Read Online Revolutions of the Heart by Marsha Qualey - Free Book Online Page B

you.”
    “You’ll be home soon.”
    “Home? I guess so. Yeah, I’ll be home soon.”
    That night Cory slept in the rollaway bed. It had the faint smell of perfume. She watched the fire burn low, and just before the last flame sank into embers she reached up, tapped the dream catcher, and sent it spinning.
    *
    Cory skipped school the next morning and drove to Wausau. At five past nine she pushed open the door to Room 257, nodded to her mother’s roommate, and walked to the far bed. It was empty.
    “They took her to intensive care at about seven-thirty,” the roommate said.
    Cory turned and raced out. Her mother’s room was filled with busy white coats. One of them redirected Cory to the door.
    “I’m her daughter,” she protested.
    “I’m her doctor,” the coat said. “You must wait outside.”
    Cory found Mike in the lounge. “I skipped school,” she said. “I just knew I should be here.” He rubbed his unshaven face. She wondered if he’d heard her.
    “Overnight,” he said. “Overnight she turns blue and yellow. Blue from bad circulation, yellow from liver failure. That fast.” Cory took his hand and they waited.
    At eleven-seventeen, Margaret Knutson died of massive organ failure. When the doctor came to Cory’s and Mike’s chairs, kneeled, and told them, Cory checked her watch. Study hall. Her mother had died during study hall.

8
    Cory grabbed a handful of cloth and held her skirt down against her thigh. Twice already the wind had made it billow up, lifting the hem nearly to her chest and flashing the slip. If the minister didn’t finish soon, they’d all be blown out of the cemetery.
    Other women were also having trouble. Cory bit the inside of her cheeks to keep from laughing when she spotted one of the nursing home residents struggling with the wind. The woman’s left hand was slapped against shiny black dress folds that threatened to balloon, while her right hand pinned a large hat to her head. A black purse swung from the raised hand and rhythmically batted the woman’s face, nudging her glasses farther and farther out of place across the bridge of her nose. Finally, the woman gambled: she swiped her hand down and repositioned the glasses, then returned her hand to her head. The purse swung wildly with the sudden movement and knocked off her glasses.
    The hat had already blown askew and was held precariously in place over her left ear by a single hatpin.
    Cory turned to look elsewhere. The minister, drowned out by the wind, was saying something, a soundless intonation over the casket. It could likely be heard only in the Upper Peninsula. Probably more prayers, more blessings, more kind and hopeful words about her mother’s soul. The minister had quite a lot to say about Margaret Knutson, though she had never met the woman. The local pastor was vacationing in Hawaii, and Mike had arranged for a substitute from another town. Cory released her bite and breathed deeply. Just get through it, she chanted silently. Just get through it. Once again she felt close to crying; once again she vowed she would not.
    Mac had known she wouldn’t want to cry, not in front of all the people. He had called every night from his brother’s new place to see how she was doing. Yesterday he had offered again to return in time for the service.
    “You’re sweet, Mac,” she’d replied. “But you don’t have to. There are almost too many people around right now. Rob and his wife and Mike’s kids and their families. I’ll see you in school on Monday.”
    “Here’s a suggestion,” he said, “because I know you won’t want to cry with all those people watching. You’d rather die first.”
    “Bad joke, Mac.”
    “Sorry, unintended. Okay—when you think you can’t fight it anymore just look at the priest—”
    “Pastor. When we’re anything, we’re Lutheran.”
    “Whatever. Just look at him and imagine he’s doing the service wearing nothing but bikini briefs. It’ll work. No way you can