Last time, she had been too late, and her daughter had died.
This time she would not be too late.
Jason was her only child now; she would allow nothing to happen to him.
As Jason sat silently beside her, his arm swathed in a kitchen towel, she sped through the streets of Eastbury.
Arthur Wiseman was walking Phyllis Paine out to her car. They had talked for nearly an hour, but reached no conclusions. All that had been decided was that for the next few weeks they would keep a careful eye on Sally. And then, as they passed the emergency room, they heard her voice.
“But I saw it, Dr. Malone,” she was saying, her voice strident, and her face flushed with anger. “I tell you, I saw the blisters. Don’t tell me he’s all right! He’s not all right. He’s burned! Don’t you understand?”
“Who?” Phyllis demanded. Sally whirled around, staring at her mother in surprise. “Who’s burned?” Phyllis repeated.
“Mother, what are you doing here?”
“Never mind that,” Phyllis replied. “Has something happened to Jason?”
Sally’s eyes brimmed with tears and she nodded. “We were making fudge. He—he slipped, and the fudge poured out all over his arm.” Suddenly she was sobbing, and Phyllis gathered her into her arms. “Oh, Mother, it was horrible. And it was my fault. I should have been doing it myself.”
“Hush, child,” Phyllis crooned. Her eyes shifted to Mark Malone, who stood to one side, slowly shaking his head. “How bad is it, Doctor?”
Malone shrugged. “Not that bad at all, Mrs. Paine. In fact, it really doesn’t look like anything.”
Phyllis Paine’s expression hardened, and a scowl formed on her brow. “Now see here, young man. If that pan of fudge was boiling, the boy must have been hurt. Where is he?”
Malone nodded toward a small treatment room. Phyllis helped Sally into a chair, then strode toward the door. Inside the little room she found Jason, stripped to the waist, sitting on a table.
“Hi, Grandma,” he said, grinning at her. “Wanna see my arm?”
He offered his right arm for her inspection. Phyllis bent over it, examining it carefully. “Well, it doesn’t look like much, does it?”
Jason shook his head. “And it hardly hurt at all,” he announced proudly. “But it was real hot, Grandma. The thermometer read two hundred and thirty-four. That’s what they call the soft-ball stage. It means that if you drop the fudge in cold water—”
“I know what it means,” Phyllis said severely. “And I also know what heat like that does to little boys like you. You stay right where you are, young man.” She let go of his arm and returned to the waiting area. Sally, blotting at her eyes with a Kleenex, looked up at her anxiously. “It certainly doesn’t look like much,” Phyllis said.
Sally’s face crumpled. “But it was blistered,” she whispered, almost to herself. “I saw it, and it was blistered.”
Over Sally’s head, Phyllis’s eyes met Malone’s. “It seems to me there must be some confusion,” she said. “Apparently it was my grandson who was watching the thermometer, and he must have misread it. It was probably only one hundred and thirty-four.”
Slowly, Sally’s head came up, and she stared at her mother. “But it wasn’t, Mother,” she said. “It was boiling, and it burned Jason’s arm very badly.” She stood up and went to the treatment room. A moment later she returned, holding Jason by the hand. “I’m sorry you don’t believe me,” she said. She turned to Malone. “Is there any reason for us to stay?”
“Mrs. Montgomery, it couldn’t have been as bad as you think. You must have been upset—”
“Of course I was upset,” Sally shot back. “Anyone would have been. But I saw what I saw. Now please answer my question. Does Jason need to stay here or be bandaged?”
“No—”
“Thank you,” Sally said, her voice icy. She turned, about to speak to her mother, then paused. There was something about the way her mother and Dr. Wiseman were looking at her that made her feel strange, as if she had just been tested, and found wanting. But then, as they became aware she was watching, their expressions changed. Wiseman extended his hand to Phyllis.
“Now, if there’s anything else you need, just call me. How about dinner on Wednesday?”
“Fine, Arthur,” Phyllis replied. She turned to Sally. “Well, shall we go? I’ll follow you home and help you clean up the mess.”
“Never mind, Mother.” Sally’s voice was cold, but Phyllis ignored it.
“No arguments! That’s what mothers are for.” But as she guided