Gathering Lies. Meg O'Brien
Читать онлайн книгу.
have made a point of enjoying my “final meal.”
Jane would echo my thoughts. “If only I had known…” she would say numbly, over and over—though even she knew it was bad form to write that in a novel.
We were in the living room of the farmhouse when it happened—Grace, Amelia, Dana and myself. Jane had gone back to her cottage, and Kim Stratton hadn’t shown up at all. Timothea and Lucy were in the kitchen, cleaning up.
As was usual after dinner, we had gathered in comfortable chairs and sofas before the huge stone fireplace. A large bouquet of freshly cut flowers filled the hollow of the fireplace rather than wood, a nod to the overly warm weather that had fallen over the San Juans this day.
All four of us were at varying stages in our writing lives. Dana was working on her nonfiction book about natural healing, Amelia on a new poetry collection, and Grace…Grace never did say. The only thing I knew at this point was that she must have had a strong reason to come to this isolated island of few inhabitants and very little communication with the outside world. Esme was owned by Timmy and two of the other home owners on the island. Electricity came by way of generators, and water by wells. There was one battery-operated radio in the Thornberry office, and one cell phone serviced through a tower on Orcas. We had been asked to leave our own cell phones behind, and Timmy believed that she and the staff should live as simple a life as the residents here.
As for weather, it could get wild here even in the spring, with gale-force winds and unending storms. No one came to Esme without a good reason.
That night, however, had started out peacefully enough. Through French doors we could see a setting sun. A family of deer munched on grass on the lawn. Dana smiled and said, “Jane was right. This really is heaven.”
Amelia snorted. “Heaven, is it? Well, if you run across God, ask him how we’re supposed to keep those bloody little woodstoves going in the cottages. Someday I’d like to write an entire ten-line poem before the damn thing goes out.”
Dana sent a grin to me, and I turned to Amelia. “You sound like you don’t like it here.”
Amelia folded her arms across ample breasts. “I didn’t say that, did I?”
I smiled. “No, you didn’t say that.”
“Well, don’t go putting words in my mouth.”
Amelia stared into the fireplace as if flames flickered there.
Perhaps Dana was right, I thought. Old trauma—murders, even—must be hanging around Thornberry. Otherwise, why were so many people here in a bad temper?
Tonight was worse than ever. There was something in the air, and it was affecting everyone. Kim Stratton, I thought, knew what she was doing, hiding out at night. From now on, I vowed, I would do that, too.
“Well, I guess I’ll get started,” Amelia said, pulling a thin sheaf of white paper from a needlepoint briefcase.
I stifled a sigh. Here we go again. More cutoff breasts and blood gushing from women’s vaginas into male-dominated ground. God save me from the political ones.
Amelia’s latest was indeed another politically driven, and—to give it credit—probably award-winning piece. I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was listening, while in truth I was working on my own book in my head.
I felt a jolt, and my eyes flew open.
“Did anybody else feel that?” Grace asked.
Amelia looked up from her paper and frowned. “Feel what?”
Grace rubbed the back of her neck. “I don’t know…I thought I felt something.”
“You did,” I confirmed. “I felt it, too.”
“Probably a gust of wind,” Dana added. “Coming from the kitchen. Lucy’s got the door open back there.”
Amelia returned to her reading.
“Damn, there it goes again!” Grace jumped to her feet.
Her words were barely out before the room shook violently.
“Earthquake!” Dana cried, her mouth forming a startled O. She grabbed the sides of her heavy armchair as it slid like dollhouse furniture along the hard-wood floor, striking the fireplace and throwing Dana into the hard stone facing. She screamed. Grace staggered and fell several feet across the room, hitting a coffee table with her knees and falling into a bookcase. Blood spurted from her nose. The bookcase pitched forward, burying her beneath it. I rose and stumbled for balance, grabbing Amelia, who looked so pale I thought she might faint. There was nowhere to go, however. Nowhere to hide.
All around us, windows shattered. Glass rained down. The tiny panes of the French doors were sharp slivers. I felt a stab on my cheek as figurines, now projectiles, flew from the fireplace mantel and shelves. Mini-blinds rattled and broke, falling to the floor with a clatter. The deep rolling motion went on and on, seemingly forever, and the piercing screech of Thornberry’s house alarm filled the night.
When the rolling and pitching was over, we were all in various positions on the floor. Dana lay against the hearth, blood dripping from her arm. Grace, still buried by the bookcase, groaned, but pushed at its weight and crawled out from under. Her nose was bleeding, and Amelia, next to me, looked dazed, her mouth drooping open.
I struggled to my feet, holding onto an end table. Heading across the room to Dana, I felt the warmth of blood trickling down my cheek. The living room was cluttered with debris; plaster had fallen from the ceiling, and glass crackled under my feet as I gingerly moved first one heavy beam, then another that had fallen from the ceiling. Sliding on a pile of books that had landed in the middle of the floor, I fell to a knee and yelped as a sliver of glass cut through my skin. Red flowed through my khaki pants.
Kneeling cautiously next to Dana, I checked her injured arm. The cut was four inches long and covered with plaster dust. That helped to staunch the bleeding, but the dirt and dust of years that had fallen with it weren’t good news.
“It doesn’t look too bad,” Dana said shakily, wincing at my light touch. “I think we lucked out. Sarah, your face is cut.”
Grace spoke from behind us, her tone sharp. “We can’t stay in here. There’ll be aftershocks.”
“Dana’s arm has to be cleaned,” I said, helping her up, then repeated, “It needs to be cleaned.”
I was on automatic, operating out of shock as my mind searched frantically to remember what I’d learned in all the earthquake preparedness meetings at the Justice building. I knew we had to get out of the house, but nothing made sense at the moment except to clean Dana’s wound. The fact that my own face was bleeding had no effect on me whatsoever.
“You, too, Grace,” I said. “Your nose is bleeding.”
Holding Dana’s good arm, I began to move cautiously with her over the shattered glass toward the downstairs bathroom. The ground started to pitch again.
“Damn it, we’ll be buried alive in here!” Grace yelled, grabbing Amelia and running for the front door.
Dana and I swung around toward the door, but none of us made it. The aftershock felt even more violent than the first tremor, and this time we were thrown to the floor right where we stood. A board with nails in it barely missed my chin. Dana cried out, her face twisting in pain.
Screams issued from the kitchen.
“Timmy!” Amelia cried. “She’s hurt!”
The center stairway from foyer to the upstairs level came crashing down, the spokes below the banister popping free and shooting in every direction like a bundle of Lincoln Logs hurled by an angry child.
Amelia’s voice rose to an hysterical pitch. “Timmy! I’m coming!” She began to crawl toward the rubble of stairs, now a huge pile that rose halfway to the second floor.
“No!” Grace yelled, pulling her back just in