plastic
“Have you called for help?”
“I don’t have a phone and the last town’s forty miles back.”
“Let’s try my cell phone,” I offer, getting out of the car and handing it to her.
The baby glowers at me. It’s a boy, maybe fourteen months, and he smells like ripe fruit. His nose is running green sludge, and he has a rattling cough. As his mother dials the phone, he pokes a grubby finger at the buttons.
“Nothing,” she says after a moment. “No signal. Thanks anyway.” She hands back the phone. I resist the urge to clean it off on my shirttail.
The baby barks out a cough. The woman looks around. A breeze shimmers through the silver maples and a few dry leaves fall off, scattering. There is a folded umbrella stroller and a car seat in the back of the car.
The silence stretches out. I take a deep breath, violating my own better judgment as I say, “We’ll give you a ride.”
“You don’t have to do that.” Despite her words, the woman looks as if she might melt with relief.
Molly gets out of the car, map in hand. The cranky baby glowers at her.
“Really, you don’t,” the woman persists.
“It’s fine,” I assure her. “Where are you headed?”
“Honeymoon,” she says. “It’s my hometown. I’m moving back there, but this piece of crap car doesn’t want to cooperate.”
Molly finds the town on the map. It’s about fifty miles to the north on a road marked with a faint gray line, well out of our way. The smart thing to do would be to drive on until I get a cell phone signal and then call in the location of the breakdown.
Maybe I’m not so smart. I keep thinking if Molly were stranded, I’d want a nice woman to stop.
“Molly, can you give me a hand with the baby’s car seat?” I ask.
My daughter’s eyebrows lift, but she instantly complies.
I introduce myself and learn that the woman’s name is Eileen. Her baby is Josten. “His grandparents have never seen him,” she says. “I sure appreciate this.” Wrinkling her nose, she adds, “He needs a change.” She lays him on the backseat of her car. The creases of the seat are filled with bitsof broken cookies and dry cereal. “Last one,” she says, extracting a diaper from the bag.
The little one yowls as she peels off his romper and diaper. “Cut it out,” she snaps as he kicks at her. “Josten—oh, Josten. What a mess.” She digs in the diaper bag. “Shoot. I’m out of baby wipes.”
Molly looks on in horror for a moment, then grabs something from the quilt bag. “Here, use this.”
It’s a piece of an old Christmas tree skirt from Dan’s and my first Christmas together. You can’t really tell it was ever a tree skirt; it just looks like a green tablecloth.
“Are you sure?” Eileen asks.
“No problem,” I tell her.
“Thanks.”
Molly’s expression is priceless as she watches Eileen dry the kid’s tears and wipe his nose, then clean his bottom. This is a better justification for birth control than any lecture from me, although it means a sad end for the old tree skirt. Eileen puts on a clean diaper, but the romper is soaked through. The baby starts wailing again.
“I don’t have a change of clothes for him.” Eileen looks like she’s about to lose it, too.
I glance at the quilt bag, hesitating only a moment. At the bottom is a pair of Oshkosh overalls in candy pink. “This will probably work. It was Molly’s when she was about his size. See if it fits.” I answer the question in her expression. “I brought along a bag of old fabric scraps to add to the quilt I’ve been working on.”
“Then I can’t take this.”
“Sure, go ahead. I’ve got plenty. I have enough.”
She threads him into the overalls. The baby cries as she straps him into his car seat, the sobs punctuated with liquid coughs. Eileen gives him a plastic
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