Читать книгу Miss Lamp - Christopher Ewart - Страница 17

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Breathing Is Good for You.

In Room 32, Miss Lamp’s finger is a clean, cold beet. The lights in the bathroom, off. The faucet doesn’t turn all the way to the right, so it hisses to her close ear. Warm porcelain. It’s best to let her finger breathe. This technique is a favourite of Abby’s. Mother knows best.

Miss Lamp recalls leaving the Florida snow in that rust-brown Ford Pinto, her mother at the wheel and Grandma smelling up the back seat, heading north along the grooved white concrete of Interstate 75.

A large orange bug with dragon wings popped on the windshield. A smear of red and yellow. Young Young Miss Lamp dabbed her dented finger on her purple Toughskin jeans. She had scooped up some Florida beach into her pocket before they left. A convenient band-aid.

Abby pressed knuckles to the wheel. ‘Let it breathe, dear, let the finger breathe for a while – at least until we get home. And don’t touch!’

‘Why, Mom?’

‘The air allows your finger to heal more quickly, dear. You want your finger to heal, don’t you?’

Young Young Miss Lamp wasn’t sure her finger could breathe. The breeze coming from the air vents was as cold as snow and her finger breathed goosebumps all up her arms.

Grandma snored to the squeak of windshield wipers.

In and out. In and out.

So Miss Lamp lets her wound breathe. Same finger.

As the sun flattens to orange, she waits for her tomato soup and grilled cheese, waits for a bold, crisp dill pickle wet in her mouth. It isn’t Saturday, and she doesn’t have her guitar, so she can indulge.

Miss Lamp doesn’t care for grilled cheese without a dill pickle.