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

and how Mommy acts. I've read all the books. You get the child you deserve.

Oralee goes into the back room where they keep the refrigerator. She comes
back
with a compartmentalized cold pack the size of a clutch purse, a factory-fresh
sampler pad, and a slip of paper. "You can put this in your pocketbook if you
want," she tells me, giving me the cold pack. "Make sure you only keep it open
long enough to take out or put in one sample at a time. And for the love of
God,
don't mix up the samples!"

I smile at how vehement she sounds. "I've done this before, Oralee," I remind
her.

"Sure you have; sorry. Here are the names and addresses. Bus tokens are in the
clay pot on the table by the front door. You don't have to bring back the pack
when you're done; just drop it off next time you're here." She cocks her head.
"If you are coming back?"

"Of course I am," I say, surprised that she'd think I wouldn't.

"Oh," she says. "Because I thought -- you know -- after today's over -Well,
whatever. Good luck."

There are five flames on the list, most of them in the neighborhood close to
the
Woman's Center, only one of them farther uptown. It's a glorious spring day.
Soon it will be Easter. The holiday came late this year, almost the end of
April. I think April is a pretty name to give a girl -- April, full of hope
and
promise, full of beauty. Maybe I should have named my daughter April. I laugh
away the thought. What's done is done, too late now to change Tessa's name.
Too
late.

When I get to the first place I'm surprised by how old the woman is who
answers
the door. I introduce myself and say that the Woman's Center sent me. I show
her
the cold pack and the sampler pad, telling her what I'll do for her at the
bank.
She has black hair that is so shot through with silver threads it looks gray,
and her fingers are stained with tobacco. She stands in the doorway,
stony-eyed,
barring me from the dark apartment beyond, making me stand in the hall while I
run through my entire explanation.

After I have finished and I'm standing there, holding out one sampler sheet,
she
speaks: "I'm not Vicky," she says. "I'm her mother. God will judge you people.