Songbird by Lisa Samson Read Free Book Online

leaves. All you can really do is push it from your mind and propose to make as few mistakes like that as you can in the future.
    I hugged her tightly and didn't let go until she made the first move.

12
    D on't get too comfortable with your life.
    If there's one thing I’ve learned after all I’ve seen, done, and heard, it's that. God uses bad circumstances for His good. Just ask Joseph. Just ask Noah. Just ask:
    Mary.
    Joshua.
    David.
    Abraham.
    Jacob.
    Rahab the harlot.
    All those Bible people.
    But God gives “more grace when the burdens grow greater.”
    Just like the song says.
    Near the end of ninth grade, during April of 1974 when the trees had lost their froth of color but their leaves still shone tender, the principal of the school called me out of class.
    Sometimes you just know that something's wrong. But something could have been right, too. Maybe Mama came back and maybe Mr. Jackson felt sad for Mrs. Evans because that meant I’d be leaving her house.
    He ushered me into the inner sanctum of the school offices and set me in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. He eased his skinny self down into the other one then set an earth shoe atop one wine-colored polyester clad knee, truly tipping me off that I wasn't in trouble. The authority of the desk didn't separate us. He was going to talk human to human.
    “Myrtle, you need to get your book bag together. Your brother is coming to pick you up.”
    I shook my head. “Why?”
    “Well, there's been an accident.”
    “What happened, Mr. Jackson?”
    “I think James should tell you.”
    “Is everybody all right?”
    “Well, no, honey.”
    He whipped his head around at the knock on his door. “Yes?”
    It opened a crack and I saw his secretary's nose peep through. “James is here, Mr. Jackson.”
    “Thank you, Pat.”
    He turned to me, took my hand and tried to stretch his mouth into some sort of reassuring smile. “Go ahead, Myrtle. Go get your things.”
    He stayed in his seat, his forehead now in his hand, as I left the room.
    What a moment. That spiked heartbeat. That clammy skin. That thickening inside me. That horrible, burning claw of inevitability sticking in my throat.
    And there stood James.
    “James!” I cried out and ran over to where he stood in front of the secretary's desk.
    I haven't really described James yet. Tall, and just an average-looking guy, he sported black hair and Mrs. Evans's pansy eyes, but darker blue, and he wore his clothing as neatly and comfortably as an orange wears its skin.
    His face just then bore a far different look than his pressed khakis and blue button-down shirt called for. Something had swept across him earlier, leaving red eyes and blotched skin. James hugged me to him tightly and just cried and cried.
    “It's Mama,” he said a minute later.
    Then he pulled away.
    “There was an accident out on Fort Avenue, Myrtle. This little Datsun pickup pulled out of the cemetery drive. He pulled out in front of a dump truck that swerved into the oncoming traffic.”
    “Right into Mrs. Evans?”
    He nodded.
    “Is she all right?”
    “Well, the ambulance has taken her to Lynchburg General. But it doesn't look good, Peach.” He cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Go on and get your stuff,” he said again.
    I ran out of the office and down the hall as though my head and hair burned with an intense fire. I had to get there. To the hospital. I had to tell her. I had to tell Mrs. Evans I loved her. I had to tell her.
    Please God, I prayed and prayed. Please, please, please, please, please.

13
    M rs. Evans died before I made it to the hospital. Even all these years later I’m still upset at the Lord for not answering that prayer. How much would it have taken for Him to have let my foster mother hang on just a few more minutes, regain consciousness in a miraculous manner as I drew up close to the gurney? Just for a few minutes so I might have lifted her dying hand to my breast and said, “I