While my sister Rivers was dying, I was planting crocus bulbs in my front yard.
While she was fighting for life, I was thinking about how pretty the purple and yellow flowers would look poking up through the snow when the spring came. While she was gasping for air, I was singing along with the radio to some stupid Top Forty song I’d be embarrassed to admit I knew. I was tired and achy. I saw the dirt under my nails and then I knew. There was dirt under her nails too.
I could see her struggling in a small dark place. I could feel her panic as the air ran out. Her fingernails snagged and broke on rocks and roots as she clawed at the soil settling above her.
The earth closed in all around until there was no light and no air and no sound. There was nothing but the quiet, airy emptiness you hear inside a seashell.
Rivers was gone and I was kneeling in the cold, wet grass with a pounding headache and a bloody knee. The vision ended as abruptly as it had begun.
Some black birds lifted from their roost in the trees just as Francis came running from the other side of the house.
“What is it? Are you hurt?” he yelled as he ran toward me. “Are you hurt?”
I struggled to my feet, took one lurching step, and passed out before I hit the dirt.
* * * * *
It was dark and quiet when I woke up.
I didn’t have to lift my head or open my eyes to know where I was. I recognized the lumps in the cushions and the smell of the afghan draped over me. I heard the comforting rumble of men’s voices in a nearby room and knew that I was home, safe and cared for on the couch in the downstairs sitting room at Witchwood Manor. The tapping of a size twelve work boot against the floor told me that my fiancé Robbin was there waiting for me to wake up, watching over me until I did. For the first time ever I found his restless, relentless tap, tap, tapping comforting. It told my heart what to do. Beat, beat, beat, it said. It reminded my lungs to fill and empty and fill again.
He was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes. He was leaning against the doorframe, still in his work clothes, looking angry and sad and, of course, beautiful. He just couldn’t help that—even when tragedy really called for him to be less sensational-looking. He was tall and muscular with a strong chin and a soft, sweet mouth. His eyes were the color of the ocean on a sunny day and his short hair was a sandy blond. I sighed, wishing I were waking up with him under happier circumstances.
1 comments:
I read this book (the Uncovering) and I loved it! Now, I am waiting/looking for other books by this author.
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