"Esther M. Friesner - Birthday" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

"Would you like me to come with you?" I ask her. I don't need to hear
confessions. "If it's today, I mean." If I'm wrong, she'll let me know.

She nods her head. Her nose is red and there is a little trace of slime on her
upper lip. Her cheeks are streaked with red, her eyes squinched half-shut to
hold back more tears. "I called," she tells me. "I have a four o'clock
appointment. Upstairs, they think I'm going to the dentist."

"I'll meet you in the lobby, then, at three-thirty," I promise. And I add,
because I know this is what she needs to hear more than anything, "It's not so
bad." She squeezes my hand and flees back into the shelter of the stall. I
hear
the tears again, but they are softer this time. She is no longer so afraid.

I could take her sorrow from her as I took her fear by telling her there are
ways to make what lies ahead a blessing, but I won't do that. She'd never
believe me, anyhow. I know I would never have believed anyone when it was me.
Besides, I was in college. I knew it all, better than anyone who'd been there,
and the evening news was full of stories to back up my conviction that I'd
chosen purgatory over hell. You're supposed to be able to survive purgatory.

I should have known better. Surviving isn't living, it's only breath that
doesn't shudder to a stop, a heart that keeps lurching through beat after beat
after beat long after it's lost all reason to keep on beating. I was wrong.
But
I was in college, Mom and Dad had given up so much to provide the difference
between my meager scholarship and the actual cost of tuition, books, room and
board. They said, "Make us proud."
When I dropped out in junior year and got this job as a secretary, they never
said a word.

I think I need a cup of coffee. I know I need a place to sit and think about
what I'll do to fill the hours between now and three-thirty, three-thirty and
six. There's a nice little coffee shop a block from the office, so I go there
and take a booth. The morning rush is over; no one minds.

The waitress knows me. Her name is Caroline. She is twenty-six, just two years
older than me. Usually I come here for lunch at the counter, when there's lots
of cusotmers, but we still find time to talk. She knows me and I know her. Her
pink uniform balloons over a belly that holds her sixth baby. She admires me
for
the way I can tease her about it. "Isn't that kid here yet?" I ask.

"Probably a boy," she answers. "Men are never on time." We both laugh.

"So how far along are you?"

"Almost there. You don't wanna know how close."

"No kidding? So why are you still -- ?"