Her daughter had not yet realized her condition, and for this, at least, she was grateful. As her own life inexorably diminished, she found she thought less and less of herself---of the past---and more and more of her daughter’s future. This was both painful and sad, because she saw the tragedy of her own life mingling, and becoming one, with Mary’s. How similar. Her love for John MacCain---clean, strong, yet ended by untimely death. Then the desperate, animal attraction to a handsome, brutal man who had broken her heart, and crushed the last of her dreams. He was his father’s son..... Then the emptiness, and finally the horrid, burning hatred of all that still lived, loved, and desired happiness.
Her one hope now, strange as it might have seemed but a few days before, was that the girl might still be young enough to heal, and wise enough to seek that healing in the light of life, rather than the darkness of revenge, which had so fruitlessly swallowed the remnant of her years.
Mary woke to find a fresh dress and undergarments waiting at the foot of the bed. After she had dressed, her mother gave her tea and porridge, and to her surprise, did not try to dissuade her from the long journey to the faded cottage. Both of them knew it to be a dreary, and possibly dangerous task. But both, for different reasons, also knew it to be essential. Wrapping the cloak about her Mary went to the door, determined not to look back. Still, something made her turn.
“I may not be coming back for a time,” she said. “You understand that?”
“Yes,” replied the old woman, in a voice wholly lacking its former strength. “Will you make me one promise before you go? Only make it, and I will rest easier.”
“What is it?”
“Promise me. . .that you won’t try to take your own life. That you will not let the bitterness fester inside you like an unclean wound, turning slowly to the poison of hate. Will you give me your word?”
Mary looked back at her, confused.
“You have nothing to fear, I’m sure. I should have thought my weak character well known to you by now, and to have removed any such concern. Twice I have set a hard resolve, and twice failed. I doubt if I should ever find the courage.”
“Listen to me, Mary.” Her mother spoke now so earnestly, and with a desperate entreaty so unlike her, that despite the numb lethargy into which her heart had sunk, Mary felt a qualm of fear on her behalf.