Free Shooting Stars 01 Cinnamon by V. C. Andrews Page B

for the doors to open again. The quiet moments seemed to put everyone on edge as if being closed in a small area with other human beings was alien to our species.
I barely heard Mrs. Fogelman talking.
"High school," I muttered. Who cares? I thought. What difference did that make now? What difference did anything make now?
She smiled at me and the doors opened mercifully one floor up. She led me down the corridor to the ICU ward and then to my mother's bedside. Her eyes were shut tight, the corners wrinkled..
"She looks like she's in great pain," I moaned. Mrs. Fogelman didn't deny it.
"Mental pain," she said, trying to make it sound like it wasn't as bad as physical pain, but there was no hiding the truth. Mommy was in agony.
I reached for her hand and held it tightly in mine. Then I leaned over the bed railing and wiped some strands of hair from her forehead.
"Mammy, it's me, Cinnamon. Please, wake up. Mommy. Please."
Her face seemed frozen in that grimace of anguish. Her lips were stretched and white.
"What are you doing for her?" I demanded.
"We've got to be patient," Mrs. Fogelman said. "She'll snap out of it soon."
"What if she doesn't?"
"She will," she insisted, but my urgency and concern made her sound less confident.
"Do they always snap out of it?" When she didn't respond. I said. "Well?"
"Let's not think the worst. dear. The doctor is watching her closely. Keep talking to her," she advised and walked away quickly to seat herself behind the sanctity of the central desk where she busied herself with other things and glanced my way only occasionally.
"Mammy," I pleaded. "please get better. You've got to get better and come home. I need you. We've got to be together again.
"Grandmother is taking over the house, just as you always feared. I want you to come home and make her put everything back the way it was. Please. Mommy. Please get better."
I sat there pleading with her until I felt my throat dry up and close. Then I kissed her on the cheek and looked at her face. Her eyelids fluttered and stopped.
"How are you doing, dear?" Mrs. Fogelman asked, coming up behind me.
I shook my head.
"Is your father on his way?" she asked.
I stared at her, bit down on my lip, and then smiled.
"The moment he gets an opportunity," I told her. "He'll rush right over."
She stared at me. Hadn't I said it right?
Or was it the rapid and constant flow of tears over my cheeks and chin that confused her?
I flicked them off, smiled at her again, looked back at Mommy and fled.
Clarence was so involved in his reading he didn't hear or see me until I opened the car door. By then, I had stopped crying, but he couldn't miss my red eyes.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"She's worse. She's in a coma."
"Oh no. What do they say?"
I looked at him.
"They say what they're supposed to say. They say, 'Don't worry.' They say pretend this isn't happening. They say go on with your life and ignore it, ignore all of it, put on a good act, recite your lines, stay in the spotlights so you can't see the audience."
I started the car.
I saw rather than heard him mouth a curse.
I drove him home. He kept asking me what I was going , to do now and I kept saying, "I don't know." He especially wanted to know if I was going to confront my father with what we had seen today,
"Would you?" I asked him.
He thought a moment and shrugged.
"I probably wouldn't be as surprised by it as you are," he finally replied. ''But I'd like to help you." he said when I pulled up to his house. "Just don't be afraid to ask me for anything."
"Thanks, Clarence."
"Am I still coming over tomorrow night to meet your spirits?" I smiled at him.
"Sure," I said. "We'll talk about it in school."
"I'll call you later," he promised. He leaned over to kiss my left cheek and then got out. I watched him walk away. He paused at his front door to wave goodbye and then I drove home. I don't know how I managed it. The car must have known the way by itself. One moment I blinked and the next I was pulling up the