"Mary Rosenblum - California Dreaming" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rosenblum Mary)

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. EllenтАЩs 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 couldnтАЩt
call. As long as Ellen believed this тАФ as long as she really тАФ believed тАФ 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 wasnтАЩt quite true. She had passed through childhood without Rebecca,
had only met her in college. Rebecca had been struggling through art-majorsтАЩ bio, as
it was called. Ellen had helped her, because she was a bio major and RebeccaтАЩs
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. тАЬComing!тАЭ Ellen flung
the door open.
 тАЬMomтАЩs sick.тАЭ A girl stared up at her, dirty-faced, tousle-headed; a stranger.
тАЬPlease come.тАЭ

Not Rebecca. тАЬWho are you?тАЭ Ellen said numbly. тАЬWhere did you come
from?тАЭ

тАЬIтАЩm Beth. Our car ran out of gas and we got lost. Please hurry.тАЭ

Ellen blinked at the girl. Eleven? Twelve? Gawky and blonde, but you noticed