Mother's Milk Read Free Page B

mother. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
    â€˜I figured you’d hear it later. Will you go?’
    â€˜I don’t know … I have to get back to the office, love you, Mom,’ she said, making a fast exit, running down the stairs, needing to get out of there and away from Ruth’s searching eyes. The mere mention of Jimmy Martin filled Barrett with a fear that seemed endless. And the secrets that she’d kept from her mother, who knew only that James Martin and his twin Ellen had kidnapped Barrett and her sister, and killed a number of people, including Barrett’s husband, Ralph. Barrett had killed Ellen Martin in the process of breaking free and Jimmy had been imprisoned in the forensic hospital, from which he should never have been released. And what Ruth Conyors most crucially didn’t know, and what Barrett would never tell her, was that Jimmy Martin had raped her, albeit through artificial insemination, and that he – not Ralph – was Max’s biological father.

THREE
    W ith minutes to spare, Barrett made it back to her ninth-floor office with the bagged lunch her mother had stuffed into her briefcase. It was an odd mix of Barrett’s usual super-healthy regimen and Ruth’s comfort foods – a turkey and Swiss on homemade multigrain, honey-mustard oil-free dressing, lettuce, tomato, with an unsweetened bottle of iced tea, also four cheese biscuits, still warm wrapped inside the foil, and two pieces of cold fried chicken left over from yesterday. She was starving and quickly popped one of the buttery biscuits into her mouth. She could hear her mother’s voice as she savored the first bite –
You’re losing the weight too fast, it’s no wonder your milk is drying up.
‘God, this is good,’ she said aloud, as she picked at the crispy skin on a chicken breast. She settled back into her chair, cracked open the iced tea, and sank her teeth into the chicken as the intercom buzzed and one of the lights lit. Her secretary and front-door watchdog, Marla, told her, ‘Dr. Houssman on line two.’
    With her mouth full of deliciously juicy chicken, she picked up. ‘Hi, George.’
    â€˜I got your message,’ her eighty-something-year-old mentor started. ‘Thought I wasn’t going to call you back, didn’t you?’
    â€˜One can hope,’ she said, trying to swallow and take a swig of iced tea.
    â€˜Are you feeling any better?’ he asked, honing into the heart of the talk they’d been having, even before the birth of Max.
    â€˜Well, some yes and some no, it rips me apart every morning when I have to leave. He follows me with his eyes, and he can keep his head up now. He starts to cry the second I’m out the door; it’s heartbreaking. But I have to work, I have to make money. I try not to think about how everything hangs by this tiny little thread. If I don’t bring home a paycheck, it’s like a house of cards that starts to collapse … my house, Mom’s health insurance, Justine’s apartment.’
    â€˜How often are you getting attacks?’
    Barrett felt the pounding in her chest, and a lightheaded feel from starting to hyperventilate. ‘Mostly I can control it. Exercise helps, and at least when I’m back in the kung-fu studio or out running I can shut my mind down, but it never stops. It’s like when people used to talk about having nervous breakdowns, maybe there’s this edge and I feel like it’s not so far off. Problem is, I can’t afford to have a breakdown; it’s not in my schedule.’
    â€˜I hate to bring this up … there are meds for this.’
    â€˜I can’t,’ she said firmly. ‘Even when they claim they don’t get in the breast milk,’ she said, feeling fullness in her breasts even having just nursed, ‘you know there’s some; I refuse to do that. He’s got enough going against him genetically, and I