Free Waiting for Christopher by Louise Hawes Page A

decided, relieved, able to taste what she was eating at last.
    When they’d finished lunch, Christy took a few wobbly rides on a sea horse that rocked back and forth on a giant spring, then headed for the sandbox. He sat, desultory, sifting sand through his fingers, probably missing Angel and his paper cups. Feena felt raw with the ache of watching him, wishing he could be happy, satisfied forever.
    This couldn’t last, she told herself. She couldn’t skip school every day, and they couldn’t go on hiding in bathrooms, eating out of cans. Christy needed a bed, clothes, someone keeping track of calories or vitamins or whatever you counted to make sure a meal was balanced. What did Feena know about raising children?
    She knew only that she’d never experienced anything like the smug joy she felt lying next to him, the heady responsibility of his faith in her, his assumption that she would manage everything. But how could she? Why did she think she knew better than all the people who made it their business to protect kids, the people she should have turned Christy over to in the first place?
    Sure, she’d be in big trouble if she took him to the police now. But she’d be in bigger trouble if she waited. When she watched him from a distance, when he wasn’t pressed up against her, the small engine of his body generating that heat, she could think straight. She would spend one more night with him, she decided, give him one more special day, then she’d take him back. She’d tell the police about his mother. She’d make them believe her.
    “That dress is going to be stained for life,” someone said behind her.
    “Huh?” Feena turned, off-guard.
    “That bunny dress,” Raylene Watson told her. “You’ll never get that dirt out. Specially not after she’s ground it in with sand.” The older girl walked around the bench, pushed the picture books toward Feena, and sat down. She was wearing her CVS smock over a lemon-colored crop top and a long lavender skirt with a ruffled hem. Feena, of course, had on her standard uniform—T-shirt and shorts. “It’s bound to shrink. Just about guaranteed.”
    “Bunny dress?” Feena repeated dumbly.
    “Yeah.” Raylene nodded toward Christy, who looked at them briefly, then stood up from the sand. “Course, she
does
look a whole lot better in it than Flopsy Jo.”
    “Flopsy Jo?” asked Feena. It wasn’t even two o’clock. What was Raylene doing out of school at this hour?
    “Hmm-hmmm.” Raylene smiled like she meant it this time, like she was really tickled. “That’s the rabbit’s name, you know. Says so right on the tag. ‘Flopsy Jo, one-hundred-percent new materials. Made in Taiwan.’”

eight

    A stolen baby in a stuffed-rabbit’s dress. No money, no plan, and now someone from school to witness the whole mess. Feena felt her brain melt, then shut down. She couldn’t imagine anything worse.
    Christopher toddled up to them and put his hand on Raylene Watson’s knee. “Mik?” he asked her. “Mu mik?”
    “Sure, I can give you milk,” Raylene told him, interpreting his baby talk effortlessly, hoisting him up to her lap. “But you have to come in the store and get it.” She turned to Feena, who stared at her, speechless. “I’m taking over somebody’s shift, so I had to cut bio. What’s your excuse?”
    Feena continued to stare, as though if she watched long enough, she could make either Raylene or the baby disappear.
    “How come you’re not in school?”
    “I, uh…” It was a good question. “I…”
    “You look tight in old Flopsy’s dress.” Raylene shifted her attention to Christy without waiting for Feena’s answer. She’d lapsed into the language she used with her friends, even though she could talk like a textbook when she wanted to. Last week, they’d both been in the school office, Feena to fill out more new student forms, Raylene to see the principal. “Mr. Cantrell, sir,” Raylene had told him, “my mother has made a