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My head shakes, unwillingly, a lack of respect for this nobody standing in front of me thinking she knows who I am and what I would have done. Yeah, all right, kids aren’t on my agenda. Big fucking deal.
Phoebe’s eyes divert to the carrier, narrowing her brows in confusion. “Why do you have her, anyway?”
“So, you’re not aware that your best friend dumped her baby with her brother and ran away?” I tell her, frustrated at this conversation.
Phoebe appears stumped by the revelation, pulling her hair into her mouth and chewing it, annoyingly.
“She said she would be away for a few days. She needed to get away and clear her head. She never mentioned leaving Katerina,” she says, faintly.
“Well, clearing her head means dumping our kid. Where is she?”
“I don’t k-know…” she stammers, nervous and upset. “I knew it.”
“You knew what?”
“That she wasn’t coping. Mom told me she was probably going through postpartum depression, given everything that’s happened.”
Phoebe extends her arm, prompting me to come inside, finally.
The house is small with brown furniture and pictures hung all over the walls. There’s a glass cabinet in the corner housing creepy porcelain dolls dressed in fancy dresses.
An older man, assuming it’s her dad, is sitting in his rocker and reading a book with a pipe and steaming coffee beside him. There’s a sweet smell in the air, and moments later, Phoebe’s mom comes out with a plate of breakfast, which she hands to her husband.
They all have matching ginger hair. Comical, to say the least.
“Oh, I didn’t know you were expecting a visitor, honey?”
“Neither was I. Mom, Dad, this is Wesley. Katerina’s…” she coughs, purposely, rolling her eyes, “… the father.”
I’d like to think it isn’t intentional, the shock of the news which explains their expression. Eyes wide, mouth gaping, and silence follows. Phoebe’s dad is quick to break the stance, placing the pipe back into his mouth.
“Mom, Milly’s gone missing. She left the baby with Flynn. We need to find her. Can you watch her for a few hours?”
Phoebe’s mom clutches her chest, worried. “Honey, should we call the police?”
“No, Mom, it’s not like that.” Phoebe shakes her head with a forced smile, turning to me for reassurance.
“Um… no,” I speak up, clearing my throat. “We will find her, won’t we, Phoebe?”
“Yes, of course. I’m sure she’s just visiting her mom. You know, after the news and all.”
What news? I wanted to ask Phoebe, but time is of the essence, and we need to get out of here.
“Of course, sweetie. Come here, baby girl. I’ll run to the store and grab some extra diapers and formula.”
Handing the carrier over, something odd washes over me. Worry. Panic. It feels sickening and begins to make my stomach curl.
What is the feeling? It’s almost like anxiety from separating.
“I already packed plenty, stopped off at the drugstore and got some.” I hand over the bag.
“Oh, well, aren’t we the organized parent,” Phoebe snickers. “I’ll go get changed.”
“Please,” I tell her with a sarcastic smile.
Good. I’m not going anywhere with her dressed like that. No matter how desperate I am. That getup is not cute.
Phoebe’s mom takes the carrier, lifting Katerina out and cradling her. She smiles, sings a nursery rhyme of some sort before Phoebe’s dad rattles off about not getting clucky ’cause his shop is dusty and old.
