Read Online Water from Stone - a Novel by Katherine Mariaca-Sullivan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Katherine Mariaca-Sullivan
Tags: Family Life, Contemporary Fiction, romantic suspense, Domestic Life, contemporary women’s fiction, parents and children, mothers & children
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feel safer, more protected. Mar isn’t sure they were right, but what does she know? She has only had the little girl for two days and is still too timid to step away from the regimen set by Those Who Know Better.
Once freed, Mar checks the baby’s diaper. Dry. “Nope, nothing there. So, are you hungry? Do you want to try something to drink? Why don’t we go try something to drink?”
Followed closely by Picasso, Mar carries Elizabeth downstairs to the kitchen and, slipping her hand around the corner until her fingers find the switch, she eases on the lights. There are three rooms in the old house that are Mar’s favorites: her third-floor attic studio, the art gallery on the first floor that she carved out of the living, dining and sitting rooms, and the kitchen. Mar rarely cooks, in fact most days she has to remind herself to eat, but Joaquin had been a talented chef who specialized in Caribbean dishes and this room, so far from home, fills her with him. When she’d first come to Boulder and begun house hunting, she’d found other houses that wouldn’t have required extensive remodeling. There’d even been a loft downtown that would have been perfect for her. But she’d kept coming back to this house. More specifically, to this kitchen. With weathered brick walls, “architectural salvage,” her realtor had said, gleaming appliances, an expansive central island and a walk-in pantry, this would have been Joaquin’s dream kitchen. She’d painted a full size picture of him wearing his chef’s hat and apron, complete with the “Mar-Joaqua’s” logo over his left breast, the name of the restaurant he’d been set to open after their honeymoon, and hung it directly across from the room’s entrance. As the glow of the overhead lights spreads to the depths of the kitchen, Joaquin steps out to her. It is an illusion that never fails to fracture her heart.
The kitchen is cold. Mar adjusts the thermostat and moves to the counter to settle Lizzie in her bouncing chair. The cloth-covered wire frame cradles the baby much as a hammock would and was designed so that her every movement would cause the chair to gently bounce. Except, Elizabeth doesn’t bounce. She barely moves. Other than her eyes, which follow Mar. “Let’s just strap you in so you don’t fall out,” Mar tells the baby, her voice pitching unnaturally.
“Talk to her,” Shirley had said when Mar called earlier, unnerved by the baby’s scrutiny, panicked by her silence. “Let her get used to you. She’ll loosen up.”
Mar wraps the cloth safety belt across Lizzie and clips it into place. She pushes down on the head of the chair, setting it in motion, before turning to the refrigerator for a small bottle of baby formula. After ten seconds in the microwave, she shakes the bottle and tests the temperature on both wrists and then farther up her arm.
“Here you go, little girl, do you want some milk?” She tickles Elizabeth’s lips with the bottle’s nipple. In response, Lizzie opens her mouth and pulls just once before ejecting the nipple and firmly shutting her lips. Mar runs the backs of her fingers down Lizzie’s cheek. “Can you try? Just a little?” She puts the nipple back to Lizzie’s mouth, but the baby won’t take it. Mar’s shoulders slump as the weight of failure washes over her. Tomorrow, she’ll have to talk to Shirley about finding a better home for the little girl. She is terrified that the baby will starve.
Mar unscrews the nipple and dumps the milk into the dog’s bowl. “She’s a pig, Lizzie. A pig. And you are not helping matters.”
Picasso slurps up the milk, her tail wagging. Mar turns back to the baby. “OK, then, your diaper’s dry, you’re not hungry, it’s two in the morning and you’re wide awake. What is it you want?”
When the baby doesn’t answer, Mar lifts her out of the bounce chair, turns off the heater that has just begun to warm the room, flips off the lights, and trudges back up the
Once freed, Mar checks the baby’s diaper. Dry. “Nope, nothing there. So, are you hungry? Do you want to try something to drink? Why don’t we go try something to drink?”
Followed closely by Picasso, Mar carries Elizabeth downstairs to the kitchen and, slipping her hand around the corner until her fingers find the switch, she eases on the lights. There are three rooms in the old house that are Mar’s favorites: her third-floor attic studio, the art gallery on the first floor that she carved out of the living, dining and sitting rooms, and the kitchen. Mar rarely cooks, in fact most days she has to remind herself to eat, but Joaquin had been a talented chef who specialized in Caribbean dishes and this room, so far from home, fills her with him. When she’d first come to Boulder and begun house hunting, she’d found other houses that wouldn’t have required extensive remodeling. There’d even been a loft downtown that would have been perfect for her. But she’d kept coming back to this house. More specifically, to this kitchen. With weathered brick walls, “architectural salvage,” her realtor had said, gleaming appliances, an expansive central island and a walk-in pantry, this would have been Joaquin’s dream kitchen. She’d painted a full size picture of him wearing his chef’s hat and apron, complete with the “Mar-Joaqua’s” logo over his left breast, the name of the restaurant he’d been set to open after their honeymoon, and hung it directly across from the room’s entrance. As the glow of the overhead lights spreads to the depths of the kitchen, Joaquin steps out to her. It is an illusion that never fails to fracture her heart.
The kitchen is cold. Mar adjusts the thermostat and moves to the counter to settle Lizzie in her bouncing chair. The cloth-covered wire frame cradles the baby much as a hammock would and was designed so that her every movement would cause the chair to gently bounce. Except, Elizabeth doesn’t bounce. She barely moves. Other than her eyes, which follow Mar. “Let’s just strap you in so you don’t fall out,” Mar tells the baby, her voice pitching unnaturally.
“Talk to her,” Shirley had said when Mar called earlier, unnerved by the baby’s scrutiny, panicked by her silence. “Let her get used to you. She’ll loosen up.”
Mar wraps the cloth safety belt across Lizzie and clips it into place. She pushes down on the head of the chair, setting it in motion, before turning to the refrigerator for a small bottle of baby formula. After ten seconds in the microwave, she shakes the bottle and tests the temperature on both wrists and then farther up her arm.
“Here you go, little girl, do you want some milk?” She tickles Elizabeth’s lips with the bottle’s nipple. In response, Lizzie opens her mouth and pulls just once before ejecting the nipple and firmly shutting her lips. Mar runs the backs of her fingers down Lizzie’s cheek. “Can you try? Just a little?” She puts the nipple back to Lizzie’s mouth, but the baby won’t take it. Mar’s shoulders slump as the weight of failure washes over her. Tomorrow, she’ll have to talk to Shirley about finding a better home for the little girl. She is terrified that the baby will starve.
Mar unscrews the nipple and dumps the milk into the dog’s bowl. “She’s a pig, Lizzie. A pig. And you are not helping matters.”
Picasso slurps up the milk, her tail wagging. Mar turns back to the baby. “OK, then, your diaper’s dry, you’re not hungry, it’s two in the morning and you’re wide awake. What is it you want?”
When the baby doesn’t answer, Mar lifts her out of the bounce chair, turns off the heater that has just begun to warm the room, flips off the lights, and trudges back up the
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