"Rosenblum-CaliforniaDreamer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rosenbaum Benjamin)

collages leaned against the wall. Rebecca's workspace. Rebecca's life. The room
looked . . . unfamiliar. The Quake had changed everything, had charged the air
with something like electricity. Angles and familiar lines looked sharp and
strange and new, as if the unleashed force had transformed flowerpots and people
and houses on some subtle, molecular scale.

Ellen set the bundled mail down on the stained formica of the kitchen counter
and worked one of the rubber bands loose. Bank statements. Mail order
catalogues, bright with spring dresses and shoes. A sale flyer from an art
supply dealer. The second rubber band snapped as Ellen slid her fingers beneath
it. The unexpected sting filled her eyes with tears. They spilled over and ran
down her cheeks. She sobbed once, clutching the stupid, useless envelopes,
fighting the tide that would rise up if she let it, and sweep her away.

Mail. It meant that Rebecca was dead. Ellen's tears made round, wrinkled spots
on a glossy sportswear catalogue. All these endless weeks, she had told herself
that Rebecca had survived, had cowered in the safety of some doorway or park
while San Francisco dissolved in rubble and flame. She had told herself that
Rebecca was in some schoolhouse shelter, frantic with worry because she couldn't
call. As long as Ellen believed this -- as long as she really -- believed --
then, Rebecca was alive.

How could you believe in a miracle, with a sportswear catalogue in your hands?

I have never lived without Rebecca, Ellen thought in terror.

That wasn't quite true. She had passed through childhood without Rebecca, had
only met her in college. Rebecca had been struggling through art-majors' bio, as
it was called. Ellen had helped her, because she was a bio major and Rebecca's
outraged frustration made her laugh. You need someone to take care of you, Ellen
had said lightly. They had moved in together a month later. Fifteen years ago.
Ellen looked up at the cupboard above the sink.

The bottle of pills was up there, on the top shelf behind the glasses, with the
aspirin and antacids. Sleeping pills, prescribed for Rebecca years ago, after
she hurt her knee skiing. Would Ellen die if she took them all? She had a hard
time swallowing capsules. They would stick to the back of her throat; hard,
gelatinous lumps of oblivion. She would have to drink glasses of water to get
them down.

Someone knocked on the door.

Rebecca? The traitorous rush of hope made her dizzy. "Coming!" Ellen flung the
door open.

"Mom's sick." A girl stared up at her, dirty-faced, tousle-headed; a stranger.
"Please come."

Not Rebecca. "Who are you?" Ellen said numbly. "Where did you come from?"