Darkest Hour (Cutler 5)

"Mamma," I whispered. "Mamma, it's me . . . Lillian. Mamma?" I touched her shoulder. She felt so cold, I pulled my hand back in shock and swallowed a gasp. Then, slowly, inches at a time, I brought my hand to her face and touched her cheek. It felt just as cold.

"Mamma!" I cried sharply, loudly. There wasn't even a flutter in her eyelids. Gently, but firmly, I shook her at the shoulder. Her head moved slightly from side to side, but she didn't turn her eyes. This time, my cry was as loud as I could manage.

"MAMMA!"

I shook her again and again, but still she didn't turn toward me nor move in any way. Panic nailed me to the floor. I just stood there, sobbing openly now, my shoulders rising and falling. How long had it been since anyone else had come in here? I wondered. I looked for signs of a breakfast tray, but saw none. There wasn't even a glass of water on her night table.

Clutching my stomach, choking on my sobs, I turned and went to the doorway of Mamma's suite. I paused to look back at her, at her shriveled form sunk under the heavy quilt and into the silk pillow she loved so much. I pulled open the door to step out and scream, but ran right into Papa. He reached out and seized my shoulders.

"Papa," I cried, "Mamma's not breathing. Mamma's . . ."

"Georgia has passed away. She died in her sleep," Papa said dryly. There were no tears in his eyes, no sobs in his voice. He stood as straight and as firm as ever, his shoulders back, his head up with that Booth pride I had learned to hate.

"What happened to her, Papa?"

He released my shoulders and stepped back.

"Months ago, the doctor told me that he believed Georgia was suffering from stomach cancer. He didn't hold out much hope, and told me the only thing to do was keep her comfortable and keep her out of pain as much as possible."

"But why didn't anyone tell me?" I asked, shaking my head in disbelief. "Why did you ignore me whenever I told you she looked very sick to me?"

"We had this situation to deal with first," he replied. "Whenever Georgia had a clear moment, I told her what we were doing and she pledged she would keep herself alive until we had accomplished our purpose. If you hadn't made your baby come early, she wouldn't have been able to live up to her promise."

"Papa, how could you care more about this deception than you could about Mamma? How could you?" I demanded.

"I told you," he replied with steely eyes, "there was nothing more we could do for her. There was no point in abandoning our plan just to send her to a hospital to die, now was there? And anyway, all Booths die at home," he chanted. "All Booths die at home."

I swallowed back my screams and seized control of myself.

"How long has she . . . been dead, Papa? When did it happen?"

"Just after you ran off. So you see," he said, smiling madly, "Emily's prayers worked. The Lord waited to take Georgia and when He could wait no longer, He caused you to do what you did and make it all possible. You see the power of prayers, especially when someone as devout as Emily says them?"

"You've kept her death a secret for days?" I asked incredulously.

"I thought about putting out the story that she died in childbirth, but Emily and I agreed that we should wait a day or two, claiming her weakened condition, combined with the great effort to give birth, ended her life; but that she fought nobly for days. Just like a wife of mine would," he added with that arrogant Booth pride again.

"P

oor Mamma," I whispered. "Poor, poor Mamma."

"She did us a great service, even at the end of her life," Papa declared.

"But what about us? What great service did we do her by letting her linger in agony and illness?" I shot back. Papa winced, but quickly regained his composure.

"I told you. There was nothing else to do and there was no point in wasting an opportunity to protect the Booth name."

"The Booth name! The Booth name, damn the Booth name."

Papa reached out and slapped me.

"Where's the family honor now, Papa? Was all this in the grand tradition of the noble South you claim to love and cherish? Are you proud of yourself, Papa? Do you think your father and your grandfather would be proud of what you did to me and what you've done to your wife? Do you think you are a true Southern gentleman?"

"Get back to your room," he roared, his face crimson. "Go on."

"I won't be locked away anymore, Papa," I said defiantly.

"You will do what I tell you to do and you will do it now, hear?"