Читать книгу The Wager - Metsy Hingle - Страница 7

The sound of skidding tires and metal crashing against metal finally stopped. So did the screams. Lying in the rain beside the mangled car, Laura Harte opened her eyes and listened. But all she heard now was the steady beat of the August rain and the distant hum of traffic from the San Francisco road. She drew in a breath and winced at the sharp ache in her ribs.

Then she caught it—the metallic scent of blood. Tamping down on a spurt of panic, Laura struggled to sit up and gasped as white-hot pain shot through her shoulder. Her stomach pitched. Her vision blurred, but not before she’d noted the odd angle at which her arm hung. Gritting her teeth, she managed to half walk, half crawl from the twisted car to the side of the dark road where her mother lay in a crumbled heap. The fear that had bolted through her when she’d seen the lights of the truck coming at them hit Laura again as she stared at her mother’s pale face. “Momma, can you hear me?”

Her mother’s eyelashes fluttered. “Looks like I ruined your big celebration,” she said, but the grimace that followed diffused the lighthearted remark.

“I don’t care about the awards banquet,” Laura soothed. Right now she didn’t care about her job, the promotion, anything—only her mother and the ragged sound of her breathing. “You’re going to be all right. Just hang on while I go get help.”

“No. There’s not enough time,” her mother said, her voice raspy. She caught Laura’s hand, held it. “There are things I need to tell you…things I should have told you a long time ago. About me, about your father.”

“Shh. Don’t talk anymore. You need to save your strength.” Biting back the panic threatening to choke her, Laura tried to keep her voice calm as she said, “You can tell me all about your great romance with daddy again later. Right now, try to lie still. I’m going up to the road to flag down help. We need to get you to a hospital.”

“T-too late for…hospital.”

“No, it’s not,” Laura insisted. She didn’t care if her mother was a nurse. She was wrong. It wasn’t too late. It couldn’t be too late. Then she heard it—the squeal of sirens—and nearly wept with relief. “Listen! Do you hear that? Sirens! That means help is on the way. All you have to do is hang on a little longer.”

Her mother squeezed her fingers, but her grip had grown weaker. “I’m sorry, baby. I always thought I’d have more time,” she said, her voice thready. “I need to tell you about your father…to explain…”

“I know all about Daddy.” Did her mother’s insistence on talking about her dead husband mean the injuries were even worse than she feared? Hadn’t she read somewhere that when a person was dying their thoughts focused on the past? No! Her mother was not dying, Laura told herself as tears ran down her cheeks and mingled with the rain. To comfort herself as much as her mother, Laura repeated the oft-told tale. “Daddy was a navy aviator who came to the base hospital where you worked as a nurse. He was the most handsome man you’d ever seen, with beautiful blue eyes and a kind smile. The two of you fell madly in love and after a whirlwind courtship, you got married.” The beautiful, tragic tale of her parents’ romance cut short by her father’s death in Vietnam had been as much a part of her life as breathing. Her father may have died before she was born, but Laura had grown up loving him.

“We were so much in love,” her mother whispered.

“I know,” Laura said softly, growing more terrified with each moment by her mother’s labored breathing and the gray cast to her skin. Then she heard it—voices calling out, footsteps. “Over here,” Laura cried out. “And please…hurry!”

“Laura,” her mother gasped. Her fingers tightened. “Remember I love you.”

“Momma, don’t—”

“Promise me you’ll go to Paul. Tell him—” A harsh cough stopped her.

“Don’t talk anymore,” Laura ordered, alarmed by her mother’s coughing and the pain in her dark eyes. The hand that held hers seemed to have grown colder.

“Go to Paul. Tell him I said to give you the key to the second box. And please, try to understand, darling,” she said, her voice growing weaker still. “Try to forgive me.”

“Momma, you’re not making any sense. What key? What box—”

But it was too late. Her mother’s eyes closed. The hand holding hers went limp. And then came that anguished animal scream of pain. It wasn’t until much, much later that Laura realized that the scream she’d heard that night had come from her.