Abby and the Mystery Baby Page 7

“Okay, let’s try to help each other out,” said Stacey. “That’s what a workshop is for, right?” She looked around at four miserable faces. “Come on, guys, this is supposed to be fun,” she added.

  “Writing is fun,” said Charlotte. “But trying to figure out what other people will like is so hard.” She pointed to the pile of papers. “I like my poems best, but my parents looked bored when I was reading them out loud last night. Now I think it might be better to read a story, but which one?”

  “I wish I had your problem,” said Marilyn, looking enviously at the pile. “If I had that much stuff to choose from, I’d be happy. I can’t even think of one thing to write about.”

  “I can,” said Becca in a small voice. “But everything I write is kind of personal. I can’t even imagine reading it out loud onstage.” She looked terrified.

  “I don’t mind being onstage,” said Carolyn, “but the stuff I write is all scientific. I want to try to explain about photosynthesis — you know, why plants are green. We just learned about that in school. But I have a feeling that the little kids won’t be able to understand what I’m talking about.”

  Everybody fell silent. They knew Carolyn was probably right.

  Then, suddenly, Claudia grinned. “I have an idea,” she said slowly. “I have a really great idea. An idea that might solve all your problems.”

  Stacey was relieved. “What? Tell us.”

  “A play,” said Claudia. “You four should write a play together. It’ll be perfect!”

  Silence. But Claudia didn’t let the gloom stop her. “Look, it’ll work. Charlotte, you can’t decide what piece to read for everyone. Well, how about a play? It’s made to be performed in front of an audience, so they won’t be bored. And Marilyn, I bet you could lose that writer’s block if you were bouncing ideas off the others and working with them. Becca, this’ll help you with your stage fright, because you won’t be up there alone. And Carolyn, you — you —” Claudia paused. She had it figured out — except for Carolyn’s part.

  “Maybe the play could help explain photosynthesis,” Stacey said. “If it was presented in a fun way, maybe the little kids would understand.”

  Claudia shot Stacey a grateful glance. And then the two of them looked expectantly at the girls, and saw four smiling faces.

  “Yes!” cried Marilyn. “We can do it!”

  “Let’s start right now!” said Becca.

  “This’ll be great,” added Carolyn.

  “Act One, Scene One,” said Charlotte, reading the words aloud as she wrote them.

  Claudia and Stacey gave each other high fives. Their writing workshop was a success. And, if all went well, the girls’ play would be a big hit. Even if it was about photosynthesis.

  “Was that a sneeze?” I ran to Eli’s crib. “Oh, poor baby,” I said, reaching down to rub his belly. Eli looked miserable. It was Sunday, and in the twenty-four hours since my BSC sleepover, Eli had come down with a cold. He’d been sneezing and sniffling and coughing — and crying. A lot. We had one unhappy baby on our hands.

  My mom had called our pediatrician, Dr. Hernandez, to ask for advice. There wasn’t much we could do besides making sure he drank lots of fluids, and keeping an eye on him. If he developed a fever, we were supposed to call Dr. Hernandez again.

  I felt Eli’s forehead. “He’s a little warm,” I said. “Mom, feel him. Don’t you think he’s warmer?”

  “I just felt him five minutes ago,” said my mother impatiently. “He’s fine, Abby. It’s just a cold.” She was sitting on her bed, paging through her address book.

  I’d barely seen or talked to Mom in what seemed like days. It was almost as if she were avoiding me. On Friday she’d started to tell me something, and when we were interrupted she promised to talk to me soon. But so far, I hadn’t heard a word. She’d been acting very preoccupied, and it seemed as if she spent most of her time holed up in her study, making secretive phone calls.

  I knew it all must have something to do with Eli, but as far as details went, I was still clueless, and I had the feeling my mom liked it that way. A couple of times I tried to remind her that she’d promised to talk to me, but she brushed me off. And I knew better than to push her too hard. My mother is not a person who reacts well to being pushed.

