The Abduction of Mary Rose (2 page)

Standing at the foot of sister's bed, Edna said, "How is she?"

How do you think she is? She's dying.
She didn't say that, of course. What she said was, "Sleeping quietly."

Edna gave a sigh of impatience, of resignation, as though her niece was quite incapable of intelligent thought or comment. "I can see that, Naomi. You should go home and get some sleep yourself. You look like hell. Almost as bad as Lili."

"I'm okay. But … thanks."

Edna wasn't there five minutes before she began her predictable fidgeting, restlessly turning pages in a People magazine; why did it seem so loud? She tossed it on the chair and wandered to the window.

Not much to see out there, Naomi thought, following her gaze. Through the opening in the heavy oatmeal drapes, only the lower half of the steeple of St. Luke's Church was visible, its top erased by the thick fog that so often shrouded River's End. Naomi was glad the sun wasn't shining. It would have seemed a further betrayal to her mother who would never feel the sun's warmth on her face again. The thought brought a lump to her throat.
Don't cry, dammit. Not in front of her.

Edna abruptly turned away from the window and busied herself pouring more water into the plastic glass with its L-shaped straw.
An unspoken criticism of the nurses? Or me?
Naomi thought.
What else is new? No, I'm being unfair. She just feels a need to perform some small act of kindness for Mom while she still can.

Thinking Edna might like to spend some time alone with her sister, Naomi rose from her chair, "I'm going to get a coffee, Aunt Edna. I'll bring you a cup? How would you like...?"

"No, no coffee for me." She glanced at her watch as if there were some important appointment she had to get to. "I can't stay."

Anger flashed hotly through Naomi, but she didn't give it voice. The last thing Mom needs is a scene between me and Edna. She motioned Edna out in the corridor. Maybe she didn't understand that the big sister she claimed to love so much, she might not see again.

"The nurse said it's just a matter of hours, Aunt Edna," she whispered. "You might want to...."

Edna turned to the picture on the wall with its mirrored frame and began fussing with her scarf, fluffing it just so at her neck. "That's what they said last week, and the week before that. Not that it wouldn't be a blessing. Damn, I hate this place. It stinks of death. You can taste it."

She was right about that. There was an underlying smell of death on this floor that all the potpourri in the world couldn't mask.
But at least you get to leave here, auntie
. And she was glad when she did.

Naomi couldn't see the vengeful bitter malice on her aunt's face as Edna headed for the elevators but she sensed it in the rigidness of her back, and it puzzled her, as she was always puzzled by Edna.

* * *

Edna was gone maybe half an hour when the night nurse popped her head in and said hi. Carol Brannigan was an angel with red hair, a million freckles and kind brown eyes that had witnessed many such nights on this floor, with many families. Over the past weeks, a friendship of sorts had formed between them. She was a comforting presence.

"Anything you need, Naomi?" she half-whispered. "Can I get you a cup of tea?"

"Just had coffee, thanks Carol. I'm good. How about you? Busy night?"

She came further into the room, her shoes squeaking faintly on the tiled floor. "Not so bad." She checked her patient's pulse, a futile task, Naomi knew, performed mostly for her benefit. "She's so good," the nurse said softly. "If it's true what they say about nurses making the worse patients, then your mom is the exception."

It was true. In the two years since she'd been diagnosed with cancer, rarely did Naomi hear her complain. It was only ever in the night, when the drugs did not quite reach the pain or if she'd been having a bad dream. Never when she was awake, though. But Naomi had known by the little frown on her forehead when the pain was bad, and would give her the pills, sometimes a little before she was supposed to take them. Naomi was grateful to have the responsibility taken over by the nurses.

Soon she was alone again. The only sound in the room was her mother's shallow, raspy breathing. A gurney rattled by out in the corridor. Someone paged a Dr. Johnson, and then it fell silent.

"Naomi."

Naomi had closed her eyes without realizing it. "Mom, hi." So little to say to her now. And yet so much― years of conversations they would not have.

"Is Edna here, dear? I thought I heard her voice."

"She was, Mom. She just left a while ago. She didn't want to wake you."

Her mother nodded. "I'm so blessed to have you," she said, her voice weak and thready. Her hand trembled as it reached for Naomi's, who covered it with her own. Beneath hers, her mother's hand felt fragile as a sparrow's wing. It was hard to talk past the thickness in her throat.

"I'm the one who's lucky, Mom."

Her mother spoke slowly, with difficulty, struggling for breath between the words. "Have you been happy, darling, being my daughter?" The effort of making a full sentence had exhausted her and she closed her eyes.

"Of course I have. You're the most wonderful mother any girl could have. You know that." Her voice broke and despite her best efforts, the tears seeped out, but her mother had looked away and didn't see them, for which Naomi was grateful.

When she turned to look back at Naomi, her faded eyes were full of confusion, as if she'd been about to say something and now could not remember what it was. A faraway look came into her eyes. Naomi searched them, those eyes that had been as blue as a summer's sky before she got sick, and wondered what she saw down that long corridor of the past. Maybe she sees Thomas. Maybe he's waiting to guide her into the next world, his hand reaching out to take hers.

