Blood Moon (Silver Moon, #3) - By Rebecca A. Rogers Page 0,59
contain a silver heart locket and a letter. “Go ahead,” Mom says, handing it over. “Open it.”
Obediently, I tear the envelope. Inside, however, there’s only a letter. No necklace. I even run my fingers from side to side, double-checking I didn’t miss anything. Then I realize that’s because it never existed in this world. There are no magical powers, so therefore I don’t need a piece of jewelry to hold them. Though I doubt it to be possible, my heart shrivels even more. I guess I need to get used to the idea that nothing will be as it was.
As I slide the letter out, Mom bites her lip, anticipating my reading of whatever emotions this piece of paper expresses.
“You sure you don’t want me to wait until after you guys leave?” I ask.
She replies, “Only if that’s what you want. I’m not forcing you to read this letter now. I just wanted you to know, in light of the most recent events, that your father and I will always stand by your side, through the good and the bad. Forever.”
I snort. “Sounds like you’re reciting wedding vows.”
Mom chuckles along with me, then dabs her finger at the inner corners of her eyes. I unfold the stationery and begin to read.
Candra,
I know you don’t understand why we did this, and this was the hardest decision we’ve ever made, but just know it’s for the best. Your father and I love you so very much, and only want your future to be bright and prosperous. I think you’ll come to like Randy and Beth, as they are wonderful people.
Please call me as soon as you can.
Love always,
Mom
I really don’t know what to say—other than the fact that the silver heart locket part has been omitted—so I throw my arms around my mom’s neck. She returns the hug and lightly taps my back, like she always does; it’s a Mom thing, I guess. Then I realize how much I’m going to miss her and Dad. This time around, I can’t call them to say our enemy is wreaking havoc on my life. They won’t pack their bags and drive up immediately. No, this time around, they’ll stay put in Charleston, until I graduate next May.
My stomach rocks back and forth, like I’m aboard a ship at sea. Oh, no. It’s that sick feeling I had earlier. Just as I think that, my body automatically heaves forward against my will. Thank God there’s a bathroom in here; otherwise, I wouldn’t have made it to the toilet.
“Candra, are you all right? I’m worried about you,” Mom says. Next thing I know, she’s running a washcloth under cold water and applying it to the back of my neck.
Hugging the toilet, I vomit my dinner. “I don’t know,” I choke out. “I think I’m sick.”
“Oh, dear,” Mom fusses, “I hope you’re not coming down with something. Maybe it’s a stomach bug. You know, I heard there’s one going around back in Charleston.”
“Mom,” I say hoarsely, “there’s always a stomach bug going around. It doesn’t matter what part of the country you’re in, people are constantly ill.”
“Well, that’s true,” she concedes. “I’m going to run downstairs and see if Beth has any medicine, or some chicken broth. As soon as you feel like getting up, you should lie down and get some rest.”
Except, for the remainder of the night and into the early morning, I gag and retch anything that’s in my belly—chicken noodle soup, Sprite, Coke, crackers, and stomach acid. Nothing will stay down long enough for my body to absorb the nutrients. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried; this is a little out of the norm for me. I can’t even recall my last visit to a doctor.
By midday, Mom and Beth frantically check for signs of a fever every five minutes, though they swear I don’t have one. I curl up in my bed and catch up on some much-needed sleep. After all, I’m going to need it if Ben’s coming over tonight. I won’t be able to think straight as long as I’m unwell.
When I wake, it’s late afternoon, and I’m feeling a little better, but not fully recuperated. Maybe it was a stomach bug. Maybe I ate the wrong bowl of beef stew that Beth prepared last night. Above all else, there’s one simple question nagging my conscience. One question that will change everything, if it proves to be correct. Georgina had told us things would be different—some for