Protector - Laurel Dewey [72]
Jane held on to her mother’s hand. “I promise.”
Anne tried to crane her neck to look outside but didn’t have the energy. “Where’s your father?”
“Outside with Mike.”
“Good. I want you to promise me something else. Watch over your brother.”
“Watch over?”
“You’re going to be the only one left who can protect him. He’s not as strong as you are. He’ll never be as strong as you. You’ve got to make sure he’s always safe. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?” Jane stole a glance outside the window at her father as he angrily shoveled a pile of snow and yelled over at Mike. She lowered her head. “Jane? Do you understand what I’m asking you to do? You do whatever it takes to protect him. Whatever it takes, Jane. Will you promise me that?”
“Okay. But Mama, you can’t leave us. I still need you.”
“I can’t do it anymore, Jane.”
“You want me to be strong but you won’t do the same for me! It’s not fair!”
“No, it’s not fair. But there it is.” Anne winced in pain as she grabbed Jane’s hand even tighter than before. “You promised me, right?”
“Yes, Mama, I promise.”
Jane watched helplessly as an enormous wave of pain entered her mother’s body. Pavarotti swelled into the climactic finale of “Nessun Dorma,” “Vincero! Vincero! Vincero!” he sung with an unsettling fervor. “Vincero!” Anne whispered, wincing in pain. “You must seek that in your life, Jane. Vincero!”
“Do you want me to get Dad?” Jane asked, terrified.
“No!” Anne yelled. “Pull me up!”
Jane grabbed on to Anne’s wrists and pulled her forward. Once her mother was in a sitting position, Jane quickly slid pillows behind her back to support her. “What is it?” Jane said, her voice shaking. Anne’s body went into a mild seizure as her eyes fixated on the wall. “Mama, please, don’t do this! Mama? Don’t do this!”
The more Jane pleaded, the more her mother’s seizure grabbed hold of her body until the spasms became unrelenting. Anne jerked her head forward, opened her mouth and projectile vomited the soup across the sheets. She started to choke and gasp for air when a surge of energy enveloped her chest. A gush of blood spewed from her throat, covered her white cotton nightgown and dribbled down her chin. Jane stood paralyzed. The smell was acrid and toxic. Anne held her arms out in front of her with her palms upward and whispered in a rattled voice, “Take me . . .” With that, her head tilted backward against the pillows. There was a futile gasp for air and then nothing.
The silence lay heavy in the room. All Jane could hear was the swift beat of her heart and the shallow breaths she was taking. Her mother lay frozen in the moment, arms against the sheets with her palms facing the ceiling. Her head bent back, mouth open and pooled full of blood; her eyes wide open and dead. Jane looked outside to where her father was shoveling snow, completely unaware of what just happened. It was at that point when Jane looked down at her shirt and found bright red splatters of her mother’s blood across the fabric. She reached over and gingerly tried to close Anne’s eyes. But no matter how hard she pressed her fingers against her mother’s rubbery eyelids, she could not get them to stay shut.
A few hours later, from her perch on the staircase, Jane watched the mortician and his assistants slip her mother’s emaciated body into a heavy dark plastic bag and zip it shut with a quick jerk. Dale stayed outside smoking cigarettes. After they left, the house seemed cold and full of strange echoes.
The graveside service was quick and over before it started. There were no speeches or tributes—just an abbreviated prayer from the minister and then they lowered the casket. Only a few of her dad’s fellow detectives were there—not because he invited them but because they had