Blind Run by Patricia Lewin Read Free Book Online

she’d met Charles at a fund-raiser, and her life had taken another turn. Their relationship had developed gradually over months of charity functions, dinners in expensive restaurants, and evenings at the theater.
    When he’d asked her to marry him the first time, it hadn’t surprised her. He was everything Ethan wasn’t: steady, considerate, responsible. And if their relationship lacked the intensity or passion she’d known with Ethan, that was all the better. She’d learned the hard way not to trust feelings based on anything other than common background and companionship. She and Charles were comfortable together, and she was content with that.
    Still, something had stopped her from accepting his proposal. She’d told herself, and him, that she just wasn’t ready. She needed more time, and to his credit, he’d been patient. Only tonight he’d accused her of not moving on with her life.
    She unbuttoned her blouse and tossed it on the bed next to her jacket, wondering if Charles was right. Maybe she hadn’t put the past behind her as well as she thought. From her walk-in closet, she retrieved the small step stool she kept for reaching the upper shelves. Climbing up, she pulled down a large box and carried it to the bed.
    When she’d finally surfaced from the depths of her depression, she’d gotten rid of the daily reminders of all she’d lost. She’d sold her house, left her practice, and given away her son’s clothes, furniture, and toys. She’d kept very little, only the single picture of Nicky in the living room and the contents of this container.
    For several minutes, she couldn’t bring herself to open it. Inside was all that remained of her child’s life, and as long as she left it untouched, she could keep the pain at bay. Putting the past to rest, however, was what this was all about, why she’d taken this box from the shelf for the first time since she’d stashed it away. She had to go through it or continue letting the past rule her present.
    With trembling hands, she finally lifted the lid, bracing herself for the rush of grief. Instead, as she gazed at the contents, a bittersweet melancholy filled her. Tentatively, she touched each item in turn: the soft-blue baby album, decorated with blocks and booties; the tiny plastic hospital beads, spelling Nicky’s name; the first drawing he’d brought home from kindergarten, depicting a mom, dad, and little boy under a bright sun; a slim stack of progress reports from sweet, twenty-something teachers who doted on their young charges; and the single pale blond curl from his first haircut, held with a navy ribbon.
    Tears slipped down Sydney’s cheeks, and she brushed them aside.
    God, how she missed him, how she hated that this box wasn’t filled with more little-boy treasures. She wished there were report cards and school programs, or maybe a ticket stub from a baseball game. He might have given her homemade Mother’s Day cards as he grew, or a favorite rock he’d found just for her. By now he’d be in fourth grade, and the keepsakes might include sports or school awards, or just more photographs, tracing a child’s growth toward adolescence. But there was none of that, of course. Her son had died before experiencing any of those things.
    The anguish rose up to choke her, closing around her throat with a strangled sob. He’d been so young, so full of life.
    Why?
    It was a question she’d asked a thousand times—a million—in the days following the accident. No one should have to suffer this, no parent should have to bury a child. But she had, and she needed to know why.
    Clenching her fists, as if that action would somehow keep her from flying apart, she fought for control. There were no answers, she knew that. Her son was dead. She may never get over it, but she would have to live with it.
    Again, she brushed at the tears, determined to get on with this, to move on with her life as Charles had suggested. Her hands trembled as she reached