Page 144 of Saving Sparrow
“The hell you ain’t,” she gritted out. My back was still to her, but I could hear the gun rattling in her hand. “Who sent ya?”
“N-no one. P-please… I—”
“Don’t you lie to me!”
Even as I shook in fear for my life, and the phantom taste of blood filled my mouth, I knew I had to keep her calm, too. I needed to keep Sparrow away while saving myself in the process.
“I’m n-not lying. I swear it.”
“Turn around,” she demanded, sounding closer. “I said, turn around!”
“Okay!” I stifled a scream, tucking my chin to my chest and wrapping my arms around my head protectively. The wound at the back of my skull throbbed again, the way it did the first time Sparrow brandished a gun. I wondered how much more trauma I could take before I succumbed to a psychotic break.
“Okay,” I whispered, the word trapped inside the dome I’d created around myself. “Okay.” I squeezed my eyes shut, thinking the word a few more times as I straightened and lifted my hands in the air again.
“I’m turning,” I said, wanting her to know my every move. I’d need to be compliant to get out of this, to not be seen as a threat.
My arms went slack from shock when I faced her, and I shoved them higher over my head when her grip on the handgun tightened. The struggle for air intensified as I took in her appearance, from her French bun to the false lashes and powdery blue makeup framing her eyes.
She wore coral-colored lipstick, and the blush along her cheeks seemed too peachy to be real. The white nurse’s uniform stunned me the most. Elliott’s mother had been a nurse.
She glanced briefly at the bassinet before shifting her grip on the gun. It was clear she thought I was still too close to it. I carefully took another huge step to the side, putting me a few feet away now.
I’d have to get past her to get to the door, and I ran through ways of doing that without losing my life first.
“You a preacher-man?” she asked, her deep Southern accent spot-on. “You taking over for that other one and that woman?”
The preacher-man?She had to have been talking about Elijah.
“No, I’m not a preacher,” I tried to assure her, hunching my shoulders to seem less threatening. “I was on my way to my room. I must have made a wrong turn.”
“Your room?” She sounded skeptical.
“Yeah.” I wondered if I should’ve said more, but I didn’t know where she thought we were, didn’t know what type of construct she believed herself to be existing in, didn’t know what would give me away.
She narrowed her eyes, taking a tiny step toward the bassinet as I took another one away from it. “What’s your name?” Her “your” sounded more like “yo.” She gripped the gun with both hands now.
Do I lie? Would she recognize the truth?
“M-Miguel.” My next sidestep took me to the wall.
“Miguel,” she whispered, and I waited with my heart in my throat for some sort of indication that my name meant something to her. “That don’t sound like no preacher-man’s name. You lying to me?”
“No, I’m not lying. And I’m not a preacher. I don’t even believe in God.”
She grunted, slowly moving closer to her baby, and I slid along the wall. My arms felt heavy, but I kept them up, palms open.
She kept her body angled toward me with each step, both of us circling until we’d switched places.
“It’s okay, baby boy. Don’t cry, momma’s right here.” She removed one hand from the gun long enough to rock the bassinet and whisper more comforting words to her son. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
I was sure those were words Elliott had longed to hear from his mother, and it made me want to know more about this woman, this alter who was formed to help Elliott cope in some way.
“What’s your name?” I asked softly.
“That’s none of your concern, preacher-man.”
I should’ve been worried she still saw me as a threat, as a preacher-man, but my overwhelming love and sadness for my husband, forallof them, got in the way. “I wish he would’ve had you as a mother.” She frowned, glancing at her baby again before widening her stance.
