The Impossible Lives Of Greta Wells - Plot & Excerpts
The room was soft and calm, as if awaiting me, and a crack in the window let in a little cold air that turned the pages of a bedside book, one after another, at the speed a ghost might read them. Bells and salesmen and the scent of chestnuts. Italian voices. The smell of gaslight and coal-fire stoves. I was back. In the kitchen, to my surprise, I found my aunt rummaging in the icebox. “Good morning,” I said. “I’m back. Are you making me breakfast?” She was in her white kimono and looked like she needed a brandy. “It’s for me,” she said, running a hand through her unkempt hair. “I’m out of milk. So are you it looks like, and I don’t blame the maid I blame the mistress.” She turned back to the icebox. I put my hands in my gown pockets. Was she, in fact, the same solid Ruth I had known my whole life? Because looking at her, leaning into the icebox, I could see little differences I had not noticed before. For instance: She was noticeably thinner; she could hardly keep a bracelet on her wrist.
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