Bundle of Trouble - By Diana Orgain Page 0,18

slept three hours straight? I felt much better. What a difference a little sleep made.

I grabbed the ringing phone.

“Where have you been? I called and called yesterday.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“What have you done with my granddaughter? I need to see her before she doesn’t recognize me. And I finished her knit cap.”

Uh-oh.

“Green?”

“No. I ran out of that yarn. Orange.”

I laughed. “Come over. I need to run a couple errands.” After yesterday’s ordeal with Mr. Creepy and the cars being broken into, I didn’t want Laurie in tow. Just in case.

I made my daily list while waiting for Mom.

To Do:

1. Find George.

2. Ask Michelle if she told George I have his bags.

3. Learn how to use hideous breast pump.

4. Catch up on z’s.

5. Restart diet.

6. ✓

7. Send out birth announcements.

8. Make birth announcements.

I dug in my closet, searching for something to wear. Fortunately, my bones weren’t as achy as the day before and some of my pregnancy bloat was starting to disappear. I tried on a pair of nonmaternity slacks. They actually fit.

Except for the waist.

I found a flowing silk blouse that I could leave un-tucked to hide the fact that the button was held in place with a rubber band. Hey, progress was progress, and I’d do anything not to have to wear maternity pants.

What did they say about pregnancy weight: nine months up, nine months down? I sighed at my reflection in the mirror and hurriedly put on lipstick.

I left Laurie with Mom cooing over her and made my way to Michelle’s.

I parked in front of the house and found myself checking the street for anyone hanging around. No shady characters or car thieves, but since I hadn’t seen anyone before, I didn’t exactly feel secure.

I rang Michelle’s doorbell.

No answer.

I rang the bell again, puttering around a bit, waiting. There was no chipping paint to pick at, so I traced the outlines of the numbers of her address. About fifteen times.

I dug out my cell phone and dialed her. It rang and rang; finally her voice mail clicked on.

Hmm. Maybe she went somewhere? To get groceries?

Buy herself more wine?

When I turned to leave, I saw the day’s newspaper was still on the stairs. I peered through the tiny window, made of brick glass, on her front door. It was meant to let light in but keep Peeping Toms out. I couldn’t see a thing inside.

An uneasy feeling was building inside me. I decided to check around the house and see if I could find any accessible windows. I fought the paranoia flaring up.

It’s probably nothing, Kate.

I peeked into the mail slot at the garage. A gold hard-top Mercedes was visible. I went around to the side of the house and tried to reach the dining room’s stained glass windows, but they were too high.

A heavy planter box was nearby. I dragged it about a foot so I could climb onto it and look through the window. Even on my tiptoes I wasn’t tall enough.

I retreated to the front of the house and spotted several thick phone books on the curb. When was the phone company going to stop printing those? With everyone searching the yellow pages online, I couldn’t imagine a need for them much longer. But thankfully they hadn’t stopped yet as they might just give me the boost I needed.

I grabbed the books and placed them on top of the planter box then climbed up holding on to the old window trim, praying it wouldn’t give. I was able to pull myself high enough to peer through the window into the dining room.

Michelle was sprawled across the floor.

I rapped sharply on the window. She didn’t move. I swallowed the fear in my throat and rapped again.

Nothing.

Maybe she’s fainted. Maybe she’s passed out drunk.

I started to climb off the phone books and lost my footing. I fell off the planter box, tearing my slacks on a protruding nail.

I sat dumbfounded on the cement, the back of my right thigh throbbing from the fall.

Michelle!

I picked myself up and hobbled to the front of the house and up the steps again. Leaning on the doorbell, I willed Michelle to get up and answer the door.

In a last-ditch effort, I tried the knob. It turned in my hand. Pushing it open, I called, “Michelle! Michelle!”

I ran to her and turned her over.

Her body was limp. She was pale as a ghost, her black hair strewn across her face. I brushed it away with my hand. “Michelle? Oh Michelle, please don’t be dead,” I