detested grandmother.
With the slim stem of glass in his mouth, Cory
stared up at his mother as if at a golden angel come to
save him in his time of distress. And I, his pretend
mother, was forgotten.
"Sweetheart, darling baby," she crooned. And she
picked him up from the bed and carried him to the
rocker, where she sat down to put kisses on his brow.
"I'm here, darling. I love you. I'll take care of you and
make the pains go away. Just eat your meals, and
drink your orange juice like a good little boy, and
soon you'll be well."
She put him to bed again, and hovered over him
before she popped an aspirin into his mouth and gave
him water to swallow it down. Her blue eyes were
misted over with troubled tears, and her slim white
hands worked nervously.
I narrowed my eyes as I watched her eyes close,
and her lips move as if in silent prayer.
Two days later Carrie was in the bed beside Cory,
sneezing and coughing, too, and her temperature
raged upward with terrifying swiftness, enough to
panic me. Chris looked scared, too. Listless and pale,
the two of them lay side by side in the big bed, with
little fingers clutching the covers high under their
rounded chins.
They seemed made of porcelain, they were so
waxy white, and their blue eyes grew larger and larger
as they sank deeper and deeper into their skulls. Dark
shadows came under their eyes, to make them seem