The school nurse insisted she lie down.
I refused.
“I’ve waited forty years,” I said; my voice hardly looked like mine. I can hold up one more hour.
Twenty minutes later, lunch time ended and the cafeteria emptied.
There were only two people left.
Me.
And a woman who remained silent at the door. He must not have been much more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old.
He looked at me with the same expression I had seen in parents waiting outside the emergency rooms.
A mixture of hope and guilt.
“My name is Rebecca,” he said in a trembling voice. I'm Tori's mother.
My fingers closed around the boutonnière.
Rebecca swallowed saliva.
“My grandmother wanted you to have it, Giselle.
He pulled out an old can of cookies.
The painting had worn out years ago.
Inside was a tiny handkerchief, folded with extraordinary care.
Rebecca left the can on the ground between the two.
“My grandmother kept it until she died, three months ago......some time ago.” He gently unfolded the handkerchief. “He found the flower wrapped in this.”
I couldn't look away.
Rebecca took a deep breath and slow.
“Grandma left everything in writing before she died.” He handed me several leaves. “I thought it would be easier if I read them.”
I nodded.
“I was forty-two years old the night Michael found me,” the front line began.
The room disappeared.
Only Rebecca’s voice remained.” I was driving home with my daughter.”
“My mother,” Rebecca said.
“It had rained intensely for days.
The river had overflowed over the Miller Bridge.
The car skated on the water. He broke the security barrier and rolled down the embankment to the middle of the road.
I couldn't open the driver's door. My child was crying. Then someone started coming down to us. He had a tux.”
I already knew.
Even before she spoke her name.
A smile made its way through my tears.
Of course I do.
“I kept apologizing. That's what I remember most. I repeated again and again... ‘I’m sorry... someone is waiting for me.’”
I covered my mouth with my hands while Rebecca was still reading.
“He broke the window. He helped me out. Then he looked inside the car.
My daughter was still inside. He said, “One more minute.”
I closed my eyes.
That's how Michael was... always believing that one more minute would suffice.
