Three Baby Cribs and a Missing Set of Car Keys
I tipped the woven basket on the hallway console table upside down. Two hair ties, a receipt for lawn fertilizer, and three copper pennies spilled onto the dark wood, but my car keys were not there.
The three baby car seats were lined up by the front door, each one strapped and ready. I had forty-two minutes before we were expected at Oak Creek Pediatrics, and the drive took twenty.
I checked the ceramic dish in the kitchen where Ryan usually dropped his spare change. Only a paperclip and a dry ballpoint pen lay inside. I walked back to the hallway, my shoes making no sound on the runner rug.
My purse was empty except for a pack of tissues and three receipts from the grocery store. I checked the pockets of my light summer jacket hanging on the wooden peg. Nothing but a clean pacifier.
The low rumble of my mother’s Buick sounded in the driveway. I opened the door, carrying Bodhi in his heavy plastic carrier, while my mother, Martha, walked up the concrete path. She wore her beige cardigan despite the July heat, her eyes immediately scanning my face.
