Rachel Goddard 01 - The Heat of the Moon

and saw the full depth of a misery and sorrow I’d only begun to imagine.
    “What have I done?” she whispered. “Oh, God, forgive me, forgive me.”
    Michelle released her and stepped back, wide eyes moving from Mother to me to the blood on the floor. A faint whimper sounded from her gaping mouth.
    I watched in stupefied horror as Mother leaned down and scooped up the knife. I flattened my back against the refrigerator, bracing for an attack, but she rushed past me, out of the room, into the hall, and in a second I heard a door slam.
    “Mother!” I cried. “Oh, Christ, Mish, stop her!”
    Michelle looked back at me dumbly. I spun and ran after Mother, but stopped short when I reached the hall, uncertain where she’d gone. Her study door stood open. The downstairs bathroom door was closed, but it always was. Dripping blood from one hand, I tried the doorknob with the other. Locked.
    “Come help me!” I screamed at Michelle. When she walked into the hall, her face slack and dazed, I shoved her at the door. “We have to get it open! She’s got a knife!”
    Michelle rattled the knob, then turned to me as if for further instructions.
    I sprinted to the kitchen, yanked open a drawer and snatched up a table knife. Back in the hall, I jammed the knife into the space between door frame and lock. The simple bolt clicked free. I tossed the knife behind me and pushed open the door.
    Mother stood at the sink, the carving knife in her right hand. Blood streamed from her left wrist into the basin. Her eyes seemed to look through me without seeing.
    “Mother, give me the knife,” I said. “Don’t do this.”
    Urgency overcoming fear, I reached out.
    She shrank back against the flowered wallpaper. She raised the knife to her throat and with one brutal motion tore through flesh and artery.
    For a second her face took on a surprised expression. Blood pulsed from her throat and splattered her arm, her blue blouse, the wallpaper.
    She dropped the knife. Her knees buckled.
    I tried to grab her but couldn’t support her sagging weight with one arm. We both collapsed to the floor.
    Michelle rushed in and sank to her knees beside us. “Mother! Oh my God, Rachel, do something!”
    I pressed my hand to the gash in Mother’s throat. Blood poured between my fingers. Michelle wailed.
    Mother’s fingers clawed at the front of my blouse. I peeled her hand away, pushed myself up, staggered to the phone on the kitchen wall. The pain in my arm made me want to howl.
    With blood-slick fingers I punched 911. The instant I heard a voice I shouted, “My mother tried to kill herself! She’s bleeding to death!”
    The woman at the other end started to speak, but I dropped the receiver, let it bounce on its cord and clank against the wall. I ran back to Mother and fell to my knees on the bloody tile.
    “Please, please don’t die,” I begged. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. Mother, I love you, please don’t die.”
    Her eyes met mine for an instant before her lids fluttered and closed. Her breathing slowed, her body relaxed. Her face had gone stark white but it was peaceful now, as if she were drifting into deep sleep.
    The faint sound of a siren dragged me to my feet. Suddenly weak and dizzy, I had to lean on walls and furniture to get to the front door.
    The next minutes were a blur of noise and bustle. One medic worked over Mother, another forced me into a chair while he wrapped my wound. I was drenched with blood. I strained to get to Mother but the medic held me back. He kept asking, What happened? What happened? Somewhere in the room my sister was crying.
    After Mother had been rolled out, the medic told me to lie down on another stretcher. Luke was back, leaning over me. I reached for him.
    He kissed my uninjured hand and laid it back on my chest. A smudge of blood was left behind at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be at the hospital,” he said. “I’ll come right behind.”
    In the closed alcohol-reeking ambulance, with the keening siren deafening me to all other sound, I forced myself to turn my head and look at the stretcher next to mine.
    The medic bent over her, blocking her upper body from my sight. As I watched, he sat back, shoulders slumping. He remained that way for a moment with his head bowed. Then he shifted and I caught a glimpse of her pale cheek before he drew the blood-soaked sheet up over her face.

Chapter Twenty-two
    Wrapped in warmth, I drifted toward wakefulness, my senses switching on one by