Protector - Laurel Dewey [71]
“Isn’t it pretty?” Emily quietly said.
“Yeah. It is.”
There was a calm silence between the two of them. Both were drawn into the rhythmic sounds and twinkling stars that floated across the ceiling.
“What does it feel like to die?” Emily asked in a whisper.
Jane thought for a second. “It gets very quiet. So quiet that you can’t hear yourself trying to breathe. There’s no pain. No sadness. You just float far, far away. Until the you that was, no longer exists.”
Emily felt herself drifting off to sleep. “Okay,” she said quietly as her eyelids got heavy. It was so very peaceful—so serene. She was just about to drift off to sleep when she was jolted awake by the sound of a bloodcurdling scream.
“What is it?” Jane said, herself jumping to her senses.
“You hear that?” Emily arched her back, peering around the darkened room.
“Hear what?”
Emily scanned the room and waited. She sunk back into the couch, closely nestling her body to Jane. “Nothing,” she whispered.
Chapter 12
It had been a long time since Jane dreamed of her mother. Twenty-five years had passed since her death and along with it, the distinct memory of her appearance and the sound of her voice. So on the rare occasion when Jane would catch a glimpse of her mother in a dream, there was a faraway, unfamiliar resonance to the experience.
The dreams were always the same—pinpointed moments in time that flashed like a video. Anne standing at the sink in the kitchen looking out the window. Anne hanging sheets on the clothesline. Anne sitting in a chair reading a book. Anne staring into the air with that trapped look on her face. They were crisp images that lasted mere seconds but conveyed years of emotions and an underlying deep sadness. The dream invariably culminated in the final moments of Anne’s life.
Anne Perry was propped up in a hospital bed that had been wheeled into the living room. Her gaunt, pasty white face blended into the dingy sheets that covered her body. Her sunken eyes fixated on a spot above her as ten-year-old Jane encouraged her mother to take one more spoonful of soup. Outside, Dale Perry shoveled snow in the late February shadows while five-year-old Mike played alone in the drifts of snow. Pavarotti sang “Nessun Dorma” on the radio that was sitting next to Anne’s bedside. There was a plaintive sense in the air that winter day. To Jane, it felt as if the tentacles of heaven were impatiently reaching down to collect another soul.
Even at Jane’s young age, she knew her mother was giving up and that it was only a matter of time before she would die. Jane hated her for that and yet, could not bring herself to let go of her mother.
Anne pushed the soup bowl away from her. “That’s enough,” she whispered.
“You gotta eat more,” Jane admonished her mother.
Anne turned her attention to Pavarotti’s tenor voice on the radio. “I love ‘Nessun Dorma.’ I looked up the translation of the words once. It’s a beautiful story. Listen to the way he feels the words, Jane.” Jane let the haunting melody engulf her. She could sense the passion and depth of emotion that ‘Nessun Dorma’ evoked. “Promise me you’ll look up the words in English one day, okay?”
“Okay,” Jane said, feeling as though ‘Nessun Dorma’ was becoming a backdrop for a tragic event. “Come on, Mama. Eat more soup,” Jane urged Anne.
“I’m tired, Jane. Bone tired.” Her mother’s voice filled with an undercurrent of rage. “I want you to really listen to me.”
Jane backed away. She knew what was coming. “Take a nap, okay?”
“Jane Anne Perry, come back