“As her guardian, you need to do what she would want,” Dr. Banfield said looking at me. “Whatever the reason, it was her wish, that you make these decisions for her, if she were unable. Summer signed those papers on purpose.”
I was frozen, brain locked with panic, when a shrill tone tore out from the monitors over Summer’s bed.
“No!” Mona wailed taking a step towards me as people ran into the room swarming Summer’s petite body.
“Ms. Cruz!” Banfield snapped. “I need a decision, now.”
Mona lunged toward me, but Jimmy pulled me to him and wrapped his arms around me. She bounced off of his back, crying. I turned to look at Summer. She would never choose herself over her child-never in a million years. I grabbed the consent form from his hand and scribbled my name frantically.
“Do it! Take the baby!” I screamed at Banfield.
Mona wailed and launched herself at the bed, trying to pull the defibrillator paddles off the machine herself, but a burly resident yanked her to the side. Banfield barked orders, and someone climbed up onto the bed and pushed on Summer, giving her CPR, and then they were wheeling her across the room and out the door. They disappeared behind two swinging doors leaving us with the shrieking machines, blood on the floor, and the deep hollow of knowing that someone you love is not coming back.
Mona took another step toward me, but Jimmy put his hand up stopping her. Her eyes were furious, and she shrieked like a mythical animal.
“You’re a murderer!”
She spat in my face.
Jimmy growled and reached out for her but she was too quick. She slapped me across the face, and I let her, not bothering to put my hands up when I saw it coming. Blood from my lip sprayed out in front of me onto the floor, and I thought it strangely ironic that Summer and I would both shed blood here. Jimmy grabbed Mona's arm, spun her around, and marched her out of the room.
“A murderer!” She yelled again over her shoulder, yanked away from Jimmy, and ran toward the stairs, crying Summer’s name.
The nursing staff and families of other patients stared transfixed at our surreal drama. And still, the stupid machines screeched their reproach that something was terribly wrong.
Ten minutes later, Dr. Banfield returned. The baby had made it, Summer had not.
Crushed, I sank to the floor and slumped against the nurse’s counter as sobs ripped through my body like my stomach was trying to come up. My throat so full of ache that the pain of her loss wouldn’t escape. Then Jimmy was there, and I just wailed silently. Shaking and sorry and angry that my Summer was gone.
Thats it for my entry for the Last Line Blogfest...
Onto the 50 Followers Baking Blogfest over at Charity Bradford's My Writing Journey.
The challenge: Write a scene where your MC bakes something, anything, good, bad, yummy, burned, anything. Have fun with it, and post it on your blog on May 1st.
My current WIP takes place in the swaps of Louisianna. I thought I'd take the opportunity to make on of my favorite southern dishes...Bouillabaisse!
Steam flailed and whooshed out from under the metal lid rattling it against the lip of the large pot like the constant chattering of my teeth. Sitting on the wood stool wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket I blinked the water out of my eyes. Outside, the rain pelted the tiny window over the sink. I glared at the distant lightning and frowned. The storm would be here soon.
“I told you not to go,” Jake drawled, his lazy smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Now what, ma belle…you look like a drowned kitten.”
Ma belle…my beautiful.
He hadn’t called me that before. I smoothed my tangled bands with my fingers, but didn’t answer. Pursing my lips I watched him pull the pan bread out of the stove. The scent of warm bread right out of the oven made my mouth water. Jake coaxed it out of the wrought iron pan with his pocket knife and smoothed butter over it. Instantly melting, it seeped into the crevasses of the uneven surface.
The cabin’s pot belly stove gave off waves of heat in the small room warming my toes and sending the heady scent of boiling Bouillabaisse floating in my direction. My stomach growled. Tarragon, fennel, and creamy broth made my mouth water despite my chill.
Cocking his head to the side, Jake looked at me with concern. “Are you warming up yet?’
Still feeling stupid, I nodded and cleared my throat. “Yeah.”
My eyes flit to the bandage on his bicep. His prize for fishing me out of the swamp when I’d tried to take off with his boat. He'd been right. I should have listened to a man who grew up on these waters.
Jake knit his brows together. “You don’t stop chattering you’re going to vibrate right off of that stool,” he mumbled. “Hold on.”
He wiped his hands on a dish towel and pulled a blue and white speckled mug from a hook over the pot belly stove. Ladling some of the soup into it he handed me the mug and smiled.
“Thanks,” I murmured. I cupped my hands around the mug warming my palms and breathing in the steam. “This smells wonderful.”
Handing me a piece of he baguette, he smiled. “Best if you dip it.”
I did, and the savory soup made me smile. Jake could cook, that was for certain.
Jake’s eyes went to the window, and he shook his head. “Ill fait mauvais.”
“I’m sorry?” I followed his gaze to the storm. He often slipped into his familial Cajun-French when worried.
“It’s a bad one.” He said and sighed.
I wish I'd realized then, that I would barely survive that storm.
Be sure to come back and visit during The Primal Scream Blogfest - Your Most Heart Pumping Scene on May 5th. If you'd like to participate, sign ups are on the side bar. --->
Photograph by boliston, Uploaded on May 27, 2008. Photograph by J.J. Verhoef, Uploaded on April 14, 2009.