|
65.
Mary-Shane rode to the hospital in Vic’s car. Martina Strather sat in the back seat with a comforting hand on Mary-Shane’s shoulder. From the ER they called Roger. It was hard to keep from blubbering. “You don’t move an inch from those kids. They’re going to slap a few bandages on me and I’ll take a cab home.”
She sat on a gurney, sniffling, when Martina came in with haunted eyes. “Are you ready to go home?”
“Yes.”
Martina took off her own coat and held it. Mary-Shane, shivering, accepted. “Matilda Stein passed away an hour ago. The nurse said she was in the room, changing a bedpan, when Matilda suddenly sort of cried out, sat up with her eyes wide open, and then fell backward. She was dead by the time the nurse dropped the bedpan and got to her side. Matilda died just minutes after Perry did.”
Mary-Shane remembered her dreams of the ship, of the long corridors, that seemed to beckon to her also. “Almost,” she said dreamily, feeling Martina’s hand gently on her back leading her outside where Vic waited, “as though he came to get her, isn’t it? Like he had to go somewhere, and wanted her to come with him.”
|
