Cockatiels at Seven by Donna Andrews Read Free Book Online

all dozen Dr. Seuss books on hand either during the day, at nap time, or during our first attempt to settle him down for the evening. I wondered how many he was good for this time.
    I curled up in bed with Timmy’s instruction manual. While I’d been punching holes in it and sorting it into tabs, I’d decided from its relative cleanliness—at least when I’d first received it—that Karen had probably prepared it especially for Timmy’s visit with me. Was it possible that hidden in the midst of all the childcare instructions Karen might have let slip some clue to where she was and why she had disappeared?
    Somewhere in the middle of a description of how to cook the fruit concoction I was supposed to administer to Timmy at the first signs of constipation, I must have dozed off.

Six
    Michael woke up in a good mood. I woke up worrying about Karen.
    “So what are my chances of talking you into embarking on a Timmy of our own,” he said. I couldn’t tell if those were the first words he uttered or simply the first that made it through my early morning fog.
    “Arg,” I said. “Let’s talk about it later.”
    “Can I at least talk you into a practicing for the real thing?” he asked, in a tone that would normally have distracted me immediately. I could tell from his voice that he wasn’t expecting my answer.
    “We should talk about that later, too,” I said.
    “Did I say something wrong?”
    “No, but the Timmy we already have is standing right here at my side of the bed,” I said. “Good morning, Timmy.”
    “Kiki hungry,” Timmy announced.
    Michael sighed.
    “And what would Kiki like for breakfast?” he asked, as he rolled out of bed.
    “Pizza.”
    “Pizza? We’ll have to see about that. Do you have pizza for breakfast every day?”
    Timmy nodded.
    “It’s got protein,” I said, sinking back into my pillow. “And if you give him the leftover supreme, it’s even got vegetables.”
    “You’re joking, I hope,” Michael said. “Come on, Timmy. Do you like oatmeal?”
    “Yuck,” Timmy said.
    I listened for a minute as their voices disappeared downstairs, and then I felt around the bedside table until I found my cell phone.
    Karen didn’t answer again. Of course.
    I confess, I was preoccupied during breakfast. Not too preoccupied to notice that Michael was wonderful with Timmy. In spite of the page in Timmy’s instruction manual warning that he was a fussy eater and refused to consume anything for breakfast but French toast with real maple syrup, Michael managed to get him to eat the same thing he usually fixed for the two of us—oatmeal seasoned with bits of raisin, walnut, and apple, and a side of yogurt. And while clearly he was doing his best to demonstrate what a helpful, fully involved father he could be for our own children, he also seemed to be enjoying himself.
    I decided there must be something wrong with me. Everyone else found Timmy amusing and didn’t mind helping out with him. Clearly I must have been lacking some important gene that would have made me adore small children uncritically.
    Then again, everybody else was just helping out with him. I was the one responsible for him. “Therejust isn’t anyone else I can trust,” Karen had said. I found myself wishing she’d lingered long enough to tell me if there was anyone she particularly distrusted. If she had, at least I would have a little bit of information to give Chief Burke when—if—I had to report her disappearance.
    And maybe the time for that report had come.
    “Meg? Something wrong?” Michael asked.
    “It just occurred to me that perhaps I should search for a certain missing friend,” I said. “And maybe if I don’t succeed in finding her, I should talk to Chief Burke.”
    Michael glanced at Timmy, who was pretending to feed the nuts and raisins to Kiki before eating them. Then he nodded.
    Fortunately, before Michael raced off to his day’s meetings, I managed to ingest enough food and caffeine to fuel my