along the line of shells. She had progressed only as far as the Trumps’ cottage when she spotted the largest horseshoe-crab shell she had ever seen smack in the middle of the broad strip of shells. The shell looked odd to her, raised up a bit, as though perhaps the crab might still be inside. Curious, she extended her leg, and with her sandcovered toe, kicked the brown globe onto its back. Daria blinked in disbelief. A bloody baby! She shrieked before she could stop herself, then took off across the sand, screaming and waving her arms, wishing now that she were not all alone on the beach.
She’d run the distance of several cottages when she stopped short. Had it really been a baby? Could it have been a doll, perhaps? She looked back over shoulder. Yes, she was certain it had been a real, human baby. And in her memory, she imagined the small, almost imperceptible movement of a tiny, blood-covered foot. Surely that had not actually happened. She stood rigidly on the beach, staring back at the shell. Okay, maybe it really was a baby, but it couldn’t possibly be alive. Very slowly, she walked back to the overturned shell. The ocean was so quiet that she could hear her heartbeat thudding in her ears. Standing above the shell, she forced herself to look down.
It was a baby, a naked baby, and not only was it stained with blood, it was lying next to what looked like a pulpy mountain of blood. And the baby was alive. There was no mistaking the tiny movement of its head toward the sea, no mistaking the weak, mewling sound escaping from its doll-like lips.
Fighting nausea, Daria took off her tank top and knelt in the sand. Carefully, she began to wrap the shirt around the baby, only to pull away in horror. The bloody mountain was attached to the baby! There was no way to leave it behind. Gritting her teeth, she wrapped the shirt around everything—baby, mountain and half a dozen shells—and stood up, cradling the bundle in her arms. She walked as quickly as she could up the beach toward the Sea Shanty. She stopped once, expecting to be sick, but she felt the trembling of the small life in her arms and forced her feet to continue walking.
Once in the Sea Shanty, she laid the bundle down on the kitchen table. Blood had soaked clear through the tank top, and she realized there was blood on her bare chest as she ran up the stairs to her parents’ third-story bedroom.
“Mom!” She pounded on their bedroom door. “Daddy!”
She heard her father’s heavy footsteps inside the room. In a moment, he opened the door. He was tying his tie, and his thick, usually unruly, black hair was combed into place for church. Behind him, Daria could see her mother, still asleep in their double bed.
“Shh.” Her father held a finger to his lips. “What’s the matter?” His eyes widened as he saw the red stain on her chest, and he stepped quickly into the hall, grabbing her by the shoulder. “What happened?” he asked. “Did you get hurt?”
“I found a baby on the beach!” she said. “It’s alive but it’s all—”
“What did you say?” Her mother sat up in bed, her brown hair jutting from her head on one side. She looked suddenly wide-awake.
“I found a baby on the beach,” Daria said, pushing past her father to reach the bed. She tugged her mother’s hand. “I put it on the table in the kitchen. I’m afraid it might die. It’s really tiny, and it’s got a lot of blood on it.”
Her mother was out of the bed more quickly than Daria had seen her move in months. She pulled on her robe and slippers and raced down the stairs ahead of both Daria and her father.
In the kitchen, the baby was just where Daria had left it, and the bundle was so still that she feared the baby might now truly be dead. Daria’s mother did not balk for an instant at the bloody sight, and Daria was impressed and proud as her mother lifted the crimson tank top away from the infant.
“Dear God in heaven!” Daria’s father said, taking a step backward. But her mother was not repelled. With the practiced hands of the nurse she had once been, she began moving efficiently around the kitchen. She filled a pan with water and put it on the stove, then wet a dish towel and began cleaning the baby with it.
Daria leaned close, made less afraid by her mother’s matter-of-fact handling of the situation. “Why is it so bloody?” she asked.
“Because it’s a newborn,” her mother said. “She’s a newborn.”
Daria looked closer and could see that the baby was indeed a girl.
“Where exactly did you find her?” her mother asked.
“She was under a horseshoe-crab shell,” Daria said.
“Under a horseshoe-crab shell!” her mother exclaimed.
“She was with all the shells washed in from the tide,” Daria said. “Do you think the storm last night washed her up on the beach?”
Her mother shook her head. “No,” she said. “She would have been washed clean then. And she would have been dead.” Her lower lip trembled and her nostrils flared with quiet rage. “No, someone just left her there.”
“I’m calling the police.” Daria’s father headed for the living room and the phone. His face had gone gray. Aunt Josie passed him on her way into the room.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Oh my God!” Her hand flew to her mouth as she saw the baby lying on the kitchen table.
“I found her on the beach,” Daria explained.
“All by herself?” Aunt Josie asked. “Where on the beach?”
“Right in front of Cindy Trump’s cottage,” Daria said. She saw her mother and aunt exchange glances. People always did that when they talked about Cindy Trump, but Daria didn’t have a clue why.
“The placenta is attached,” Aunt Josie said, peering closer, and Daria knew she must mean the bloody mountain still lying next to the baby.
“I know.” Daria’s mother shook her head as she rinsed out the wet cloth under the faucet. “Isn’t this just unbelievable?”
Daria thought of Chloe and Ellen still asleep upstairs. They shouldn’t miss this. She started toward the kitchen door.
“Where are you going?” her mother asked.
“To get Chloe and Ellen,” Daria said.
“It’s not even eight o’clock,” her mother said. “Don’t wake them yet.”
“Teenagers sleep the sleep of the dead, I swear,” Aunt Josie said.
Chloe and Ellen would probably blame her for not waking them, but Daria thought it best to be obedient just then. She stepped close to the table again and watched as her mother slipped the blades of the kitchen scissors into the boiling water for a moment, then snipped the cord coming from the baby’s belly button. Finally, the baby was free of the horrible, pulpy mass. Aunt Josie brought a towel from the downstairs bathroom and Daria’s mother wrapped it around the newly bathed baby and lifted the bundle to her chest. She rocked the baby back and forth. “Poor darling little thing,” she said softly. “Poor little castaway.” Daria thought it had been years since she’d seen so much life in her mother’s eyes.
The policemen and rescue squad arrived within minutes. One of the rescue-squad workers, a young man with long hair, nearly had to pry the infant from Daria’s mother’s arms. Still wearing her robe and slippers, she followed the baby