Of course she couldn't know if that's what happened when we leave this world, but the thought warmed her and gave her a measure of comfort. She envisioned Thomas' young, smiling face, the face in the photo sitting on her night table, from where, according to her mother, she got her own looks. It was true she had her father's eyes, wide, bracken green. She also had that hint of a cleft in her chin. He was even more handsome in person, her mother had said.

She wished she could have met him, her hero father. His full name was Thomas James Waters and he went missing in action in the final days of the Vietnam War.

Although she missed having a father growing up, her mother had told her wonderful stories about him, and she felt as if she knew him. Besides, she had his picture to talk to and his medals to remind her of his bravery.

Her mother had drifted off again, her breathing raspy, laboured. The lights in the corridor dimmed, a cue that visiting hours were over, although if someone wanted to stay on, there would be no problem. Knowing time was short for most of the patients in here, the rules were relaxed. She heard the elevators going down, many visitors leaving, to return tomorrow. The quiet on the floor deepened to a hush.

As the clock ticked toward midnight, Naomi fell asleep in the chair as she sometimes did before removing herself to the cot. And she dreamed the old dream. It had been lying in wait for her….

She is running across a field, small sneakered feet flying, the long grasses brushing her legs. Above her, the flapping of giant wings is as loud as wind-whipped sheets on a clothesline, filling her heart with terror. But no matter how fast she runs, she cannot outrun the great shadow-wings that darken the grass before her, like a black cloud obscuring the sun.

She let out a small cry and it startled her awake. Sitting straight up in the chair, she could still hear the beating of wings echoing in the air around her, as if they had followed her here from some other dimension. What did it mean? Was the winged creature a symbol of death? Was it as simple as that? Yet she couldn't recall any past deaths associated with the dream she'd been having off and on since childhood.

She glanced at her watch: 12:05 a.m. She had been asleep only a few minutes. Her cry, if she'd indeed cried out in her sleep, hadn't sent anyone running into the room. So perhaps it was part of the dream.

Her mother's breaths were coming at longer intervals now, with long, frightening silences between. She drew her chair closer to the bed, the legs making a small scraping sound on the floor.

She found herself trying to breathe for her mother, pushing the breath from her lungs, breathing it in, exhaling.
Breathe, Mom.
At the same time, she prayed for it to be over.

At twenty past one, her prayer was answered. Her mother simply stopped breathing. The quiet of the room had not been quiet at all. Now it was.

Naomi sensed the instant her soul abandoned the still, ravaged body on the bed. The shell that lay there was no longer her mother. But Naomi could feel her life-spirit lingering close by, close and warm, saying goodbye, and then she was gone. She remained at her bedside for a good minute before she went to fetch the nurse.

She called Edna from the nurse's station. "She's gone." Those two words seemed to burst the dam within her and all the tears she'd been saving up these past months flooded out, and she was sobbing into the phone, unable to stop herself.

"Pull yourself together, Naomi," her aunt said. "It's for the best, you know that. It's not as if we weren't expecting it. You go on home now. I'll take care of things. I'll take the obituary in to the paper in the morning."

Obituary. She mopped her eyes with a wad of tissue a nurse handed her, touching her shoulder gently before moving on down the corridor. Naomi blew her nose noisily. There were things she must attend to. "I'll do that, Aunt Ed…."

"No need. I already have it written up. You go home and get some sleep. We'll talk later."

Naomi didn't have the heart or the strength to argue with her. Let her have her way, what did it matter? Even if she won her point, what would be gained? If Edna wanted to write the obituary, let her. Regaining her composure as best she could, she made her second call, this one to Frank Llewellyn, her mother's long time friend and attorney.

Frank lived in a large Victorian house at the edge of town with his black Labrador Retriever, Sam. He'd never married and Naomi suspected it was because he'd always been in love with her mother. But though her mother valued Frank's friendship, even coming to rely on it, she had not loved him back in the same way.

She heard his heavy sigh over the line, but he registered no surprise at the news. He'd been waiting for her call, as he had been here earlier in the day. His voice cracked a little as he said, "If there's anything you need, Naomi...."

"I'm okay, thanks Frank. I just wanted you to hear it from me, not read it in the paper. Aunt Edna has the obituary written up and plans to take it in in the morning."

"Thanks, honey. I appreciate the call. I know how tough this is for you."

"I know you do, Frank. I feel like I'm six years old. I already miss her."

"Did she say anything before…?"

Does he want me to say she spoke his name? No, she wouldn't lie. "Nothing. Well, other than to ask me if I'd been happy being her daughter. Such a foolish question." Her eyes brimmed over again.

There was a long silence, then, "Sam wants out, Naomi. He's scratching at the door. We'll talk tomorrow." With that, the line went dead.

Naomi frowned at the phone and replaced the receiver.

Chapter Three

Naomi chose her mother's favourite indigo blue dress with the cream lace collar and cuffs to lay her out in. She'd worn it just that one time to the dinner given in her honor by the nurses' union. The pearl earrings Naomi had given her for her last birthday went perfectly. Everyone said she looked beautiful, just like she was asleep. And it was true: death had erased the pain lines from the cancer. She looked at peace.