Pieces of Hate by Ray Garton Read Free Book Online

turned on its spindly neck, and Margaret looked over her shoulder, following the old woman’s gaze to find that she was looking at Lynda, who was still asleep.
    When Margaret looked at Mrs. Watkiss again, her head was back on the pillow. Clearing her throat, Margaret said, “Um, I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Mrs. — ”
    “Oh, sure you do. You the first one I’ve met, you know. I didn’t even know it was possible to recognize another like me till I saw your eyes. I knew right away. I still ain’t sure how, I just . . . knew. You’ve got the gift, all right, no doubt about that. Here . . .” She reached up and lightly touched four fingertips to Margaret’s temple. “. . . and here. That’s where it nests, best I can tell.” She placed her hand back on Margaret’s, patting it in a comforting grandmotherly way.
    Margaret could only stare, lips parted, at the old woman. She could think of nothing more to say.
    Mrs. Watkiss’s small gray head seemed to sink into the pillow as her paper-thin eyelids closed halfway. She seemed exhausted from all the talk.
    “You was sure sweet to come see me,” Mrs. Watkiss said, her voice growing hoarse. “You go back to your sister now. That’s where you can do the most good.” She closed her eyes, the hint of a smile on her weathered lips, and drifted off. Her hands slipped off of Margaret’s and dropped to the bed. Her nose made a small whistling sound as she breathed.
    Margaret took a few slow steps backward, drawing the drape back into place. Checking to make sure Lynda was still asleep, she hurried into the bathroom, locked the door behind her and vomited her breakfast into the toilet . . .
     
    8
     
    Holding a cold paper towel to the back of her neck. Margaret leaned against the bathroom wall trying to pull herself together. Her mind was going in so many directions at once that she wasn’t sure that pulling herself together was a viable option.
    She’s just on old woman, Margaret kept thinking, trying to make the words convincing. Even Lynda said she wasn’t quite right. She’s just crazy, that’s all. And she just happened to catch me at a weak moment.
    As she dabbed her face with the paper towel, she thought, Then again, maybe it’s not a weak moment. Maybe I’m going crazy, too.
    After rinsing her mouth and running her fingers through her hair, she went back to Lynda’s bedside to find her sister still asleep on her side, her right hand hanging limply over the bottom bar of the side rail. Margaret lowered herself into the chair slowly, staring at Lynda’s face, narrowing her eyes as she studied it.
    Yes, it looked different than it had yesterday, there was no question. Even in sleep, there was more color in her cheeks. Yesterday, it had been a taut face, stiff as a plastic Halloween mask, as if reacting to pain at every moment, even while sleeping; now it was a relaxed face, smoother, still much too thin, but without the tension it had held the day before. The bandana was wrapped crookedly around her head, revealing some of her nearly bare crown; a shadow made up of tiny, fine hairs darkened her scalp, as if her head had been shaved and her hair was trying hard to recover. Margaret looked down at the bony hand hanging off the edge of the mattress.
    You’ve got the gift, all right, Mrs. Watkiss had said, touching Margaret’s temple, then her hand. Here . . . and here.
    Margaret stared at her own right hand, turning it this way and that, inspecting the five-fingered appendage as if it belonged to someone else.
    You go back to your sister now. That’s where you can do the most good.
    . . . the most good . . .
    When she listened carefully, Margaret could still hear Mrs. Watkiss’s nose whistling quietly as she slept.
    Making a decision, Margaret put the television remote in her lap and turned it on, then curled a hand around Lynda’s, careful not to disturb her sleep. Then, Margaret sat in the chair, watching the silent television, and