Shaman's Blood Read Free

her his well-worn Mycological Society T-shirt. Alice put the phone down for a second and shrugged into it—the shirt engulfed her, the hem reaching halfway down her thighs.
    The nurse was saying something about a quiet, peaceful passing. Alice bit her lip. “Right, it’s for the best. We’re all glad she didn’t linger,” she said, her thoughts spiking ahead to funeral plans and back to images of Suzanne and Margaret playing together on the beach. “Thank you so much for calling. Florida Shores Funeral Home, that’s right. They should already have her instructions on file. Yes, her brother, Harold Blacksburg, will take care of the arrangements. You should call him to pick up her things from the hospital—oh, he did already? Was he with her when she...? Well, thank you again for everything. Yes, goodbye.”
    Alice hung up and stood quietly, ignoring her throbbing toe, letting the news sink in. It was what she’d been expecting, even hoping for, and yet now that it was true, she felt strange.
    Margaret slipped into the living room, rubbing her eyes.
    “Mom? What’s going on?”
    Alice reached out and pulled her daughter close.
    “Grandma Suzanne’s passed on.”
    “Oh.” Margaret’s face was a mask, but Alice knew the loss was severe. Suzanne doted on her only granddaughter, and Margaret had adored her in kind. Alice felt the girl’s chest rising and falling. When at last Margaret pulled away, there was a damp spot on Nik’s shirt, just over the mushroom logo.
    “What’ll happen to Carlisle?” Margaret raised her head, damp strands of hair stuck to her face.
    “Hal’s keeping him.” Suzanne’s Afghan hound had been her companion for the past eleven years, but Alice supposed he could keep Hal company just as well. “Carlisle’s an elegant dog, pedigreed with papers and all, but they never showed him. Poor Carlisle. Hal says he’s pretty sad. Looking for Suzanne.”
    “I want him if Uncle Hal doesn’t.” Margaret wiped her cheeks.
    Alice watched her pad back to her room, face shielded by her tangled mass of red curls. The bedroom door shut softly.
    “Will she be all right, then?” Nik touched her hand.
    Alice nodded. “It’ll be hard, they were tight. But yeah, she’ll deal with it. You know how she is.”
    “Ja,” said Nik. “And you?”
    “Me? I’ll miss her, I guess. I can’t say I loved her. Shit, let’s be honest, I didn’t even like her. But ... there’s a hole.” Alice shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
    “Do we need to do anything tonight?”
    “No, Hal’s in control, as usual.”
    “Then come back to bed, try to sleep. You haven’t done much of that while she’s been ill.”
    “I know.” Ahhhh. Alice leaned against Nik as he massaged the base of her neck with his big hands. Nik was tall and lean as a lodge pole, like his Viking ancestors. His flax-colored hair fell loose over his bare shoulders. Alice yawned and thought about the week just past.
    She’d spent the last six days in Suzanne’s hospital room, keeping vigil. The doctors told her the stroke was massive and that her mother might not wake up again and, in fact, might remain unresponsive for however long it took her to die. Your basic vegetative state, she’d told Nik on the phone. She’d called Shelton, her boss at the Hardison Museum, and asked for a short leave of absence to help Hal with doctors and lawyers, and to sit beside the hospital bed waiting for some sign of consciousness beyond the steady hiss of the respirator.
    That sign had come the second night, when Alice sat staring at Suzanne’s thin, remote face, thinking about nothing in particular. Her mind had been wandering, mulling over mundane stuff like getting Margaret enrolled in the university’s summer Science Camp for gifted middle-school kids and taking Dawg to the vet for his annual rabies shot. Then she’d seen a single tear pool at the corner of Suzanne’s closed left eye and slide down the sunken cheek into her ear.