Sisters in the Wind(99)

Jamie stands behind me with his gun still raised. I smell it. The smoking gun.

When I dare to look, Mr. Sterling is dead. Eyes open and vacant.

Daunis pauses to shout for Jamie. She continues working on Stacy. Between chest compressions, she calls out to me.

“He’s down. Where’s he hit?”

I’m confused, thinking she means Mr. Sterling. But when I follow her eyes, Jamie isn’t standing. He is next to me, beside an angelic, sleeping Devery. Lying on his back, watching me soothe Luke.

I start my assessment, looking for any head injury. He’s calm. He blinks once, twice.

“I don’t think he’s hit,” I shout back.

“Check again.”

His shirt, a cream-colored button-down, looks pristine. It still has the crease down the arm where he ironed it.

He raises his left arm to brush the hair from my forehead.

“You’re safe,” he says. He even smiles.

He’s wearing jeans, but one pant leg is light blue while the other is dark. I’ve never seen jeans like …

His hand rests on his upper thigh where it meets his torso. It’s not resting. He’s trying to apply pressure to stop the bleeding. The blood is spreading into the grass.

How can one wound cause so much bleeding…?

It’s his femoral artery.

I hold a crying Luke in one arm while I press my palm atop his hand. I lean into it to create more pressure. It’s warm. There’s so much blood.

His face looks pale, but that could be the light, with the sun lowering to the horizon and the fire blazing.

I need to use both hands to slow the bleeding. If I can find the entrance hole and plug it, that can buy time. The EMT van is nearly here.

I set Luke down. His little body goes rigid with fear. His cries sound primal. My heart breaks as I turn to place both hands on Jamie’s thigh. I close my eyes and try to feel exactly where the blood spurt is originating. I think I have it. There’s a warm gush that pulsates.

When I open my eyes, Jamie’s face is ashen.

“Lucy,” he says. I can barely hear through Luke’s cries, the approaching medics, the police sirens, and Daunis. She pleads with me to say where he’s injured. And that she’ll be right there as soon as a medic can take over CPR on Stacy.

I lower my ear to his mouth. I close my eyes and focus on his voice.

“Pick Luke up. Then hold my hand, Lucy-in-the-Sky-with-Diamonds.”

I do as he says, eager to clutch Luke to my chest. His cries soften as soon as he feels human contact. Then I hold Jamie’s left hand with mine, soaked and sticky in red. The hands closest to our hearts.

“That’s not how nicknames work,” I say, smiling as I gaze down at him.

In my next breath, I call out.

“Daunis.”

Jamie still has that glimmer of heartbreaker.

“Okay, Sparky.” His voice is fainter now. “You know, because of the diamonds.”

My hair is in my face. I feel him try to lift his arm.

I don’t know what else to do, so I pray the simplest prayer I know.

“Miigwech.”

He smiles, but his eyes look through me. Beyond.

Jamie was right. It is a powerful moment when you witness someone cross from this world to the next. It’s an honor, really.





THAT HOVERED THERE AWHILE





He raises his left hand, expecting to brush the hair from Lucy’s forehead again. Instead, his fingers graze the front door of a familiar house. Daunis’s mother squeals as she opens the door before he can knock. Grace Fontaine excitedly reaches for his left hand and leads him through the entry. She chirps a question that flutters around him like confetti. The answer sticks in his throat at the sight of his prom date.

Daunis.

There is a world to explore within her dark brown eyes. His heart races at her familiar smile—full and bold, nothing held back. Her ball gown is unlike anything he’s ever seen. A strapless, shimmering silver bodice that looks painted onto her beautiful, strong body. The top gives way to a full skirt of wispy feathers, each a different shade of red—candy apple, brick, rose, currant, poppy, scarlet. Red is one of the traditional colors she incorporates into her regalia.

She’s in his arms on a crowded dance floor. They are a calm center surrounded by frenetic movements lacking rhythm or sense. He gazes into those warm, bright eyes. He wraps her even more tightly. Wishing to be absorbed into her body. They dance until the sky lightens from inky indigo to cobalt.

Now dressed in a T-shirt and leggings, she stands before her morning tree. Instead of placing the handful of semaa at its eastern base, she goes to the opposite side of the tree. He feels her prayer thanking Creator, and knows he is part of this beautiful creation.

The sky becomes cerulean as they pass the familiar landmarks along the river. There is a perfect unison of footsteps hitting pavement. Of stride matching stride. Of arms reaching and pulling. Town gives way to woods. The ground softens.

He glances over, catches her gazing at him with something both wistful and incandescent. She rubs her stomach, and her smile lifts the sun with her joy in that moment. She slows, but motions for him to keep going. The turn is just ahead.

Rounding the curve, he sees a fluttering black-and-silver butterfly, growing as it nears. The wingspan fills the path in front of him. It transforms from butterfly to twirling figure with arms outstretched to display a black shawl fringed with silver strands that swish and sway. He and this fancy dancer are the same size now. One final spin and she turns to face him.