Black Market Baby by Tabra Jordan Page B

you suggesting I open a catering service,
again? My dear. Please. I don’t do domestic.”
    “Mother.”
Jillian arranged the soft pink napkins as she spoke. “May I ask you a question?
I mean, if you have time.”
    “Sure.”
Ester tugged at the neckline of her pink chiffon dress. “I’ve got a moment.
What’s the matter? Not satisfied with your new stylist? I think she’s done a
marvelous job.” She reached out and touched Jillian’s thick hair. “Your hair is
full of body.”
    Jillian
smiled. “No. it isn’t that.”
    “I
know.” Ester placed her finger aside of her cheek. “Maria is not working out
for you. Darling, she’s getting old now. You didn’t have to hire her. She was
retiring. It isn’t her fault her arthritis acts up every now and then. Give her
a few days off and she’ll be good as new.”
    “Mom.
No. It isn’t about Maria. She’s fine.”
    “You’ve
always been a sentimental one.” A blonde spiral inhibited Ester’s view. She
blew the ringlet from her eye, then groomed her elegant updoo. “Honey, it was
time for Maria to retire. She’s been around since you were a baby. You’ve
developed an unhealthy attachment to her.”
    “Please.
Mother. I have a question.” Jillian touched her mother’s shoulder.
    “Oh,
I’m sorry. What were you saying, dear?”
    “I
was asking if there was ever a fire in the nursery.”
    Ester
gazed into her daughter’s large brown eyes. “No. Why would you ask such a
thing?”
    “There
is smoke—clothes must have been on fire.”
    “Oh,”
Ester shunned, “you’re talking about those silly dreams, again.”
    “Mother.
They aren’t silly. The dreams are trying to tell me something. If I can just
piece it together I’ll…”
    “Well,”
she added flippantly. “A few drinks should take care of that.”
    Jillian
held her mother’s arm. Desperate to be heard, she looked into her slate blue eyes.
“No. No more drinks. No more pills. I want to know the truth. Now, what
happened in my nursery?”
    “Jillian
please. You’re just like your father. This is hardly the time to discuss such
matters.” She jerked her head forward. “Excuse me.”
     

 
     
    CHAPTER THREE
     
    That
night, Jillian experienced the dream she’d had so many nights before. In the
vision, the nursery was dark, but she recalled being contented. She played in
her crib with hardly a care. Suddenly, someone was there. The scent of burning
rags overcame her. A foul smelling hand clasped over her mouth—a hand so large,
it covered her eyes and nose as well.
    Jillian
reached out, tearing at the burning rags. Unable to free herself she flailed
against the stranger. He bound her tightly. She tried to cry out, but her cries
were muffled. Sticky duct tape was placed over her tiny mouth. Then, she heard
the sound of a bag being unzipped. Her body was then stuffed inside. The zipper
closed, then there was darkness. Soon, the bag was jostled about, as if someone
was walking.
    How
scared she was. Inside the bag, Jillian recalled sweating. The closed area was
tight, and stifling. There was no air. How she needed air. Tears clouded her
vision and her lungs ached. A constant flow of mucus inhibited every breath. Soon,
the bag was wedged into a tight place and practically unzipped. Immediately, a cool
breeze rushed inside. Above her head, there were flashes of bright light, and
people were talking.
    For
days, Jillian recalled being kept in a dark place. The stinky man had changed
her diaper once or twice, and had given her a bottle. The milk was almost
frozen; she struggled for the nourishment. She recalled being cold on the bare
plastic mattress—so, so cold. No one was there. No one heard her cries.
    In
the next room, there were loud voices—arguing, and blaring music. “ Mommy is
there ,” she imagined, reaching toward the closed door. “ I know mommy is
there .”
     Unexpectedly,
the door opened, and the room brightened. A woman dressed in dark clothing walked
near the bed.