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

BUT SHE was dying. Ellen sat beside her bed, wiping her fever-hot body with the
wet cloth. Had Rebecca’s last moments been full of terror and pain? Had she bled to
death, trapped under fallen ceilings and walls, or had she burned, screaming?
Outside, the wind hurled itself inland, slamming against the house with the Quake’s
absorbed power, shaking it to its foundations. Ellen rinsed the cloth. It was warm
with the woman’s heat. She didn’t look like Beth. She had dark hair and an olive tint
to her skin. The lantern cast long shadows across the floor and something creaked in
the main room. Rebecca’s ghost?

Need shapes our lives, Ellen thought dully. Need for food, for attention, for
power. The need for love. That’s the foundation, the rock on which we build
everything. “How can I live without Rebecca?” she whispered.

The woman’s eyelids twitched. “Joseph?” she whispered. “Have to get back .
. . Love . . . don’t worry . . . “ The feeble words fluttered to silence.

Joseph? Ellen wiped the woman’s forehead. Beth’s father? Beth hadn’t
mentioned a Joseph or a father.
 Ellen woke to gray dawn light and the morning sounds of surf. Her head was
pillowed on the sick woman’s thigh and the wash cloth made a damp spot on the
quilt. Afraid, Ellen jerked upright.

“Hello,” Laura Sorenson whispered.

Still alive! “Good morning.” Guilty and relieved, Ellen stifled a yawn. “I didn’t
mean to fall asleep. How are you feeling?”

“Tired. What . . . happened?”

“You’re in my house. You’ve been sick.” Ellen touched the woman’s
forehead. No fever. “Beth’s here, too, and she’s fine. Your daughter’s a brave girl.”

“Beth? I . . . don’t have a daughter.” She clutched weakly at the sheet. “Why
did you call me Laura? That’s not . . . my name.”

“Just take it easy.” Ellen patted Laura’s shoulder, hiding dismay. “You had a
high fever.”

“Oh.” Fear flickered in the woman’s dark eyes. “Did I hit my head? What day
is this? I feel as if . . . I’ve been dreaming for a long time.”

“You were just sick,” Ellen murmured. “It’s March 25. Don’t worry about it
now. I’ll get you some water, or would you rather have some orange juice?”

“March?” the woman whispered brokenly. “It can’t be. Why can’t I
remember!”

In the kitchen, Ellen spooned orange crystals into a glass from a white can,
trying to recall the effects of a prolonged high fever. Seizures, she remembered, but
Laura hadn’t gone into convulsions. Amnesia? Ellen shook her head, stirred the fake