Hannah Alexander - A Killing Frost

“It had to have been a nightmare for you,” Jama said.

“Worse than any nightmare, because I didn’t have the relief of waking up to find that everything was okay.” Fran patted Jama’s arm, then allowed her hand to linger, as if she needed that connection. “We got through Amy’s death, didn’t we?”

Jama glanced at her. Had they, really?

“We’re still functioning, sweetheart,” Fran said in answer to Jama’s unspoken thought. “For a couple of years after she died, I wasn’t sure I could keep going.”

It grew difficult for Jama to breathe normally. This was why her visits to River Dance the past four years had taken so much effort. It was a major reason that she dreaded the next two years. To be reminded over and over…

“We’ve got purpose to our lives again,” Fran said. “It’ll never be the same, but we’ve discovered life does continue.”

Jama caught her lower lip between her teeth. Life had continued, but not the same way.

Not a day passed that Jama didn’t have something she needed to talk about with Amy. Since losing her best friend, her sister, she didn’t think the same way anymore or feel the same about anything.

She slowed for a narrow bridge. “Amy was so much like you, Fran. She had a solid strength that made everyone around her feel secure. She could carry the world. She did, too, often. Or she tried.”

Fran squeezed Jama’s arm, then let go. “Face it, honey, Amy was as strong-willed as you are. I worried about that tendency of hers a lot. I worried that her independence would cost her the opportunity to have a man’s love, to settle and have a family. After she died…” Her voice cracked. She stared out the window for a moment.

Jama stared straight ahead and focused on breathing deeply. Jama never cried.

“Afterward,” Fran continued, “I realized that I’d been wishing for her to live out my dreams for her. I wasn’t wise enough to allow her to live her own. With all the other kids, I’d allowed them to find their own way, but Amy…she was different. I guess I identified with her more. I wanted her to have a happy life, and I was afraid she would burn out before she could find someone to share that life with.”

“Med school and residency are tough on a marriage,” Jama said. “We saw several of our friends divorce. Amy wanted to wait until she had more time to devote to someone else in her life.”

Jama still felt regret that she’d never been able to say a formal, final goodbye to Amy. She’d been in the hospital, too badly injured with a damaged spleen, collapsed lung and cracked ribs, to attend Amy’s funeral.

“I wonder what she would be doing now,” Fran said.

“She would be saving lives.”

There was grief in Fran’s hazel eyes. There was also a strong faith that Jama could never hope to emulate. How did a mother like Fran cope with the death of her daughter?

How many times had Jama wished that Fran had been her mother? Not just mother of her heart, but mother in reality.

And why, after all these years, was Jama recalling her own mother’s failings so often?

Jama braked at a light and turned left. She’d driven this route so many times…

“Jama,” Fran said softly.

“Yes.”

“You know worrying doesn’t help.”

Jama was so glad Fran couldn’t really read her mind at that moment. “I know.”

“Neither does brooding about the past.”

“Are you talking about yourself now? Sometimes we can’t control our thoughts.”

“I know. Sometimes we do it anyway, don’t we?”

“Yes.”

“Sometimes, maybe, it’s simply a way of honoring those we love,” Fran said. “A way of giving them space in our hearts. And you’re one of my kids. You have one of those places of honor in my heart.”

Jama negotiated a sharp curve as the pressure flooded her chest and worked its way up. Over the years of residency, she’d learned the important art of emotional detachment. She’d lost that skill for about a year after Amy’s death, but eventually it returned.

Until now.

For a long moment, Fran said nothing. Jama glanced over to find her staring out the window, and the pain in that brief glimpse was dark and hard-the harsh and ugly scars of a break in the earthly bonds of mother-daughter love that weren’t meant to be erased by time, or by faith. They were simply meant to be endured. At least, that was how Jama saw it.

“You were the sister Amy so desperately needed in her life,” Fran said at last. “As a middle child, with two older brothers who were into their own activities, and younger twin sisters who were inseparable, she sometimes felt left out, I’m afraid. If not for you, Amy would have had a much lonelier childhood.” Fran looked over at Jama. “And now you’re the one who’s alone.”

“Now who’s worrying?” Jama teased. It was time for a lighter mood.

Fran tapped her lips with her fingers. “Shame on me.”

“So to give you something different to ponder, what do you think about Zelda Benedict joining the staff at the clinic? She helped me with Monty this morning, and her skills are top-notch.”

Fran hesitated, and Jama caught a fleeting look of disappointment in her expression. For Fran, talking about her daughter was like bringing Amy back to life for at least a few moments. Painful as that was, it was as Fran said-those memories honored Amy’s life.

“There’s been no staff hired, yet,” Jama said. “Zelda still keeps her feet in the water doing PRN work. What do you think?”

It took a few seconds for Fran to switch gears. “You realize she’s not as young as she used to be. She can’t be on her feet all day.”

“Perhaps in a supervisory role. Teaching, maybe?”

“She smokes, Jama. That’s not good for the circulation.”

“One cigar a day?”

“I know, I know, she says she doesn’t inhale, but that’s a crock, and you know it. If she’s breathing the smoke that comes out of the cigar and her mouth, she’s inhaling, hon. Do you know how many years I harassed Monty to give up his pipe?”

Relieved, Jama engaged in the conversation that would keep them both occupied for the next few minutes. Fran had strong feelings about smoke, and she might have some good suggestions about staffing the clinic that should already be staffed. Jama took the reprieve gratefully.

Doriann sneezed, coughed, sneezed again, covering her mouth to keep from making noise. She’d slid to a stop at the bottom of the bank. Dirt covered her, filling her nose and mouth.

She spat and blew her nose into the mud. All kinds of bacteria were now inside her, maybe making their way to her brain.

She tried to get up, fell against a bush, scraped her arms, smacked her elbow on a rock and bit her tongue to keep from crying out.

She scrambled to the nearest tree and held her breath. She expected to hear the rustle of brush, the sound of footsteps, angry voices, and then to see Clancy and Deb peering over the edge of the bank at her.

Nothing.

For forever, she couldn’t bring herself to move from behind the tree. What if she was being tricked? Maybe the goons were just out of sight, rubbing their hands together, waiting for the right moment to jump out and then kill her. And they would probably torture her first.

How could Clancy and Deb not have heard the bank collapsing? She hadn’t screamed, but she’d coughed and choked and sneezed. How could that not have been heard?

For another few seconds she listened. She heard the trickle of a stream emptying into the river and the movements of a squirrel in the branches above her. As she continued to listen, she thought she heard Clancy’s angry shout in the distance, up the hillside.