Unbreathed Memories
Page 24
Mother’s eyelids fluttered closed. I panicked, thinking she had died. I laid my hand on her chest and was comforted to find that it still rose and fell beneath the blanket, however slightly. She was asleep.
Daddy had taken Mother’s hand and was rubbing it tenderly. Her skin was translucent and slipped easily, too easily over her bones. It was so thin, I worried it would tear. After a few moments, she awoke and beamed up at my father, a radiant smile reminiscent of happier times that quite took my breath away. “I’m ready, George.” Her eyelids closed and I heard a shuddering sigh.
I didn’t need the machines to tell me that Mother was gone, leaving her body, still warm, beneath my hand. Her spirit simply departed, fleeing its broken-down body and soaring, I knew with confidence, toward heaven. I gazed up, imagining I would see it, a flickering light like Tinker Bell, hovering near the ceiling—flick-flick-flick—gazing down upon her family with love. All the clapping in the world—I believe! I believe!—wouldn’t bring Mother back now. Only her shell remained, pale and serene, the hint of a smile on its lips. What made Mother Mother had simply floated away.
One of the machines screamed; another bleated. Nurses rushed in from all points of the compass. One grabbed for the crash cart, but my father stayed her hand. “Not this time,” he said. The nurse complied. “I’m sorry, sir.” It was then that his face crumpled. Daddy’s knees buckled and he slumped, racked with sobs, over my mother’s body.
My tears wouldn’t come. I imagined I saw Mom still, hovering near the window. Any minute her gossamer wings would batter against the pane and I would lift up the sash and release her spirit into the night.
Georgina had been curled in a chair, her cheek resting against her arm. Her hair had escaped from its clip and cascaded over her arm, the color of rust in the subdued light. When the alarms began to sound she ground a fist into her eye, focused on the scene around the bed, and said, “Daddy?”
Daddy sucked in his lips, struggling for control. Huge tears coursed down his cheeks and glistened in the shadow of a beard that had sprouted on his face over the past few days. Georgina’s wail rent the night, more piercing than the machine that the nurse had just silenced. She fell across the bed. “It’s my fault! It’s all my fault!”
I bent over my sister. Her skin felt hot and damp, as if she had a fever. “Georgina, you know it’s not your fault. Mother told you so herself.”
Georgina’s cheek was pressed against the blanket. I took her by both arms and pulled her away, but she laid a flat hand against my chest and shoved. “Leave me alone!”
The nurse drew the privacy curtains across the windows, leaving us to say our final farewells and give free rein to our grief. Ruth sat stiff as a mannequin, mascara-tinged tears marking crooked bluish paths along her cheeks. I turned to her as I had done as a child. “Oh, Ruth.” We clung desperately to one another, and I began to weep. After a few minutes, Paul’s embrace was large enough to encompass us both.
When I looked up again, Georgina was sobbing in Daddy’s arms, her flushed cheek pressed against his chest. He smoothed a wayward strand of hair back behind her ear. Fragments of a familiar tune danced at the edges of my consciousness—Hush little baby, don’t you cry—as if a TV were playing low somewhere in the next room. The song, in gravelly snatches, teased my ears until I realized that the familiar lullaby was coming from my father. Daddy was singing to Georgina, holding her securely in his arms and rocking, rocking, rocking.
In Memoriam
Lois Elizabeth Tuckerman Dutton
1917–1980
Mother
Acknowledgments
I owe special thanks to many people who generously helped in the writing of this book. All mistakes are mine alone and should not be attributed to any of the wonderful folks mentioned below.
To my husband, Barry, for his unqualified love and support.
To my daughters, Laura Geyer and Sarah Glass, for making me laugh whenever I’m in danger of taking myself too seriously.
To Carolyn, Pauline, Katherine, and especially to Gretchen, for their candor and courage.
To my editor, advocate, and friend, Jackie Cantor, and to the amazing Abby Zidle, who can do anything.
To my creative and indefatigable agent, Jimmy Vines.
To my writers’ groups—Sujata Massey, John Mann, Janice McLane, and Karen Diegmueller in Baltimore, and Christiane Carlson-Thies, Janet Benrey, Trish Marshall, Mary Ellen Hughes, Sherriel Mattingly, and Ray Flynt in Annapolis—I couldn’t have done it without you!
To Malice Domestic, Ltd., for the grant that opened the door, and to the members of Chesapeake Chapter of Sisters in Crime, for all they do to support newly published authors.
To Thomas Tracey, M.D., Shirley Aronson, and Donna Yates, for medical advice and background information.
To Barbara Parker, feng shui consultant and Web maven extraordinaire (http://hometown.aol.com/mardtal/homepage.htm).
To Linda Sprenkle, location scout, intrepid guide, and dear friend.
To Vicki Cone, former Assistant Librarian at St. John’s College, for an insider’s tour of the renovated library and its special collections.
To Rear Admiral Robert McNitt and his wife, Pat, who invited me to dinner at Ginger Cove, little suspecting where it would lead.
To Ed and Donna Hudgins, who helped invent All Hallows Church, which might have been more Episcopally-correct, had it not been for all the wine.
To Kate Charles and Deborah Crombie, partners in crime and best of friends—Long live “Plot Fest”!—and to Ken and Angela Pritchard at Pickford House, Beckington, Somerset, for the British hospitality that made it possible.
And to Carol Chase, best of best friends, for her cyber-hugs and sympathetic ear, for St. Hilda’s and Edington and everything else.
Also by Marcia Talley
Sing It to Her Bones
About the Author
Marcia Talley’s first novel, Sing It to Her Bones, won the 1998 Malice Domestic Grant, was a Featured Alternate of the Mystery Guild, and was nominated for an Agatha Award for Best First Novel. Her short stories have been featured in mystery magazines and collections. A former librarian and computer specialist, she lives in Annapolis, Maryland, with her husband, a professor at the U.S. Naval Academy. When she isn’t traveling or sailing, she is busy writing the next Hannah Ives mystery.