Better off Dead A Lucy Hart, Deathdealer - By Eva Sloan Page 0,12
grandmother’s worry-stricken voice.
“Lucy! What are you doing out here?”
Lucy turned toward the road. Her grandmother had pulled over on the shoulder of the highway, and was already climbing out of her car, her worn terry cloth robe and flannel gown billowing in the wind. The mere sight of her made tears fill Lucy’s eyes and run hot and reckless down her face. The sobs she’d been holding back burst from her lips as her grandmother pulled her from the guard rail and into her arms.
Lucy buried her face in her grandmother’s soft shoulder and felt all the strength drain from her arms and legs.
I’m going to die...I’m going to die...
With her heart breaking yet again, feeling the weight of the world pressed down on her chest, she wished that she would just die.
But she didn’t.
As her grandmother stroked her back and slowly maneuvered Lucy over to and then into the passenger seat of the ancient white Oldsmobile, the weight on her chest lessened, as did the pain that radiated through her entire body.
For an instant she glanced back to where she’d stood by the guard rail. The dark figure was there again, its shadowy form flickered as it drifted toward the car. But just then Gram gunned the Oldsmobile’s engine, leaving the dark apparition in the dust.
By the time her grandmother drove them home she’d forgot about the phantom, forgot about her injured body and her crushed pride. She literally felt nothing at all. Her tears had dried up, her head and arm no longer hurt, and her breathing was slow and steady.
Too slow.
And it wasn’t just the pain that was gone, Lucy was numb, even in her head, she thought of absolutely nothing.
The only thing she felt was relief when she saw Gram’s white clapboard house appear through the car window. Though rundown and shabby outside—the white paint was pealing and the roof sagged some in the middle—Lucy only felt truly safe once she was inside. As if the house itself repelled the horrors and pain that followed Lucy everywhere she went.
Her grandmother’s kitchen made her feel warm. It smelled sweet and inviting. On the scarred kitchen table sat a round, simply decorated double layer white cake with pink roses and fancy filigree adorning the edges.
Lucy felt her mouth fall open. It was beautiful, and smelled so good.
“Did you make this?” Lucy said, her voice wavering. She couldn’t believe that anyone had made a cake...not one this beautiful. All her birthday cakes had been store bought, with heavy cream icing, themed with whatever her current obsession was that year, or had her picture airbrushed over the top.
But this cake was handmade, just for her. Her name swirled across the top in fancy letters, and happy birthday in smaller script below. A party candle shaped like the number eighteen stood alone from the top of the cake.
“Don’t be too impressed,” Her grandmother said, striking a match and touching it to the candle’s wick. “I used to decorate cakes for a living...oh, about a hundred years ago.”
Lucy couldn’t help smiling. Her grandmother never tried to hide her age—she wore it proudly, like a badge for all to see.
“It’s gorgeous.” Lucy closed her eyes and took a deep breath through her nose. The aroma was intoxicating. “No cake has ever smelled this good.”
“Well then, make a wish and blow out the candle,” Gram said. “Then we can have us a piece.”
Lucy was suddenly torn from the wondrous scent of the cake, her attention splintered off in a million directions. There were too many things to wish for. Too many things she wished had never happened. One—the night of her father’s arrest—burned somewhere deep in the back of her mind. She would not look back there, or call it forward to her anymore. That memory hurt too much. Like how remembering who she used to be hurt too much.
No, wishing for the impossible is stupid. She took a breath, and it crackled in her lungs. She closed her eyes. If I just had one thing that was mine...something to remind me who I used to be...
She blew, one short puff of air, and the candle went out, a small wisp of smoke rising from the tiny ember before it burned out.
“Happy birthday, Lucybean!” her grandmother said, swooping down and kissing her cheek, hugging her around the back of her shoulders. Lucy leaned into her grandmother’s warmth. After a soothing moment, her grandmother stood and strode across the kitchen and