"M. Rickert - Anyway" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rickert Mary)

She stares straight ahead. Actually, staring isn't quite the right description. The aides
tell me that she is not blind, but the expression in her eyes is that of a blind woman.
Exasperated, I begin to rearrange the untouched things on her dresser: a little vase
with a dried flower in it; some photographs of her and dad, me and Robbie; a
hairbrush. Without giving it much thought, I pick up the shoebox. "Remember
these," I say, lifting the lid. I shake the box under her face. I pick up one of the
stones. "Remember?"

I pry open her mouth. She resists, for some reason, but I pry her lips and teeth
apart and shove the stone in, banging it against the plate of her false teeth. She
stares straight ahead but makes a funny noise. I keep her mouth open and,
practically sitting now, almost on the arm of the chair, grab a handful of stones and
begin shoving them into her mouth. Her arms flap up, she jerks her head. "Come
on," I say, "you remember, don't you?"

Wildly, her eyes roll, until finally they lock on mine, a faint flicker of recognition, and I
am tackled from behind, pulled away from her. There's a flurry of white pant cuffs
near my face, and one white shoe comes dangerously close to stepping on me.

"Jesus Christ, they're stones. They're stones."

"Well, get them out."

"Those are my stones," I say, pushing against the floor. A hand presses my back,
holding me down.

"Just stay there," says a voice I recognize as belonging to my favorite nurse, Anna
Vinn.

Later, in her office, Anna says, "We're not going to press charges. But you need to
stay away for a while. And you should consider some kind of counseling."

She hands me the shoebox.

"I'm sure I was trying to get the stones out of her mouth."

She shakes her head. "Are you going to be okay? Driving home?"

"Of course," I say, unintentionally shaking the shoebox. "I'm fine."

When I get outside I take a deep breath of the fresh air. It is a cold, gray day, but I
am immediately struck by the beauty of it, the beauty of the gray clouds, the beauty
of the blackbirds arcing across the sky, the beauty of the air on my face and neck. I
think: I cannot save him. Then I see a familiar-looking man. "Excuse me?" I say. He
continues, head bent, shoulders hunched, toward the nursing home. "Excuse me?"

He stops and turns, slightly distracted, perhaps skeptical, as if worried I might ask
for spare change.