"Nixon, Joan Lowery - The Other Side Of Dark" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nixon Joan Lowery)

"Yes, it does."
"Will it ever stop hurting?"
"I don't know. We'll never stop remembering, but I don't know if the hurt will always be part of the remembering. I wish I could give you an answer that would help."
"If we had wishes, I'd wish none of this had happened. I'd wish we could go back. Have a second chance."
"Life doesn't give second chances, Stacy."
"Then I don't like life very much."
Dad's arm is strong, and he tightens his grip a little on my shoulder. "At some time or another everyone gets hit by problems that seem almost impossible to handle. You can give up without a fight, or you can climb over those problems and move on, because there are lots of good things ahead for you to discover."
"You make it sound too easy, Dad. Maybe you could do it, but I don't know yet if I can."
"You can." He makes a strange sound that startles me. I don't know if it's a laugh or a sob, so I twist to look at him. I can see the tautness of the muscles that are throbbing in his cheeks and chin. "Stacy, when Jeanne died, I wanted to run away, to hide, to do anything in order to escape all the pain."
"But you didn't."
"I did."
"I don't understand. You're here, Daddy."
"And I'll continue to be here with you, honey." I listen to footsteps pass my door and to someone laughing down the hallway. It seems a long time before Dad continues. "I drank a lot. Too much. It didn't help me escape anything. It just made it all worse. It was a stupid thing to do."
"Don't say you're stupid, Daddy! It wasn't your fault. It was the murderer's fault."
"You can't blame him for everything, Stacy. I'm certainly not going to blame him for something I chose to do."
"Well, I blame him. I hate him!"
"Hate isn't the answer. Think about your mother and what a forgiving person she was."
"I can't forgive him! I don't want to!"
He shakes his head sadly. I don't know why he can't understand how I feel.
"What we've been talking about is all part of growing up, of maturing," he says.
"Those are just words grown-ups like to use. Teachers say them. T expect you to be mature.' Mature doesn't mean anything."
"Yes, it does. It means a responsible way of looking at things, a more thoughtful way of making decisions."
"So if I grow up, then I'll automatically be mature."
"Stacy, I don't know how to explain it. It's something you'll feel inside. You'll find it out for yourself." He sighs. "Maybe your mother would have known how to explain these things to you."
I don't know what to say to him to make him feel better. I take his right hand and hold it tightly. "I love you, Daddy."
He gives his head a little shake, as though he were trying to toss away a lot of painful memories, and says, "I love you too."
The door slams open so suddenly that I gasp. Monty, the shaggy-haired orderly, bursts into the room, carrying my dinner tray. He must have startled Dad, too, because Dad jumps to his feet, standing between me and the orderly. "What are you doing?" Dad snaps.
"Well, hey, I got to deliver her dinner tray." Since Dad doesn't move, he says, "Here. You want it? You can give it to her. No problem."
Dad takes the tray, and as the orderly turns to leave, Dad adds, "Prom now on, knock, and come in carefully."
"Hey, they know we're coming. We don't have to knock on doors around here."
Dad's voice is firm. "I said, from now on I want you to knock on this door before coming in. Understand?"
"Sure, sure," Monty says, and disappears.
Dad puts the tray on the bedside table. There's a deep pucker between his eyebrows, and he looks terribly tired. "I don't like that kid's attitude," he mutters.
"Daddy, he's okay. He's just always in a hurry. Maybe it's part of his job to get the trays around fast."
He looks at his watch. "I'd better grab a bite to eat pretty soon. It's almost time to get to the office."
"You have to go to your office? But it's so late."
"Uh, extra work," he says. The wrinkle between his eyebrows deepens as he looks at me. "Are you sure you'll be all right, Stacy?"
"Are you afraid something is going to happen to me?"
"No! Oh, no! I just meant, do you need anything? Can I do anything for you while I'm here?"
His glance slides away from mine. He's not telling me the truth.
"Better hurry, so you won't miss dinner," I answer. He holds me tightly in a big hug, then leaves, pausing at the door to give me one last, searching look and an attempt at a smile.
I'm staring at the dented metal top that coven the plate on my tray, wondering if I really want to take it off and find out what's under it, when a nurse with hair so red she looks like a lit candle pokes her head in the door. "Turn on Channel Two!" she says. "Quick!"
I move toward the television set that is mounted on the ceiling, but she bounces across the room and grabs a remote-control device that was lying behind a large box of tissues. She quickly presses buttons until she gets the right channel.
A man and a woman are tasting spaghetti and rolling their eyes with delight.
"It's going to be after this commercial," she tells me.
"What is?"
"You!"
I sit on the edge of the bed, wondering what she means. "There weren't any television reporters here."
"Oh, they were here. They just didn't get in to see you. The office put you under tight security."
"Security!"