"Molly Brown - Asleep At The Wheel" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brown Molly)

Carrie turned and looked at her daughter. "I'm listening, but I don't like
what I'm hearing. You're fourteen years old, you should be dreaming about
your future - what you want to do with your life - not about death and
never being born."
"You don't listen," said her daughter. "I try to tell you things -
important things. But you never listen."
"What do you mean? I don't understand."
"No, I guess you don't," Tanya said, walking away.

Carrie knocked on Tanya's door and got no answer. She turned the knob and
pushed it open. The window was shut, the curtains drawn. Tanya lay
sprawled across her bed, fully clothed, eyes closed, mouth open.
"Tanya," Carrie said gently. "Tanya."
In the gloomy half-light of the room, the pale figure lying on its back
before her looked more like a doll than a person, a stick-thin department
store mannequin, stiff and bloodless. Carrie moved across the room,
reached down and touched her daughter's cheek. Her flesh felt cool and
powdery. "Honey, are you all right?"
"So tired," Tanya mumbled.
"It's a beautiful day outside. Don't you want to get some air?"
Tanya rolled onto her side and pulled a blanket over her head.

One evening, they'd been out (to a party, to a movie, for a pizza, where?
Carrie tried to remember and it all became a blur) and when they got back
to her parents' place, Eric sat down beside her and took hold of both her
hands. "Carrie, there's something I've been trying to tell you for a long,
long time, and the time has come for you to listen."
"Listen to what? I always listen, don't I?"
"No, Carrie, you don't," Eric scolded her gently. "But you're going to
listen now."
"Okay."
"I want you to think back, Carrie. Back to a hot August night when you
were seventeen years old."
"What are you talking about? I'm seventeen now."
"You went out with your friend Gina; you had tickets for a concert, and
then you took the bus back home. Do you remember?"
Carrie frowned and shook her head.
"Try, Carrie. Try to remember; it's important. You got off the bus at the
corner of Belmont and Hamlyn. You only had to walk two blocks to get
home..."
Carrie tried to pull her hands away. "Let go of me, Eric! You're hurting
me! You're hurting me!"

Carrie sat bolt upright, drenched in sweat. She looked down at the
mattress beside her. Empty. "Jack?" she whispered. "Jack?" she called
again, more loudly. She got out of bed, threw on a robe, opened the
bedroom door and stepped into a hot August evening in 1971.
Carrie sat down in front of the mirror, painting her lids with white
eyeliner while Gina rolled joints and tried on one outfit after another.
She finally decided on a long peasant dress and lace-up sandals.