A/N Okay, first off I'd like to apologise for the shortness of this
chapter! But hey look on the bright side, at least I have updated!! ^_^
Please review and tell me what you think! Many Thanks!!
Chapter Eight.
How long she lay in bed, Annamaria wasn't sure. The days and nights seemed to blend together beneath the thick curtains of her four poster. She did not make the full recovery the doctor had hoped for. The cold reached her chest, and attacked her lungs. At times she could hardly breathe, her head thumped, and her temperature soared. She shivered in fever, and was delirious at times. She vaguely remembered the doctor's worried figure as he placed his cold hand on her sweating forehead.
When she rose for the first time, the light stung her eyes, and her legs were unstable on the ground. The doctor helped her walk across the room, but she was too tired to do anything else. She was unwilling to speak, unless asked a direct question, and even then the answer was 'yes, 'no', or 'dunno'.
The reason behind this was she had changed. She didn't feel like Annamaria any more, it was like she had been taken from her body, and was watching the events from somewhere else.
But somehow the twelve year recovered slowly. When she could finally leave her bed her weak legs found it difficult to walk.
The doctor visited often, but as time went on his visits decreased, and she rarely saw him. It was feared the cold had got into her legs and crippled her, she thought she may never walk again. But the more she walked the easier it got. Eventually she could leave her bed and venture outside. The sun licked her skin warming her up inside as well as out. It was good to be out of doors again.
The first thing she did was visit her mother's grave. It looked rain beaten, the last few weeks the Caribbean had suffered several storm, and the stone was cracked slightly at the top. She touched it softly with her fingers.
"I should have gone with Samara." She said, softly. But regret doesn't change the way of things. It was peaceful in the graveyard, there was no one about, just a couple of grieving relatives, crying softly to themselves. She stood staring at the stone with sadness.
She got up and made to walk away, she wasn't supposed to spend the entire day out of doors, if she caught cold again her health would plummet once more.
As she was walking from the graveyard, she noticed with a pang of guilt that the other graves had flowers. She looked back at her mother's bare cross. The twelve year old wanted to give her mother some flowers.
She stood there staring at it for a few minutes, when a hand fell on her shoulder. She screamed softly and spun round. The reverend was standing in front of her, his aged face creasing with worry and alarm. "I am sorry I startled you, Miss Richards.'
Annamaria just shook her head.
"Is there any thing wrong?"
"My mother doesn't have any flowers." The child cried.
He looked past her to her mother's grave. "Indeed she does not. But we can sort that out." He bent down and broke off a sprig of Rosemary from another grave. He passed it to Annamaria for inspection. She smelt it and smiled, then she looked across at the other grave. "That's wrong isn't it?" She demanded. "Taking it from another grave?"
He smiled at her. "It's only a sprig, and I'm sure he wouldn't mind."
She bent down in the dirt and stared at the name on the stone. She screwed up her eyes, and tried to read the inscription. "Why wouldn't he mind?" She asked.
"Because it was your mother who planted that Rosemary in the first place." The reverend told her.
She ran her fingers along the name but could still not make it out. "Who was he?" She asked, again.
She scrambled after the reverend who had set off to her mother's cross to plant the Rosemary. "Who was he?" She said, stopping in front of him.
He looked at her, through his sad eyes, placing his hand on her hair. He passed her the sprig and she planted it quickly in the ground. She played softly with the leaves as she stood up.
They stood together staring at the grave, and the child managed a small smile. She had done one last thing for her mother, she had given her some flowers.
The reverend put his arm around her. "That man, he was your father."
Chapter Eight.
How long she lay in bed, Annamaria wasn't sure. The days and nights seemed to blend together beneath the thick curtains of her four poster. She did not make the full recovery the doctor had hoped for. The cold reached her chest, and attacked her lungs. At times she could hardly breathe, her head thumped, and her temperature soared. She shivered in fever, and was delirious at times. She vaguely remembered the doctor's worried figure as he placed his cold hand on her sweating forehead.
When she rose for the first time, the light stung her eyes, and her legs were unstable on the ground. The doctor helped her walk across the room, but she was too tired to do anything else. She was unwilling to speak, unless asked a direct question, and even then the answer was 'yes, 'no', or 'dunno'.
The reason behind this was she had changed. She didn't feel like Annamaria any more, it was like she had been taken from her body, and was watching the events from somewhere else.
But somehow the twelve year recovered slowly. When she could finally leave her bed her weak legs found it difficult to walk.
The doctor visited often, but as time went on his visits decreased, and she rarely saw him. It was feared the cold had got into her legs and crippled her, she thought she may never walk again. But the more she walked the easier it got. Eventually she could leave her bed and venture outside. The sun licked her skin warming her up inside as well as out. It was good to be out of doors again.
The first thing she did was visit her mother's grave. It looked rain beaten, the last few weeks the Caribbean had suffered several storm, and the stone was cracked slightly at the top. She touched it softly with her fingers.
"I should have gone with Samara." She said, softly. But regret doesn't change the way of things. It was peaceful in the graveyard, there was no one about, just a couple of grieving relatives, crying softly to themselves. She stood staring at the stone with sadness.
She got up and made to walk away, she wasn't supposed to spend the entire day out of doors, if she caught cold again her health would plummet once more.
As she was walking from the graveyard, she noticed with a pang of guilt that the other graves had flowers. She looked back at her mother's bare cross. The twelve year old wanted to give her mother some flowers.
She stood there staring at it for a few minutes, when a hand fell on her shoulder. She screamed softly and spun round. The reverend was standing in front of her, his aged face creasing with worry and alarm. "I am sorry I startled you, Miss Richards.'
Annamaria just shook her head.
"Is there any thing wrong?"
"My mother doesn't have any flowers." The child cried.
He looked past her to her mother's grave. "Indeed she does not. But we can sort that out." He bent down and broke off a sprig of Rosemary from another grave. He passed it to Annamaria for inspection. She smelt it and smiled, then she looked across at the other grave. "That's wrong isn't it?" She demanded. "Taking it from another grave?"
He smiled at her. "It's only a sprig, and I'm sure he wouldn't mind."
She bent down in the dirt and stared at the name on the stone. She screwed up her eyes, and tried to read the inscription. "Why wouldn't he mind?" She asked.
"Because it was your mother who planted that Rosemary in the first place." The reverend told her.
She ran her fingers along the name but could still not make it out. "Who was he?" She asked, again.
She scrambled after the reverend who had set off to her mother's cross to plant the Rosemary. "Who was he?" She said, stopping in front of him.
He looked at her, through his sad eyes, placing his hand on her hair. He passed her the sprig and she planted it quickly in the ground. She played softly with the leaves as she stood up.
They stood together staring at the grave, and the child managed a small smile. She had done one last thing for her mother, she had given her some flowers.
The reverend put his arm around her. "That man, he was your father."