Lemon Drops on Sundays

A short story about a young girl who grows up very quickly :)

**Sorry about the funny formatting, that's Movellas' fault, not mine!**

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3. Winter

I’d almost forgotten about Ms Dean the Sunday that Sam and I were told we’d be allowed to visit her. The rain had long passed and the sky was now a dense white. A carpet of snow lay on our lawn and the stream had frozen over.

The abandoned house next door looked magical.

In the car on the way to the hospital, Sam and I argued.

“She. Is. Not. A. Witch,” I said, pouting stubbornly.

“Mmhm, yeah she is.”

“You said witches don’t die.”

“Well she didn’t die, did she?”

“She got ill though.”

“Witches can get ill.”

“ENOUGH!” Mum shouted, pulling the car up at the side of the road and turning to face us. “This has gone far enough. I will not have any more of this witch nonsense. Ms Dean is a human being. Are we clear?” Sam and I nodded solemnly, but I snickered when the car started moving again.

At the hospital, once a bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates had been thrust in to our hands, Sam and I were waiting outside the door of Ms Dean’s room. Mum scrutinised us and rearranged my collar twice.

“Are you coming in with us?” I asked, wiping a sweaty hand on my newly ironed blouse. Mum kneeled down, as adults have a habit of doing.

“No, darling. This is for you, and you alone.”

A nurse bustled around the corner, approaching us.

“You two must be Sam and Jennifer! Ms Dean does goes on about you two. She’s been looking forward to this for quite a while, come on, poppets.”

Be good, mum mouthed, as we entered alone.

This room was the complete opposite of Ms Dean’s last, so white and sterile.

I gazed everywhere but at the woman in the bed. Sam was suspiciously fixated on the curious beeping machinery.

“My saviours,” the woman said, with the whisper of a voice long worn out.

“Hello Ms Dean,” I said, wrenching my gaze from Sam, who was mulling in a corner. She looked as if she had been through the trenches, yet her cheeks were more filled out than before, her smile was warm and friendly. Her milky eyes twinkled.

“Hello, dear,” she said, and patted the mattress beside her, “would you like a lemon drop?”

A glass bowl brimming with the clear wrapped candy beckoned me from the bedside table. Sam glanced at it furtively, and in a fit of defiance, I took three in my hand and popped each one between my lips, one after the other, sucking them down to nothing but sweet saliva.

They were delicious.

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