Part 189 (2/2)

”Please, please, please,” she repeated, like a chant. She remembered

how Darren had been found, lying alone, a syringe on the turkey rug.

”No. No. You're not going to die on me.” She stroked his hair, then

pressed her fingers against his throat again. This time there was

nothing.

”b.a.s.t.a.r.d!” She shouted at him, then tossed the quilt aside and began

pumping on his frail chest. ”You're not going to do this to me, to Dad,

to all of us.” She pulled his mouth open to breathe into it, then

s.h.i.+fted back to push with the heels of her hands. ”You hear me?

Stevie,” she panted. ”You come back.”

She pushed the air from her lungs to his, pumped the thin and frail area

between his b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Threatening, pleading, cursing, she fought to pull

him back. The tile bit into her knees, but she didn't notice. So

intent was she on his face, on praying for one flicker of life, that she

forgot where she was. Memories scrambled through her head-of Stevie in

white, singing in the garden. Of him standing on stage, colored lights

and smoke, dragging feverish music from a six-string guitar. Board

games in front of the fire. An arm around her shoulders, and a teasing

question.

Who's the best, Emmy luy?

Only one clear thought ran over and over in her mind. She would not

lose someone else she loved this way, this useless way.

The sweat was rolling off her when she heard the footsteps running up

the stairs.

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