  Eli sniffled. “Mom,” I began. “Don’t you think —”

  “Abby, he’s fine. Just relax.” Mom stood up. “I’ll be in my study, but please don’t interrupt me unless there’s a real emergency.” She smiled, but only with her mouth. Her eyes looked serious.

  I understood what she was saying. She didn’t want to hear about it every time Eli sneezed. “Okay,” I said, shrugging.

  She left the room, and I went back to hovering over Eli. He was sleeping, but not very soundly. He tossed his head back and forth, clenched his little fists, and frowned as he tried to breathe through his tiny stuffed-up nose. Poor guy. It’s bad enough to have a cold when you’re grown-up and understand what’s happening to you. But Eli didn’t know what had hit him, or why I couldn’t make him feel better.

  It broke my heart.

  He sneezed again, but it was just a little sneeze and he didn’t even wake up. Still, the sneeze made me wonder if he was feeling worse. I put my hand on his forehead again and tried to decide if it was warmer.

  Suddenly I heard my mother’s study door open and shut. Then I heard quick footsteps coming down the hall. She poked her head into the room. “I have to go out,” she said. “You and Anna have to take care of Eli.”

  “Huh?” I asked. “Where are you going? What —”

  “No time to talk,” my mom called over her shoulder, as she headed for the stairs. “I’ll phone you later.”

  Okay. Did I say my mom was acting strange before? Well, that was nothing. Now her behavior had become totally bizarre. Never before had she taken off on a Sunday afternoon without saying where she was going or why.

  I followed her down the stairs, trying to form a question. But before I could put the words together, she was gone. I stood there gaping at the closed front door.

  “What is going on with her?” Anna asked from behind me. She was wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. “I was in there making lunch, and the next thing I know she flies down the stairs and out the door. She barely took the time to tell me she was going out — but she didn’t say where, or — or —” Anna looked stunned.

  “Or why, or anything,” I finished. “I know. She’s up to something, and I’m tired of being kept in the dark.” It was time to take action. “I’m going to go snoop in her study.”

  “Abby, no!” said Anna. “That’s not right.”

  “I don’t care. It’s not right for her to keep secrets from us, either. Especially if they’re about Eli. We have a right to know.” I’d made up my mind. You know, you don’t become captain of your soccer team unless you’re willing to make decisions and stand by them. I’ve never been a wishy-washy person, and I probably never will be.

  I turned and headed upstairs, not caring whether Anna was following me or not. I marched into my mother’s study and over to her desk.

  Where to start?

  I ran my gaze over the messy desktop. My mother is not the most organized person in the world. There were piles of mail waiting to be opened, stacks of manuscripts waiting to be read, and, sprinkled over everything like seasoning, dozens of black fine-point felt-tip pens, the only kind my mom ever uses.

  There was also a vase of yellow tulips that had seen their best days about a week ago, several postcards from a friend who was apparently vacationing on some tropical island, and a picture of me and Anna in our Bat Mitzvah dresses. The tulips made me sneezy, but I ignored my runny nose. I had detective work to do.

  An appointment book lay open in the middle of the chaos, and I zeroed in for a better look. The space for Sunday was totally blank.

  Major frustration. My mother’s study wasn’t giving up its secrets any more easily than she was giving up hers.

  I sat down on her desk
chair and twirled around, thinking. Then, on my third twirl (I was beginning to feel a little nauseous), something caught my eye. A square of bright yellow, next to the phone. It was a Post-it note. I stopped twirling and took a closer look. There was only one word on the yellow square. One word, written in my mother’s handwriting, with one of those black fine-point felt-tip pens.

  Miriam.

  Miriam! Why did that name ring a bell? I said it out loud. “Miriam.” Who was Miriam?

  Suddenly, I remembered. Miriam was my mother’s younger sister.

  You may think it’s strange that I could have forgotten that my mother has a sister. It’s not, though. Here’s why: Nobody in our family has spoken to Miriam in years. Not only that, nobody talks about her. Not even her parents, my grandparents.

  I’m not sure what Miriam did — or didn’t do — to make everyone so mad at her. Thinking back, I had vague memories of my mother complaining that Miriam was so irresponsible, and that she always expected Mom to bail her out when she found herself in trouble.

