Somewhere Over the Freaking Rainbow - By L.L. Muir Page 0,63
the handle and opened her door. He did the same.
She walked quickly to the doors. He fell behind.
He still hadn’t caught up when the elevator doors closed.
A few seconds later, she hit the stop button and backed against the mirrored wall. Deep in the core of her, a shudder began, built, and rolled through her soul. If she were mortal, she’d be howling in pain. Her chest would contract over and over again as she sobbed the air from her lungs and tried to suck it in again.
But she wasn’t mortal.
She stood perfectly still, watching her own reflection, seeing nothing redeeming to speak of, except for a flicker behind her eyes. Maybe, she thought, it was someone waving, pounding, begging for help.
Maybe, she’d make sure the girl inside got what she wanted.
Someday.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jamison had no idea how he’d beaten Skye to Granddad’s room. Mom was asleep on a short couch, clutching the old man’s worn plaid blanket. He knew what the wool would smell like, feel like. He knew it represented more than just the smell and feel of home; it was family, ancestors and offspring alike.
Granddad’s eyes opened a slit, then widened along with his smile when he saw Jamison standing there in gloves, yellow gown, and a mask. After a quick look at the couch, the old man put a finger to his lips and waved him over.
“Dinna wake yer mum. She’s had a right hard day, she has.” The old voice was muffled by the plastic tent that covered him from mid-chest up.
“And what about you? Has your day been hard, too?” Jamison reached for the man’s hand, but it was pulled away.
“Dinna touch me, Jamie. ‘Tis the truth, my very skin screams.” His breathing was labored, as if he’d run up the back stairs and jumped into bed just before Jamison had stepped inside.
He held up his gloved hands. “I won’t touch you. I promise.”
“Auch, my own day’s been a wee rough, as weel, laddie. I don’t ken how folks survive all this healin’.”
“I’m sorry, Granddad. I’m so sorry.”
“Never mind, now. Never ye mind. I’m near to sleep again, Jamie, but I’ll have a promise from ye first.”
“Anything.”
“I’ll have your promise that you’ll forgive yer mither. I ken you’re blaming her for keeping you away, but if she can forgive me my sins, you can forgive her hers.”
Jamison forced a smile, but said nothing.
“I’ll have that promise Jamie. Don’t make me beat it out of ye. I don’t care to show off in front of Skye.”
Jamison stiffened. He hadn’t noticed her entrance. He didn’t like her hearing their conversation, but there was no way he could avoid it.
“I promise, Granddad.”
The old man made him say the whole thing; that he’d forgive his mother.
“There’s a good lad. Ye’re the man I knew ye’d be, Jamie. Remember that. Now, let my wee angel closer.”
Skye stepped forward and took his granddad’s hand in both her gloved ones. He didn’t even flinch!
“Trying to control everyone from the grave, Kenneth? You aren’t in it yet.”
Grandad frowned. “Tell me, angel. How will they fair without me?”
“Without a Bossy Kenneth Jamison? How do you suppose?”
The beautiful wrinkles rolled back to make room for a pleased smile and his eyes closed. As she stood and started to pull her hand away, he dragged it under the plastic tent and gave it a whiskered kiss. “Tell them, Skye. Tell them they sent me the finest.” He let her hand go.
Jamison leaned over. “The finest what, Granddad?”
“The finest angel. The very finest.”
No one moved until they heard a soft snore.
Still snoring. Still alive. Still fighting.
“He’s only doing it for you. You know that,” Skye whispered.
Jamison frowned, tipped his head toward the door, and went out into the hall. Once the door was shut, he unloaded on her as quietly as he could.
“What do you mean, he's only doing this for me? Doing what? Fighting it?”
“Yes, fighting it. He doesn't want to let you down. He thinks you see him as this big tough man and he doesn't want you to realize he can't kick a little thing like cancer.”
“People kick cancer all the time, Miss Somerled. Some of us think life is precious enough to fight for as long as we can!”
“Of course it's precious, Mr. Shaw. I wouldn't be here if it weren't.”
“Really? But you Somerleds think you're too good for it. Can't get your hands—or clothes—dirty with it.” He picked up a cold cup of coffee that someone had left next to a box