Unnerved, I backed out of the bedroom, then spotted the bathroom. Thankfully, there were diapers and other supplies away from the body. I laid TK on top of the blanket on the changing pad.
Mrs. Goodwin was dead.
I fought the urge to run, concentrating on the snaps holding his terrycloth outfit closed.
Dead across the hall.
I opened the box of wipes.
Dead like Megs. From the killer flu.
The stench soon obliterated any other thoughts. It took the whole box of baby wipes and a large bath towel to finish the job. I bundled the entire mess in the towel and dropped everything into the garbage. In all my hours of babysitting the Sullivan twins last summer, I’d never seen such a mess.
TK’s skin looked pink and irritated so I quickly slathered diaper ointment on it. A spare outfit was folded neatly next to the sink. While I dressed him, he started to cry again and the sound unnerved me. I couldn’t ask his mother for help.
Think, Lil, think.
He was clean but still miserable. Probably hungry.
After washing my hands for as long as he would let me, I carried him into the kitchen where a bowl of creamy soup congealed on the counter. That could have been today’s lunch or dinner from last night. How long had TK been stranded in the crib with Mrs. Goodwin sick? Inside the fridge, three filled baby bottles were lined up in a row next to a can of cat food covered in tin foil. I took a bottle out intending to warm it, but TK wailed as soon as he spotted his meal.
“All right, don’t get a stomach ache.”
He slurped loudly while he drank in my arms. I sat on the edge of a kitchen chair, ready to jump up if . . . if what? I wasn’t sure, but after seeing Mrs. Goodwin, I didn’t want to get too cozy. We needed a plan, one that included getting away from the dead body as soon as possible.
A stroller leaned near the front door. After a few tries I was able to unfold it while holding TK. He cried for a minute while I readjusted him and the bottle, but soon he was strapped in and ready to go.
I had the door open with TK in the stroller when my planning mind kicked in. Take supplies , it said. Leave contact information .
Right. I scribbled a quick note so Mr. Goodwin would know I had TK at my house and I could avoid kidnapping charges. Then I rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, shoving a canister of powdered formula in the stroller basket. A navy blue diaper bag leaned near the front door, and I crammed the pre-made bottles in it, and some baby food, too, along with the list of emergency numbers stuck to the fridge.
I snatched the rest of the supplies from the bathroom and loaded up the stroller. All I needed now was an extra outfit for him, in case he had another explosive poop before Mr. Goodwin picked him up.
My shoulders slumped as I realized his clothing would be in the nursery with the body.
Before I could change my mind, I dashed toward his room, but my courage failed me and I paused in the doorway. You can do this. You have to do this. Holding my breath, I hurried in, jerked open the dresser drawers, and grabbed the baby clothes without looking at Mrs. Goodwin. A tiny pair of socks fell to the floor near her blue feet. I left them there. With shaky legs and a pounding heart, I pushed TK away from his home.
I parked TK’s stroller in the middle of our kitchen. He was a beautiful baby, about ten months old, with chunky cheeks and pudgy little arms and legs. When I unpacked his stroller, he eyed the bottles ravenously. But looking healthy was no guarantee he wasn’t actually sick. What was I going to do with a potentially infectious baby?
Before feeding him again, I carried him to the garage where Dad stored paper masks for yard work. I wore a mask for about ten seconds before TK grabbed it with his chubby hand and pulled. Then he let go, smacking it against my face. Fascinated, he mask-smacked me four or five more times.
“Epic fail,” I said, tossing the mask onto the workbench.
Back in his stroller, TK
Mrs. Goodwin was dead.
I fought the urge to run, concentrating on the snaps holding his terrycloth outfit closed.
Dead across the hall.
I opened the box of wipes.
Dead like Megs. From the killer flu.
The stench soon obliterated any other thoughts. It took the whole box of baby wipes and a large bath towel to finish the job. I bundled the entire mess in the towel and dropped everything into the garbage. In all my hours of babysitting the Sullivan twins last summer, I’d never seen such a mess.
TK’s skin looked pink and irritated so I quickly slathered diaper ointment on it. A spare outfit was folded neatly next to the sink. While I dressed him, he started to cry again and the sound unnerved me. I couldn’t ask his mother for help.
Think, Lil, think.
He was clean but still miserable. Probably hungry.
After washing my hands for as long as he would let me, I carried him into the kitchen where a bowl of creamy soup congealed on the counter. That could have been today’s lunch or dinner from last night. How long had TK been stranded in the crib with Mrs. Goodwin sick? Inside the fridge, three filled baby bottles were lined up in a row next to a can of cat food covered in tin foil. I took a bottle out intending to warm it, but TK wailed as soon as he spotted his meal.
“All right, don’t get a stomach ache.”
He slurped loudly while he drank in my arms. I sat on the edge of a kitchen chair, ready to jump up if . . . if what? I wasn’t sure, but after seeing Mrs. Goodwin, I didn’t want to get too cozy. We needed a plan, one that included getting away from the dead body as soon as possible.
A stroller leaned near the front door. After a few tries I was able to unfold it while holding TK. He cried for a minute while I readjusted him and the bottle, but soon he was strapped in and ready to go.
I had the door open with TK in the stroller when my planning mind kicked in. Take supplies , it said. Leave contact information .
Right. I scribbled a quick note so Mr. Goodwin would know I had TK at my house and I could avoid kidnapping charges. Then I rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, shoving a canister of powdered formula in the stroller basket. A navy blue diaper bag leaned near the front door, and I crammed the pre-made bottles in it, and some baby food, too, along with the list of emergency numbers stuck to the fridge.
I snatched the rest of the supplies from the bathroom and loaded up the stroller. All I needed now was an extra outfit for him, in case he had another explosive poop before Mr. Goodwin picked him up.
My shoulders slumped as I realized his clothing would be in the nursery with the body.
Before I could change my mind, I dashed toward his room, but my courage failed me and I paused in the doorway. You can do this. You have to do this. Holding my breath, I hurried in, jerked open the dresser drawers, and grabbed the baby clothes without looking at Mrs. Goodwin. A tiny pair of socks fell to the floor near her blue feet. I left them there. With shaky legs and a pounding heart, I pushed TK away from his home.
I parked TK’s stroller in the middle of our kitchen. He was a beautiful baby, about ten months old, with chunky cheeks and pudgy little arms and legs. When I unpacked his stroller, he eyed the bottles ravenously. But looking healthy was no guarantee he wasn’t actually sick. What was I going to do with a potentially infectious baby?
Before feeding him again, I carried him to the garage where Dad stored paper masks for yard work. I wore a mask for about ten seconds before TK grabbed it with his chubby hand and pulled. Then he let go, smacking it against my face. Fascinated, he mask-smacked me four or five more times.
“Epic fail,” I said, tossing the mask onto the workbench.
Back in his stroller, TK
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