Enough to Miss Christmas

"I'm good with babies. I practically raised Timmy." She turned to me. "Are you scared?"

"I'm a little scared. I'm thrilled too. Mostly, I'm mixed up. I wish I were younger but I love that my baby will be your father's child. I'm in a perfect stage of my life now, with you and Timmy and your father and Suzie. I love everything about my life, and I'm convinced it's going to get even better."

I was feeling tired but both of us were euphoric by the time we rolled into Summerside.

The phone was ringing as soon as we entered our home. The call was for Karen as were several other, nearly none stop throughout the early evening. Suddenly I recalled the Mary Ellen business before we left for Connecticut and felt guilty for not discussing it further with Karen as I'd promised.

The calls were very hush-hush and I wanted to talk to discuss the matter but she retreated to her room leaving me and our dog to ponder the intrigue. My ponder time was short lived by our ringing door bell. I opened the door to a short police officer with a serious look on his face. My heart was in my mouth! The same scene occurred twice in my life, each time reporting a death. Don't let it be Paul I said, half aloud.

Behind the policeman stood a scruffy man, and a woman who looked as if she wanted to kill someone. The policeman politely identified himself as Officer Kennedy and asked for Karen North. He failed to introduce the couple who kept looking over my shoulder and trying to push forward. My maternal instincts switched on with a vengeance.

"Why?"

"Because she's hidden my daughter, that's why!" bleated the woman. She was about my age but the comparison stopped there; black roots beneath messy blond hair, a sagging cleavage and a too short skirt, all standing in flip-flops.

"May we come in?" Officer Kennedy asked.

"Who are these people?" I asked, not budging.

"She's Sheila Murphy. Her daughter Mary Ellen is a runaway. . ."

"She didn't run away! She's being hidden!" the woman snarled.

"Certainly not here," I answered, matching her tone. "We've been out of state all weekend." I began to close the door.

"Look," the policeman said, exasperated. "Can we at least talk to your daughter? Maybe she heard something." The school teacher in me wanted to correct his can-may problem, but it seemed a bit tad snippy. Besides, I felt sorry for him having to deal with these two low lives. Scruffy hadn't opened his mouth, but I knew I wouldn't like him when he did.