A Killing Frost. Hannah Alexander

I’d lose him, too. Only God knows how badly I lost my cool that day. Even though Monty’s recovery went well, I still had this nagging sense that something was wrong. The trip to the hospital, the emergency room, the medical staff, all reminded me of our trip together to the hospital only weeks earlier for you and Amy.”

      Jama stared straight ahead at the road.

      “The sheriff came to the house about midnight Christmas Eve,” Fran said.

      Jama didn’t want to hear this. Yet she owed Fran a listening and compassionate ear. They’d seldom spoken about that horrific night because when it came up Jama either had someplace else to be, or she changed the subject.

      “It had to have been a nightmare for you,” Jama said.

      “Worse than any nightmare, because I didn’t have the relief of waking up to find that everything was okay.” Fran patted Jama’s arm, then allowed her hand to linger, as if she needed that connection. “We got through Amy’s death, didn’t we?”

      Jama glanced at her. Had they, really?

      “We’re still functioning, sweetheart,” Fran said in answer to Jama’s unspoken thought. “For a couple of years after she died, I wasn’t sure I could keep going.”

      It grew difficult for Jama to breathe normally. This was why her visits to River Dance the past four years had taken so much effort. It was a major reason that she dreaded the next two years. To be reminded over and over…

      “We’ve got purpose to our lives again,” Fran said. “It’ll never be the same, but we’ve discovered life does continue.”

      Jama caught her lower lip between her teeth. Life had continued, but not the same way.

      Not a day passed that Jama didn’t have something she needed to talk about with Amy. Since losing her best friend, her sister, she didn’t think the same way anymore or feel the same about anything.

      She slowed for a narrow bridge. “Amy was so much like you, Fran. She had a solid strength that made everyone around her feel secure. She could carry the world. She did, too, often. Or she tried.”

      Fran squeezed Jama’s arm, then let go. “Face it, honey, Amy was as strong-willed as you are. I worried about that tendency of hers a lot. I worried that her independence would cost her the opportunity to have a man’s love, to settle and have a family. After she died…” Her voice cracked. She stared out the window for a moment.

      Jama stared straight ahead and focused on breathing deeply. Jama never cried.

      “Afterward,” Fran continued, “I realized that I’d been wishing for her to live out my dreams for her. I wasn’t wise enough to allow her to live her own. With all the other kids, I’d allowed them to find their own way, but Amy…she was different. I guess I identified with her more. I wanted her to have a happy life, and I was afraid she would burn out before she could find someone to share that life with.”

      “Med school and residency are tough on a marriage,” Jama said. “We saw several of our friends divorce. Amy wanted to wait until she had more time to devote to someone else in her life.”

      Jama still felt regret that she’d never been able to say a formal, final goodbye to Amy. She’d been in the hospital, too badly injured with a damaged spleen, collapsed lung and cracked ribs, to attend Amy’s funeral.

      “I wonder what she would be doing now,” Fran said.

      “She would be saving lives.”

      There was grief in Fran’s hazel eyes. There was also a strong faith that Jama could never hope to emulate. How did a mother like Fran cope with the death of her daughter?

      How many times had Jama wished that Fran had been her mother? Not just mother of her heart, but mother in reality.

      And why, after all these years, was Jama recalling her own mother’s failings so often?

      Jama braked at a light and turned left. She’d driven this route so many times….

      “Jama,” Fran said softly.

      “Yes.”

      “You know worrying doesn’t help.”

      Jama was so glad Fran couldn’t really read her mind at that moment. “I know.”

      “Neither does brooding about the past.”

      “Are you talking about yourself now? Sometimes we can’t control our thoughts.”

      “I know. Sometimes we do it anyway, don’t we?”

      “Yes.”

      “Sometimes, maybe, it’s simply a way of honoring those we love,” Fran said. “A way of giving them space in our hearts. And you’re one of my kids. You have one of those places of honor in my heart.”

      Jama negotiated a sharp curve as the pressure flooded her chest and worked its way up. Over the years of residency, she’d learned the important art of emotional detachment. She’d lost that skill for about a year after Amy’s death, but eventually it returned.

      Until now.

      For a long moment, Fran said nothing. Jama glanced over to find her staring out the window, and the pain in that brief glimpse was dark and hard—the harsh and ugly scars of a break in the earthly bonds of mother-daughter love that weren’t meant to be erased by time, or by faith. They were simply meant to be endured. At least, that was how Jama saw it.

      “You were the sister Amy so desperately needed in her life,” Fran said at last. “As a middle child, with two older brothers who were into their own activities, and younger twin sisters who were inseparable, she sometimes felt left out, I’m afraid. If not for you, Amy would have had a much lonelier childhood.” Fran looked over at Jama. “And now you’re the one who’s alone.”

      “Now who’s worrying?” Jama teased. It was time for a lighter mood.

      Fran tapped her lips with her fingers. “Shame on me.”

      “So to give you something different to ponder, what do you think about Zelda Benedict joining the staff at the clinic? She helped me with Monty this morning, and her skills are top-notch.”