Fresh Kills by Carolyn Wheat Page A

the world.”
    Jimmy. It came back to that, to the silly name she’d called her unborn child when he nestled in her womb. If she hadn’t named him, or if she’d called him Adam as a reminder that he was destined to become a Greenspan, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.
    â€œCould I see the baby’s room?” I asked. It was an abrupt change of subject, but I wanted an antidote to the image of Josh forcing his heavy body onto Amber’s.
    â€œI want to be able to tell the judge that you and Scott are ready to give the baby a good home,” I explained, trying to soften the investigative aspect of the situation.
    Amber ushered me into the back bedroom with a triumphant smile. All the stuffed animals from Amber’s room at the group home were lined up on a white shelf unit. A white crib with a Sesame Street mobile hanging over it sat in one corner of the room, while a matching changing table and chest of drawers flanked the opposite wall. A baby quilt with the letters of the alphabet appliquéed in pastels hung over the crib.
    â€œNice,” I said.
    There were cardboard cartons with a Kansas return address sitting open in one corner of the room. “Looks like you’re getting baby presents already,” I remarked.
    â€œFrom my folks in Kansas City,” Amber said. “And my sister in Baltimore.”
    â€œScott’s parents live here on Staten Island, don’t they?” I asked. “I imagine they’re pretty excited about their new grandchild.”
    Was I cross-examining my client or just making polite conversation? Amber looked at me as if she wasn’t sure, and I couldn’t have sworn which I was doing myself.
    â€œNot really,” she said in a small voice. “I wish they were. I’d love the baby to have grandparents close by, but they don’t get along with Scott. They think his marrying me was a mistake.”
    â€œAmber, are you sure about this?” I blurted out. I looked at the nest she’d made for her offspring and realized it was a monumentally stupid question. Sure or not, Amber wanted this child and had made ready for it. What else did the law require? What else could I require?
    She gave a long sigh. “Yes,” she said, her tone firm. “I know I can raise Jimmy with Scott’s help. I’m sorry about Josh and Ellie, I really am, but I can’t let them keep him or I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
    â€œLook, it’s better this way,” I said for the fifth time. “The last thing that kid needs is to become the Baby Jessica of Brooklyn.”
    â€œBaby who? Oh, that case in the Midwest. God, that was awful,” Dorinda said, her eyes widening. “Can you imagine raising a child for two-and-a-half years and then—”
    â€œMy point exactly,” I cut in. My finger hit the counter as punctuation for my words. “If those adoptive parents had given back the baby as soon as the birth mother changed her mind, they could have done their grieving and started over with a baby they could keep. And that poor kid wouldn’t have been carried off crying for Mommy and getting used to a new name.”
    â€œYou make it sound so simple,” my old friend objected. She was wiping glasses on a vintage fifties dishtowel with a red-and-blue rooster print. Her long, wheat-colored hair hung in a thick single braid behind her head. She could have auditioned for a revival of I Remember Mama and gotten the part hands down.
    â€œI didn’t say it was simple,” I muttered. “Look, just pour me another iced coffee, will you?”
    â€œYou drink too much coffee,” Dorinda pronounced. “I made some cold red zinger. You could—”
    â€œI said iced coffee and I meant iced coffee,” I replied. “This court appearance is the worst thing I’ve faced since Rojean’s arraignment. I’m going to need caffeine and plenty of it, so zing