Nothing in this room smelt of life, nothing offered freshness and perfume; only the sharp, nose-biting scent of intervention, blended with bleach, vomit and old food. On the bed Ethan was barely a wrinkle under the crisp-cornered sheets. The only thing that moved was his pacifier, pumping in his mouth under his closed eyes. The suck-sucking sound of him working at the little rubber teat pulsed rhythmically against the humming of the machines that propelled the medicine into his system, the machines that were keeping him alive.
Abby should have got rid of his dummy. Told him that if he’d give it to the poor kids Santa would bring him a special present. That’s what I did with my kids.
I suppose he can suck it for as long as he wants now.
Sheila stared across the dining table at her daughter-in-law. Abby closed the book, placed it on the table and peered meaningfully at her son.
"You know, Abby," Shiela said, "in my day, we did things differently. If you like, I could suggest a less traumatic way to persuade little Ethan to eat his pureed spinach."
Opening: McKoala.....Continuation: ril