Borrowed Baby Read Online Free

pajamas were too restricting to him. The only restrictions he accepted Were ones he made for himself.
    Groggily he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and shuffled down the hall to the room that had once been, his sister's. When she left, he had kept it just the way it was. This house had been Griff's one last stab at normalcy. He had bought it with hopes of giving Sally a real home and, at the same time, giving himself one as well. He had intended on going on with his work on the force, and she was going to graduate from high school and attend college. She was going to become someone, and they were going to beat the odds against them.
    The American dream, he thought cynically.
    That had been the plan. But plans, he had learned time and again, often found a way to go awry. He should have seen it coming. He was enough of a realist to have been alert to the dangers of dreaming. Sally had fallen in love with a would-be rock star and sud-denly he and Sally couldn't carry on a conversation anymore without shouting. The arguments had grown more and more heated the more he tried to show her the error of her ways.
    The last time he had seen her, two years ago, she had been on the back of her boyfriend's motorcycle, heading off for parts unknown.
    Well, all that was behind them now. Maybe he could somehow make up for lost time. He knocked on her door. "Sally, is everything all right?"
    No answer met his question, except for the baby's wail. Inexplicable fear rose up to his throat, where it was wont to lodge when he couldn't put a name on things. "Sally, are you all right?"
    Still nothing.
    He tried the doorknob and discovered that the door was unlocked. He pushed it open. The room was illuminated by the lamp that stood next to her bed. Sally's bed hadn't been slept in. On top of the covers lay the baby in her infant seat, thrashing about, her arms waving to and fro. Next to her was a note. He didn't want to think about it, "Sally?" he called out again, hoping that this wasn't what it looked like.
    Casie stopped crying for a moment and seemed to be listening to the sound of his voice.
    Griff rushed into the room. The bathroom door was open but the room was empty. She was gone. Why?
    He sank down on the bed. The infant seat tipped in his direction. Mechanically, he stopped it without looking at Casie. He picked up the note. It took him a few minutes before he could get himself to read the words.

    Dear Griff,
    Please try to understand. I have to sort things out for myself. I realized last night that I can't let you do it for me. And I can't do it with Casie. It wouldn't be fair to her. Please take care of her for me, she deserves better than me. So do you.

    Love, Sally

    "Damn!"
    He crumpled the note and threw it on the floor. All through her childhood and adolescence, Sally had left messes for him to straighten out.
    "This is a little more serious than an unmade bed, Sally," he called out in frustration, addressing the emptiness. "Just what in hell am I supposed to do with her?"
    Casie gave a little cry. Griff sighed and stared down at the baby in bewilderment. "What am I supposed to do with you?" Casie's lower lip trembled, but the crying stopped. She seemed intrigued with the sound of his voice. "Take you in the squad car and have you ride shotgun?" Casie answered him in strange noises. Griff threw up his hands. "Great, just great. Not fair to Casie. How fair is it to leave her with me?" he complained angrily. "I don't know the first thing about babies."
    Casie laughed, her eyes bright and fixed on Griff. For a second, he almost felt as if she understood. "It's not going to work, kid. I haven't got the faintest idea what to do with you."
    What was he going to do?
    He thought of calling in sick, but they were in the middle of a flu epidemic and already operating at only three-fourths capacity. Besides, taking the day off wouldn't solve anything. This wiggling inconvenience in a pink dress would still be here tomorrow.
    There was no one he