Spoiler
A new novel... I seem to say that a lot...
First:
My mother and I are completely different.
In stature.
In demeanor.
She in short, fat, sweet and loves children.
I am tall, thin, sharp and to the point and hate children.
Why then, has a baby been left on MY doorstep?
Some would say I have bad luck. I would agree with them.
My father died when I was young and my brothers, much, much older than I, left and I have yet to meet them.
When I came along, my mother was thirty. She had many health problems and was not fit to take care of me.
I took care of myself from a young age, and by the time I was eleven took care of my mother too.
When I was eighteen I went to college, while I was there, my mother went from bad to worse in the health department.
The doctor claimed the sooty air of New York City was too much for her. We moved, to a suburb of New York, and lived in side-by-side cottages, set back from the hustle and bustle of the main street.
We were old-fashioned, my mother and I.
Growing up, she would read me classics like Emily of new moon or Ann of Green Gables or even Tom Sawyer. She would dress me in little old-fashioned frocks and bought American girl’s by the boxful.
Those doll’s still sat, in my basement, on their stands, their little arms reaching out to you to be played with.
The baby’s face was red, and it puckered up, preparing to cry. I scooped it up, and walked back into my cottage, entered my kitchen and sat it down, on the glass table where I could examine it properly.
I had bought all my kitchen furniture at the beach, wicker chairs, glass, peaches and sky blues. This baby was almost a blot on the cleanliness of my spotless kitchen.
‘It’ was wrapped in a sheet covered in ducks. It was stained with dirt and grime and whoever had swaddled the baby had done a poor job. A string hung from its neck and a large metal contraption clipped to it.
The unnamed one.
Oh hurrah! I had a baby that was unnamed, dirty and no apparent family.
Great.
I picked ‘it’ up and carried it to the living room and sat down on the leather sofa. Wrapping the child in another blanket, I left the house, carrying the thing at arm’s length. My mother would know what to do with it.
*.* *.*
“Allure,” my mother suggested, leaning over the freshly washed baby, now dressed in one of my old sleeping gowns.
“Azalea, Christiana, Chelsea, Patricia,”
“Azure.” I said with finality. It fit the baby. It had blue eyes, deep, deep blue eyes.
My mother nodded her approval. We liked odd names, she had named me Asytia and her mother had named her Aemy. ‘If you are proud of your name,’ she used to tell me when I would come home, wet with tears from teasing. ‘no one will be able to tease you.’ After that day, I lived by that rule, proud of my name Asytia Elyon Marcott.
“Azure Aditia Marcott.”
Of course, naming the child meant I was going to keep her.
Spoiler
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