"Leslie What - Clinging to a Thread" - читать интересную книгу автора (What Leslie)

something jerked me back, tugged at my sleeve. I opened my eyes to the dimly lit
room and saw a little girl watching me from the underside of the pillowcase. Her
face, a mirror-image. Lena.

I grew chilled, as if a hole had opened to my world and allowed something
cold to fall through. To warm myself, I pulled a tablecloth from the box and
wrapped it around my shoulders. I pictured myself sitting cross-legged like a guru
and laughed, but then another image came to mind, one of Jews wrapped up in
prayer shawls. It was something I had not seen very often, as I had only attended a
Synagogue once, after my fatherтАЩs death.

тАЬWhat is the point of believing in God?тАЭ Ruth used to ask. тАЬWhat good did it
do me?тАЭ It was a question I could not answer.

I wrapped myself tighter inside the yellowed sheet, but it soon felt like a
shroud. Rocking forward and back, I murmured a prayer for the dead, that I did not
think I knew. тАЬYisgadol vтАЩyis-kadash shтАЩmey raba . . . тАЬ A thread from the sheet
caught against a button on my shirt and started to unravel. Without knowing why, I
brought the thread to my lips for a kiss.

MOST DAYS I awakened late with my stomach boiling, my mind stuffed full of
cotton that kept me from remembering what I was to accomplish. The dreams
always left me feeling disturbed, unsettled, and I cowered under the covers until I
was ready to shower and let the water shock me into daylight.

Last week, I went to an estate sale where I saw people gathered like vultures.
They clutched knickknacks, (chachkes, as my mother called those things that serve
no purpose other than to gather dust) as if they were guarding gold treasures.

I have never understood the value people place on antiques. Unless they come
from family, they seem worthless тАФ old wood with someone elseтАЩs memories in the
drawers. Yet this sale drew me to it. I opened the door to the estate sale, and stood
on the threshold, where I wavered, afraid of falling into another world.

The next thing I knew, I was in a hallway packed full of people, and crushed
against the wall by a stranger whose face I could not see. Panic washed through me
as I struggled to catch my breath. Shoulders pushed me, elbows pressed into my
neck, a cold hand touched my arm. All I could think of was how it must have felt to
be buried alive, to be trapped inside a mass grave alongside the dead and the
doomed. I grew frightened enough to kick the elderly man in front of me.

тАЬIтАЩm terribly sorry,тАЭ he said, kindly. тАЬI did not mean to push you.тАЭ

I made my way back toward the bedrooms where I found some Condensed
Books, a large plastic bag filled with old stockings, photograph albums and cheap
vacation souvenirs from every National Park in America. Nothing there that anyone
could want, I thought, which made me sad. What if this were my motherтАЩs house?
What if strangers pawed through RuthтАЩs belongings, sizing up her underwear,
arguing over whether a lifetimeтАЩs memories were worth a dollar or just fifty cents?
Without thinking I took the bag of stockings and bought them for ten dollars. I left