Read Online Water from Stone - a Novel by Katherine Mariaca-Sullivan - Free Book Online
Authors: Katherine Mariaca-Sullivan
Tags: Family Life, Contemporary Fiction, romantic suspense, Domestic Life, contemporary women’s fiction, parents and children, mothers & children
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time.”
“Free time? Girl, the only thing free about my time is how much I get paid for it. Otherwise, I’m busy 24-7,” Shirley says. “How you doin’?”
At forty-three, with closely-cropped graying hair, skin the color of warm caramel on a hot afternoon and a huge dimple in her right cheek that deepens when she smiles, which is most of the time, Shirley is a very striking woman. From Jamaica, she’d made her way to the United States twenty-some years before and worked hard to put herself through university, where she’d eventually earned two doctorates – one in Psychology, with a specialization in child psychology, and the other in Business Administration. Not easy by any means, but she’d managed to do it all as a single mother. She’d been courted by child welfare agencies the country over but, somehow, she’d ended up in Boulder, which ever since has enjoyed one of the highest adoption rates and lowest child abuse rates in the country.
Mar pours a cup of coffee from the Mr. Coffee and moves to the table. Now that she is in their space, the children pay attention to her, pointing out their own decorations and trying to get her to pronounce one the prettiest. Not stupid, she oohs and aahs over each and, for her efforts, is rewarded with a cookie from each of the little chefs.
“Dylan, honey,” Shirley says, “will you watch the kids while I go talk with Mar?”
“It would be my greatest pleasure.” Dylan, holding the edge of the apron out like a ballroom dress, tips his head and curtsies. Squeals of laughter erupt from little mouths.
“Aw, Dylan, you just a big huggie-bear,” proclaims one little girl, looking up at him in adoration. The others take up the chant “huggie-bear” as Shirley and Mar make their way from the kitchen up to Shirley’s second floor office.
“What happened to you?” Shirley speaks over her shoulder. “You sure someone’s not using you as a punching bag? Your whole face is a mess.”
“Gee, thanks, and here I was thinking you liked me.”
“I love you, Mar girl, you know that, but…”
“I tripped.”
“Uh-huh, you tripped.”
Mar, sensing the eye-roll even though Shirley’s back is to her, grits her teeth.
Shirley’s office is in what was originally the house’s master bedroom. Sponge-painted a cheerful pale yellow, the office, like everything else at The Center, is neat and organized. A Little Tykes yellow, blue and red picnic table occupies one corner of the spacious room and shelves offer books and art supplies. A photo arcade of smiling faces fills the credenza against the back wall, but other than a computer monitor and simple four-line telephone, the desk is bare. Except for one file. Mar settles into one of the two visitor chairs and watches as Shirley reaches for the file.
“What we’ve got here,” Shirley begins, her voice now businesslike, “is a little girl, probably five months old. When she was found, she was undernourished and had a pretty nasty chest cold. No bruises or bumps, however, which is encouraging and hopefully means she was not physically abused. She’s a quiet child and, even at such a young age, a bit wary. She startles easily and whimpers a little, but that’s about it. At the hospital, she was given antibiotics and is responding well. Luckily, the cold was just that and not pneumonia.” Shirley looks up at Mar. “She wouldn’t have survived pneumonia.”
“Where did you find her?” Mar asks.
“In a rat-infested flop-house. Just short of a shooting-gallery. We were lucky this time. When they’re this young, they can’t defend themselves and sometimes, especially in winter, the rats get to the kids before we do. Before tying off, the mother had sort of barricaded the baby in a box she must’ve used as a crib. Anyway, it kept the rats off the kid. Or maybe they had enough to eat with the mother.” Shirley sighs and lowers the file. “The mother, Natalie Jones, managed to swing the hundred-dollars-a-month
“Free time? Girl, the only thing free about my time is how much I get paid for it. Otherwise, I’m busy 24-7,” Shirley says. “How you doin’?”
At forty-three, with closely-cropped graying hair, skin the color of warm caramel on a hot afternoon and a huge dimple in her right cheek that deepens when she smiles, which is most of the time, Shirley is a very striking woman. From Jamaica, she’d made her way to the United States twenty-some years before and worked hard to put herself through university, where she’d eventually earned two doctorates – one in Psychology, with a specialization in child psychology, and the other in Business Administration. Not easy by any means, but she’d managed to do it all as a single mother. She’d been courted by child welfare agencies the country over but, somehow, she’d ended up in Boulder, which ever since has enjoyed one of the highest adoption rates and lowest child abuse rates in the country.
Mar pours a cup of coffee from the Mr. Coffee and moves to the table. Now that she is in their space, the children pay attention to her, pointing out their own decorations and trying to get her to pronounce one the prettiest. Not stupid, she oohs and aahs over each and, for her efforts, is rewarded with a cookie from each of the little chefs.
“Dylan, honey,” Shirley says, “will you watch the kids while I go talk with Mar?”
“It would be my greatest pleasure.” Dylan, holding the edge of the apron out like a ballroom dress, tips his head and curtsies. Squeals of laughter erupt from little mouths.
“Aw, Dylan, you just a big huggie-bear,” proclaims one little girl, looking up at him in adoration. The others take up the chant “huggie-bear” as Shirley and Mar make their way from the kitchen up to Shirley’s second floor office.
“What happened to you?” Shirley speaks over her shoulder. “You sure someone’s not using you as a punching bag? Your whole face is a mess.”
“Gee, thanks, and here I was thinking you liked me.”
“I love you, Mar girl, you know that, but…”
“I tripped.”
“Uh-huh, you tripped.”
Mar, sensing the eye-roll even though Shirley’s back is to her, grits her teeth.
Shirley’s office is in what was originally the house’s master bedroom. Sponge-painted a cheerful pale yellow, the office, like everything else at The Center, is neat and organized. A Little Tykes yellow, blue and red picnic table occupies one corner of the spacious room and shelves offer books and art supplies. A photo arcade of smiling faces fills the credenza against the back wall, but other than a computer monitor and simple four-line telephone, the desk is bare. Except for one file. Mar settles into one of the two visitor chairs and watches as Shirley reaches for the file.
“What we’ve got here,” Shirley begins, her voice now businesslike, “is a little girl, probably five months old. When she was found, she was undernourished and had a pretty nasty chest cold. No bruises or bumps, however, which is encouraging and hopefully means she was not physically abused. She’s a quiet child and, even at such a young age, a bit wary. She startles easily and whimpers a little, but that’s about it. At the hospital, she was given antibiotics and is responding well. Luckily, the cold was just that and not pneumonia.” Shirley looks up at Mar. “She wouldn’t have survived pneumonia.”
“Where did you find her?” Mar asks.
“In a rat-infested flop-house. Just short of a shooting-gallery. We were lucky this time. When they’re this young, they can’t defend themselves and sometimes, especially in winter, the rats get to the kids before we do. Before tying off, the mother had sort of barricaded the baby in a box she must’ve used as a crib. Anyway, it kept the rats off the kid. Or maybe they had enough to eat with the mother.” Shirley sighs and lowers the file. “The mother, Natalie Jones, managed to swing the hundred-dollars-a-month
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