Fresh Kills Read Online Free Page A

Fresh Kills
Book: Fresh Kills Read Online Free
Author: Carolyn Wheat
Pages:
Go to
of stores, anchored by Macy’s, Sears, and Penney’s. I had visions of a very pregnant teenager wandering through its covered, fountained vastness, clutching her distended belly and moaning in pain as she cruised the boutiques.
    â€œCan’t you order her to stay in bed?” I asked, my voice rising slightly. “After all, you’re the doctor.”
    As soon as the words flew out of my mouth, I blushed for my stupidity. If I’d had a dollar for everyone who thought I could do something because I was the lawyer, I wouldn’t have been standing in a group home on Staten Island making a fool of myself. I gave the bulky man a rueful smile by way of apology.
    â€œI can strongly advise bed rest,” he explained, locking eyes with me as though we were the only people in the room. His were blue and slightly bulging, pulling me into the seriousness of his words. “She’s young and basically healthy,” he said. “I’d admit her to the hospital right now if I thought she was in real danger. It would be better if she stayed as immobile as possible, but I can’t prevent her from going for walks.”
    â€œI can,” Marla interrupted. “I can and I will. If anything happens to that baby because she’s tramping around that mall—”
    â€œAmber always gets to go to the mall,” dumpy little Lisa complained. “Whatever Amber wants, she gets. It’s not fair.”
    â€œLisa, not now,” Mrs. Bonaventura said in a firm voice. She moved toward the sullen teenager, about to shepherd her out of the room, but the litany of grievances had just begun. “… her own room, her own phone line,” the girl recited as the housemother all but pushed her into the next room.
    â€œSo can we see her or what?” Marla cut in.
    Dr. Scanlon raised bushy, graying eyebrows. “Of course. Just don’t upset her. Anything that can wait, should wait until after she gives birth.”
    I trudged up maple-banistered stairs after Marla, feeling like a sailboat caught in the wake of a liner. We passed room after room furnished with identical twin beds, matching pine dressers, and blue shag carpets. There were wall posters with huge blowups of the stars of “Beverly Hills 90210,” rap groups whose names I didn’t recognize, graduation photos of pimply boys—the proud fathers.
    At the far end of the hall there was a big television room with fake leather couches crammed with teenaged girls in varying stages of pregnancy. All were white.
    Amber had a room all to herself. She had a double bed instead of twins, fancier furniture with carved accents instead of plain pine, a Navajo-style throw rug over a beige carpet nicer than the blue shag the other girls had, and a white phone on the bedside table, the first phone I’d seen on this floor. It was a special room, a princess room. Lisa had a point; Amber had possessions and privileges the other girls didn’t share. I wondered why, then filed the question for future reference.
    The room was empty—well, not exactly empty; there were enough stuffed animals to fill a window at FAO Schwarz—but there was no one in the big bed or the straight chair next to it. I took the opportunity to look around while Marla went back down the hall to look for my client.
    The room was a jumble of Care Bears, Hallmark cards taped to the walls, and posters with rainbows promising better tomorrows. Yet amid the rainbow-bellied bears was a white coyote, head raised to the ceiling in mid-howl, wearing a turquoise neckcloth. On the wall adjoining a “Just for Today” poster was a blowup of the Albuquerque balloon festival. The room seemed to have been decorated by two people with totally opposite tastes. I wondered which, if either, sensibility belonged to Amber.
    Next to the window hung an unusual wind chime; I walked over to inspect it more closely. In addition to the usual tubes of tuned metal, there
Go to

Readers choose