  Miriam.

  I jumped up and ran downstairs to find Anna. She had gone back into the kitchen. I burst through the door, holding up the sticky note. “Miriam!” I said. “Mom’s sister.”

  “What about her?” asked Anna.

  “I don’t know,” I confessed. “All I know is that Mom wrote her name down. That must mean something.”

  “We don’t know anything about her,” said Anna. “I don’t even know what she looks like.”

  We glanced at each other, then flew off toward the living room. (Twin communication. Cool, huh?)

  Within seconds, we’d pulled all the photo albums off the shelf and were paging through them wildly. “She wasn’t at our Bat Mitzvah, we know that,” I said, throwing that album aside. I didn’t even remember Miriam’s name being mentioned when we were discussing the guest list.

  “I don’t see her in this one,” said Anna. “And it goes back at least four years.” She sounded sad. I looked up and saw that she was going through a brown leather album. I knew it was one that included pictures of the last family vacation we’d taken before our dad died. We’d gone to this island in Maine where we’d stayed in a cottage on the beach….

  I threw Anna another album. We didn’t have time to waste on nostalgia. “Check this one out,” I said.

  We raced through the pictures. It was like looking at a speeded-up movie of our lives. Like those time-lapse films of flowers blooming and trees growing. Only these were pictures of two girls who grew. It took me about ten minutes to chart our course from babyhood (identical bundles in identical bassinets) to toddler times to those gawky ten-year-old moments.

  The books were also full of pictures of our grandparents, and of my father’s relatives. But nowhere, nowhere, were there pictures of anyone who might be Miriam.

  “Look at this picture of Mom and Grandpa Morris and Gram Elsie,” said Anna. “It almost looks as if someone cut part of the picture out, doesn’t it?” She showed me a picture in one of the older albums, from before we were born. Mom looked about twenty years old.

  She was right. And if I had to guess, I’d bet that the missing part had, at one time, showed Miriam. Miriam, the other daughter.

  “Let’s go back even further,” I said. “Let’s look at the ones from Mom’s childhood.” I pulled two old red leather albums off the shelf and handed one to Anna. We started to page through, looking at the black-and-white crinkle-edged photos. And then, almost immediately, I hit pay dirt.

  I drew in a breath. “Whoa,” I said. “Check it out!” I showed Anna what I’d found. It was a picture of two children — girls — sitting on a set of concrete steps outside an apartment building. The older girl was Mom; I could tell by the shape of her nose and the slant of her eyebrows. She must have been seven or eight. The younger girl was about four. She was squinting at the camera and sucking her thumb. She was also clutching a blanket.

  A blanket with cowboys and horses on it. Even though it looked different in black and white, I recognized it immediately.

  “That blanket!” I said. “That’s the one Eli came wrapped in. I’m sure of it.”

  “That must be Miriam,” said Anna.

  “And Miriam — Miriam must be Eli’s mother!” I gasped. “Miriam Goldberg — M. Goldberg! That was her prescription.”

  “And Mom must have gone to see her,” said Anna. “But where is she?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Abby?” asked Anna. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m thinking,” I said. “I was trying to figure out how we could tell where Mom went. And I think I just had a really good idea.” I bolted up the stairs, headed for the phone on my mom’s desk, and punched the redial button.

  The phone rang three times. Then a voice on the other end said, “St. Barnabas Hospital.”

  I gulped.

  “What is it?” asked Anna, who was leaning over the desk, watching me closely.

  I held up a finger to tell her to wait a second. “Miriam Goldberg, please,” I said. My voice sounded surprisingly normal. I was glad the receptionist had no way of knowing how badly my hands were shaking.

  “Is she a patient?” asked the receptionist.

  How should I know? “Yes,” I said, taking a wild guess. For all I knew, she might be a brain surgeon.

  “Hold, please,” said the receptionist. I heard a click, then some syrupy music. Still holding the phone to my ear, I looked up at Anna. “She’s in the hospital,” I said.

  “For what?” asked Anna.

