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Show Woodworth/248 changing their tune for a future. There is a shout, and a splash at the Grayson's pool. It seems impossible that there could even be anyone out there, out in the air that is smelling like the first bus ride back to school when the summer is over, when you don't even have your books yet. Impossible that skin can be wet, or that sun and breeze can dry your hair. "Won4t she?" Megan asks. "Of course," Rachael answers immediately. Of course, because Rachael says so. Of course, because when she remembers her mother, it is only as a shadow, coming through a half-opened door, a face that's a montage of messy colors like some child's finger painting. She wants to hear of course. That only. "Make Megan's breakfast," her mother said, her voice furry at the edges. Then, clearly, plaintively, "Please." She turned her head and vomited on her shoulder. The attendants, dressed in jeans and white tops, fumbled quickly, making efficient noises. They wheeled her out the front door, and Ned followed, » looked around the hallway as if looking for a useful medical remedy. He picked up Ruth's purse. "I'll call," he said as he closed the door behind him. The real enemy is the telephone. That solid black instrument that calls you when you don't want to answer, talks to you when you don't want to listen. You can't see facial expressions, or distinguish tones. The silences are fewer, and threatening. She looks down at her coffee. Funny how black has so many colors to it, so complex for such a simple statement. Black. "I think it was an accident," fAegan says. "Like Jake. I don't Lh^iJi -ulu. mei-••'. ** Jim ' herself any more than Jake did." |
