Free At the Corner of King Street by Mary Ellen Taylor Page B

than thinking about this mess.
    â€œPie’s gonna make you fat, Addie. It isn’t going to solve a damn thing.”
    I took a third bite. And a fourth. “Maybe. But I don’t know what else to do.” I set my fork down. “The social worker said she could find a foster home for the baby.”
    â€œA foster home.” The words drifted with her sigh. “I was hoping you could take her.”
    The kitchen window faced Union Street and, beyond it, the waters of the Potomac River. Past the traffic and the buildings across the street the river meandered, unaware of the city’s chaos, drifting out to the Chesapeake Bay and finally the Atlantic. A gentle, warm breeze carried the brackish scents up through the open window. “You and the social worker collaborating together on this?”
    â€œWe talked on the phone. I said you were young and smart and not like Janet. Said you’d be the wisest choice for the child.”
    â€œIn whose mind?” The solution solved everyone’s problems and gutted my life. Damn it.
    Grace sat back in her chair. “Can you take the baby or not?”
    Anger and frustration caught the sharp words in my throat. I ate another piece of pie.
    â€œAddie, look at me. My health is not great. I don’t have the energy for a baby, especially a difficult one.”
    The child’s cries rattled around in my brain as I swiped away a tear. “I have a huge deadline at work this week. We’re launching thevineyard’s new wine. A lot is riding on this. I can’t have a wailing kid strapped to my chest while I discuss grapes, growing seasons, and sunlight. I can’t.”
    â€œFoster care, Addie. I’ve heard the stories. Overcrowded homes, babies forgotten or not fed.”
    I turned from the river view and faced her. “The media always picks up on the worst of the worst. There are a lot of loving families out there that could look out for the baby for a few weeks. And if Janet can get some hospital care, then they might be able to stabilize her, and she can take the baby back.”
    The words rang hollow like a cracked church bell. Mom did have good times. She was stable for months at a time. But those times never lasted. I hated our life. Hated it. And now I was asking this kid to live it with Janet.
    Grace pressed wrinkled lined hands to her forehead. “Can you at least deal with the social worker for me tomorrow? If you can’t take the baby, at least see that she ends up in a good home.”
    I owed the kid that much. My running tally of lost moments and stolen time was so huge that another day or two wouldn’t matter much to me, however it could really matter to the kid. “I can do that. I can make sure the baby gets a good home.”
    Grace nodded, but there was no gratitude in her expression. The solution I offered wasn’t one she wanted, but it was all I could give.
    â€œThank you.”
    I pushed away from the counter as I dug my cell phone from my pocket and walked into my old bedroom. I sat on the twin bed made with the same red-and-blue quilt that smelled of fabric softener. A very old painting of a lady still hung over the bed. Its patina was cracked and faded and the frame, once gilded, was not dulled by time. I often stared at the delicate brown curls framing her pale white face and herlace-trimmed collar and wondered who she was to us. Grace muttered the name Sarah, which only fueled my imagination.
    The bedsprings groaned and squeaked as I sat and stared at my phone’s screen saver, a photo taken of a smiling Scott and me at the vineyard in front of the new tasting room. Angry, frustrated, and backed into a corner, I closed my eyes and tapped my index finger on the image.
    To discuss a piece of my history with Scott could open the Pandora’s box of my past and let loose questions I never intended to answer. As panic pulled and tugged, I drew in a breath and released it slowly.