  I shrugged. “Maybe —” I began, but just then the receptionist came back on the line.

  “I’m sorry, the nurse says Ms. Goldberg is sleeping right now,” she said.

  “I see,” I answered. “Thank you.”

  “Good-bye,” said the receptionist.

  “Wait!” I said. “Can you tell me how to find St. Barnabas from Grand Central Station?”

  “Certainly.” She ran down the directions, and I scribbled them on a scrap of paper. I thanked her, hung up, and turned to Anna.

  “I’m going to New York,” I said.

  “Oh, right,” said Anna. “Sure.”

  “No, really. I am. I want some answers, and I want them now. I’m not going to wait for Mom to come home and act all mysterious again. This time I’m going to find out for myself what’s going on. I owe it to Eli.”

  “But you can’t —” Anna began.

  “Sure I can,” I interrupted. “We’ve taken the train to the city before. It’s no big deal.”

  “You’ve never done it alone,” Anna pointed out.

  “So?” I asked. “There’s always a first time.” I was trying hard to sound matter-of-fact, even though I was scared to death. It was true that I’d never been to the city by myself before.

  “Mom will kill you,” said Anna. “You’ll be grounded for fifteen years.”

  “We’ll see. All I know is that I have to go.”

  Anna realized I was serious. “Well, if you’re really going, then I’m going, too,” she said. “I don’t want you to go alone.”

  “I’m going to have to, though. Somebody has to stay with Eli,” I pointed out. Erin was off on Sundays.

  Anna knew there was no use arguing. I was determined, and when I feel that way, nobody can stop me.

  I picked up the phone again and called the train station to check on the Sunday schedule. There was a train leaving in forty-five minutes, which gave me plenty of time. Next, I called Bud’s Taxi and said I needed a cab in half an hour. After that, I headed up to my room to change.

  Finally, I went into my mom’s room, where Eli lay sleeping. “He seems to be breathing a little easier,” said Anna.

  “Don’t forget to check his temperature every hour,” I reminded her, even though I knew she’d be just as responsible about taking care of him as I would have been. I stroked his soft cheek. “I’m going to see your mommy,” I told him. “At least, I think I am. And I’m going to find out why sh
e left you with us.” After that, what? I had no idea. I just knew I had to make sure Eli would always be taken care of.

  I kissed him one last time and said good-bye to Anna.

  “Good luck. And be careful!”

  “I will. Don’t worry.” Just then, the cab honked outside, and I had to run.

  It was a quick trip to the train station, and I arrived just as the train pulled in. I paid the driver, thanked him, and dashed for the train.

  Ten minutes later, the train pulled slowly out of the station and I was on my way to New York.

  By myself!

  Now that I had time to think, I began to wonder whether this was really such a great idea. It’s not as if I know my way around Manhattan. It would be easy to get lost. Not to mention all the other things that could happen to me, things too scary to even think about. My brain was racing, and I began to feel dizzy with nervousness.

  To take my mind off my fears, I made myself think about Miriam. I tried to remember everything I knew about her, which wasn’t much. I knew she was several years younger than my mother, and that once when they were little girls they had eaten so much licorice that they’d both thrown up. (That was a story my mom would tell me and Anna when we were younger and begged her constantly for candy.)

  I knew Miriam had had a turtle named Mabel (my mother’s turtle, Mabel’s twin, was named Doris). And I knew she had won an essay contest when she was in fifth grade, because my mother told me how jealous she’d felt whenever Miriam showed off her blue ribbon.

  Most of the stories I remembered about Miriam were about what she was like as a young girl. All I could recall about the teenage Miriam was that she had a way of attracting “bad” boys — boys with motorcycles, boys who kept her out late. She must have held the world’s record for being grounded, according to my mom.

  And the adult Miriam? I was pretty sure I’d only met her once, when Anna and I were maybe four years old. I had a vague memory of a nice lady with a blonde ponytail, a lady who laughed and joked and bought us ice-cream cones. But I couldn’t bring her face into focus, and I couldn’t remember where we were or why we spent an afternoon with her.