Part 28 (1/2)

At last he reached down to touch her, resting his hand on her own much smaller ones, which were folded on her breast, holding a flower.

He squeezed her hands gently and was about to withdraw his fingers from her when he thought he felt a movement.

He froze, his hand remaining where it was, waiting for it to come again.

But no.

He'd only imagined it.

And yet as he, too, turned away from the coffin, he still couldn't bring himself to believe that Jenny was really gone, that he'd never see her again.

Something inside him, something he didn't quite understand, told him that she was still alive, that she wasn't dead at all, that she was still a part of his life.

”I feel the same way,” his father had told him last night when he'd finally confessed the strange feeling he had. ”We all feel like that. It's so hard to accept the finality of death, especially with someone like Jenny. I still expect her to come running in, climb into my lap, and plant one of those wet kisses on my cheek. Sometimes I wake up in the night and think I hear her crying. It's part of mourning, Michael. I know it all seems impossible, but it's happened. We have to accept it.”

But for Michael it was different. Each morning, when he woke up, the feeling that Jenny was alive was stronger.

It was as if she was reaching out to him, calling to him, crying out for him to help her.

He moved down the aisle, searching the crowd for Kelly Anderson, and finally spotted her sitting with her parents and grandfather. As their eyes met, she nodded at him, not in greeting, but as if they shared some unspoken secret.

He understood.

She had the same feeling he had.

She had it, and recognized it in him.

Barbara watched in silence as Jenny's coffin was placed in the crypt, a cold chill pa.s.sing over her as the door closed and her daughter's body was sealed into the stone chamber. Almost involuntarily, her eyes s.h.i.+fted to the crypt next to Jenny's, and she read the inscription on its door.

SHARON SHEFFIELDJULY 26, 1975TAKEN HOME BY THE LORD THE SAME DAY.

For Sharon, there had been no funeral. Her tiny body had simply been taken from the hospital to Childress's, then interred here.

On the first Sunday that Barbara had felt well enough, there had been a prayer said for her at church.

And that was all.

She'd never seen her, never once held that first little girl in her arms.

Suddenly she sensed a movement behind her, and turned to see Amelie Coulton pus.h.i.+ng her way through the small gathering in the cemetery. Her lifeless blond hair, unwashed, hung limply around her face, and she was clad in a shapeless dress whose color had long ago faded into a mottled off-white.

But it was Amelie's eyes that riveted Barbara's attention, for they burned feverishly with an inner light that reached out to Barbara, seizing her.

”She ain't dead!” Amelie said, her voice quavering. ”She ain't dead any more'n my own little baby is!”

Barbara's heart lurched as the words struck her. What was Amelie saying? She'd seen seen Jenny. Jenny.

Not Jenny.

Sharon!

Was she talking about Sharon?

”Ask Clarey Lambert!” Amelie went on. ”She knows! She knows it all!”

Suddenly two men appeared at Amelie's side, taking her arms. Amelie tried to shake them off, but they held her tight, keeping her from coming any closer to Barbara.

”I ain't lyin',” Amelie went on, her voice breaking now. ”You got to believe me, Miz Sheffield. You was nice to me-I wouldn't lie to you!”

Barbara said nothing for a moment, her mind swimming.

”It's all right, Barbara,” she heard someone saying. ”We'll get her out-”

”No,” Barbara said, her voice suddenly coming back to her. ”Let her go. Please. She's all right.”

The men hesitated, but finally released Amelie, who stayed where she was for a second, then came forward to put her hand gently on Barbara's arm. ”I ain't wrong,” she said. ”If'n your baby'd died, you'd know. A mama knows them things.” She seemed about to say something else, but then apparently changed her mind. Turning away, she disappeared through the crowd as quickly as she'd come.

But her words stuck in Barbara's mind, echoing there, festering.

Could it be true?

No!

But as the graveside service finally came to an end a few minutes later, Barbara's eyes fell on Kelly Anderson.

Kelly, who looked so much like her niece Tisha.

Kelly, who was the same age Sharon would have been had she lived.

Kelly, who was adopted.

Kelly was approaching her now, her eyes serious, her face pale beneath the simple makeup she was wearing.

”I'm so sorry, Mrs. Sheffield,” she said. ”I-I don't know what-”

Barbara put her arms around the girl and pulled her close. ”You don't have to say anything, Kelly,” she whispered. ”I'm just so glad you're here. Sometimes, when I look at you, I can almost imagine I haven't lost both my little girls. I can almost believe that maybe Sharon didn't die at all, and grew up to be you.” She felt Kelly stiffen in her arms, and immediately regretted her words. ”I'm sorry,” she said, releasing Kelly from the embrace and dabbing at her suddenly tear-filled eyes. ”I had no right to say that. I-”

But before she could go on, Kelly stopped her. ”It's all right, Mrs. Sheffield,” she said so softly that Barbara could barely make out the words. ”If I ever find out who my real mother is, I wish it could turn out to be you.”

Their eyes met for a moment, neither of them speaking. Finally Kelly turned away, but as she rejoined her parents and grandfather, Barbara kept watching her.

Who is she? she thought. Where did she come from?

Suddenly, with an intensity she'd rarely felt before, she knew she had to find out.

Kelly and Michael were sitting on the dock behind the Sheffield house. Above them, on the lawn, they could hear the buzz of conversation, as people talked quietly among themselves. The reception had been going on for an hour, and people were finally beginning to drift away, but Michael was certain that some of them-his parents' closest friends-would stay on into the evening, unwilling to leave his mother alone.