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 lay 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.
