with the force of a collapsing wall, crushing her soul, and leaving her gasping for breath. How could Steven be dead when he was here in her arms? How could they tell her that this fine, handsome, beautiful little boy would never kiss her good-night?
The unfairness of it all was unspeakable, and that's when the sobbing started. She had the sense that the air in the room had turned horribly stale, and as she fought for her breath, she was dimly aware of someone taking Steven away from her, even as she fought to hang on to him. Maybe if she offered to suckle him, he would quit this horrible, naughty game he was playing, and she heard a distant groaning sound from Bobby as she exposed her breast to her son and she tried to get him to eat.
"Oh, please, God, Susan, don't do that. Not that. Please."
That's it, Stevie, that's it. Just a little before your nap.
But no one would listen. She screamed at them, shrieked at them, yet no one would listen. They took him from her then hurried him off into another room as a nurse moved quickly to inject something into her IV line that made the pain dim and then finally go away.
It came back, though. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, the pain lived on, its edges just as sharp and jagged as they'd been six weeks ago. Susan prayed for the day that it would dim, if only just a little bit, or if only for a few minutes. She knew from her shrink and from her own reading that six weeks was nothing on the grief timetable, little more than an eye-blink, but she didn't know how much more of it she could take. Sometimes it seemed that the very next minute would edge her into lunacy.
Those were the times when Bobby miraculously appeared for her, his strength restored, his optimism unblemished. God, how she loved him.
She found herself watching the back of his head as he piloted the truck through the night, studying the strong set of his chin, his unshakable concentration on the road. When he shifted his position in his seat, he moved slowly and deliberately, no doubt assuming that she was asleep and not wanting to disturb her.
Watching him this way brought a glimmer of warmth. All of this really would pass, she told herself, and if she emerged whole on the other side, it would be because Bobby had never let go of her hand. She used these thoughts to edge the other horrors out of her mind as she leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes.
An hour later, as the Explorer swung the turn into the long, wooded driveway, Susan was sound asleep, the fingers of her right hand tangled in the boy's filthy mop of hair. In her dream, Steven was with her again, his head on her lap and listening intently as they read together from Winnie the Pooh.
RUSSELL COATES CINCHED the seat belt even tighter and willed himself not to look out the window. He focused instead on the altimeter, where the needle rested just above five hundred feet, and he did the math. The mountains themselves had to be at least three or four hundred feet, and then you add tall trees on top of that, and by his calculations, they were already dead. Maybe the window wasn't so bad after all.
"Are you okay, Agent Coates?" the pilot asked over the intercom.
He did his best to smile. "Peachy."
"I've been doing this for years, sir. Since Vietnam, in fact, so you can relax."
All that meant was he was as old as Russell and all the more likely to have a heart attack and pitch this rattletrap eggbeater into the trees; there to be found and eaten by the descendants of the Deliverance
gang.
There's the crime scene down there." The pilot pointed through the windows at their feet. In another few weeks, once the leaves had bloomed, the cluster of cops on the ground would have been invisible. Now, we can lower you on a winch, or -"
You're out of your mind."
'The alternative is a long walk, sir."
Always my preference over a long fall. Just land this thing and let me out, okay?" Russell wasn't sure what part of his statement was so funny,
The unfairness of it all was unspeakable, and that's when the sobbing started. She had the sense that the air in the room had turned horribly stale, and as she fought for her breath, she was dimly aware of someone taking Steven away from her, even as she fought to hang on to him. Maybe if she offered to suckle him, he would quit this horrible, naughty game he was playing, and she heard a distant groaning sound from Bobby as she exposed her breast to her son and she tried to get him to eat.
"Oh, please, God, Susan, don't do that. Not that. Please."
That's it, Stevie, that's it. Just a little before your nap.
But no one would listen. She screamed at them, shrieked at them, yet no one would listen. They took him from her then hurried him off into another room as a nurse moved quickly to inject something into her IV line that made the pain dim and then finally go away.
It came back, though. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, the pain lived on, its edges just as sharp and jagged as they'd been six weeks ago. Susan prayed for the day that it would dim, if only just a little bit, or if only for a few minutes. She knew from her shrink and from her own reading that six weeks was nothing on the grief timetable, little more than an eye-blink, but she didn't know how much more of it she could take. Sometimes it seemed that the very next minute would edge her into lunacy.
Those were the times when Bobby miraculously appeared for her, his strength restored, his optimism unblemished. God, how she loved him.
She found herself watching the back of his head as he piloted the truck through the night, studying the strong set of his chin, his unshakable concentration on the road. When he shifted his position in his seat, he moved slowly and deliberately, no doubt assuming that she was asleep and not wanting to disturb her.
Watching him this way brought a glimmer of warmth. All of this really would pass, she told herself, and if she emerged whole on the other side, it would be because Bobby had never let go of her hand. She used these thoughts to edge the other horrors out of her mind as she leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes.
An hour later, as the Explorer swung the turn into the long, wooded driveway, Susan was sound asleep, the fingers of her right hand tangled in the boy's filthy mop of hair. In her dream, Steven was with her again, his head on her lap and listening intently as they read together from Winnie the Pooh.
RUSSELL COATES CINCHED the seat belt even tighter and willed himself not to look out the window. He focused instead on the altimeter, where the needle rested just above five hundred feet, and he did the math. The mountains themselves had to be at least three or four hundred feet, and then you add tall trees on top of that, and by his calculations, they were already dead. Maybe the window wasn't so bad after all.
"Are you okay, Agent Coates?" the pilot asked over the intercom.
He did his best to smile. "Peachy."
"I've been doing this for years, sir. Since Vietnam, in fact, so you can relax."
All that meant was he was as old as Russell and all the more likely to have a heart attack and pitch this rattletrap eggbeater into the trees; there to be found and eaten by the descendants of the Deliverance
gang.
There's the crime scene down there." The pilot pointed through the windows at their feet. In another few weeks, once the leaves had bloomed, the cluster of cops on the ground would have been invisible. Now, we can lower you on a winch, or -"
You're out of your mind."
'The alternative is a long walk, sir."
Always my preference over a long fall. Just land this thing and let me out, okay?" Russell wasn't sure what part of his statement was so funny,
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