Read Online The Ghost of Hannah Mendes by Naomi Ragen - Free Book Online Page B

planet’s (and her own) survival, but thought better of it. The young were so full of love for their own ideas, so oblivious to contradiction. They were sure no idea they’d thought of could possibly have been tried or thought of before. “You know, the rabbi of our temple once remarked that before the Flood all people were vegetarians and no one was allowed to kill and eat animals.”
    “Really?” Suzanne said skeptically.
    “I remember it distinctly.”
    “But the Bible is so full of animal sacrifices, meat-eating…”
    “Well, I’m not the one to ask. I only remembered that little bit. Is it far, your Buddhist temple?”
    “No. Just around the corner. Wait here a minute and I’ll throw some clothes on.”
    Five minutes later she was back, looking—Catherine admitted, amazed—more beautiful than ever, despite the strange outfit. The skirt, a swirl of blue Indian cotton, touched her ankles, and the top clung to her breasts like a dancer’s leotard. And the silver jewelry! Where in heaven’s name was that from? Calcutta? Afghanistan? “Come, child, help me get up. I’m feeling a little weary.”
    She was light, almost weightless, Suzanne thought, comparing her grandmother’s white, clearly veined, and almost transparent skin to her own rosy, tanned arm. A tenderness and a strange feeling that was akin to grief welled up inside her as their hands touched.
    She fought it.

5
    A wind, gentle and warm enough to make them forget to button their coats, flapped their clothes against them as they strolled down Mulberry Street, creating a soft murmur that took the place of conversation.
    Suzanne walked slowly, wondering at each step if she should turn back. But the thought of a carte blanche lunch was too tempting to pass up. She seldom ate out these days. Money was tight, now more than ever. Certain grants hadn’t come through, and she and all the other counselors at the rape-crisis center had agreed to take a 30 percent pay cut rather than close down or fire staff.
    Besides, there wasn’t a scrap of food in the house. And she was hungry.
    Still, the battle scars from the recent war with the family throbbed, threatening to rupture and bleed anew at the smallest jarring motion. If this was going to be yet another family onslaught—she brooded—another sea of whiny mea culpas and justified self-pity cushioned in vague threats, well, she just wouldn’t stand for it, free lunch or no free lunch. There was no way she was going to sit back and listen to that crap. No way.
    Did they even realize, she wondered, how thoroughly they’d destroyed her best (her only?) real chance for happiness? Or how deeply she sometimes despised them all? If it hadn’t been for that little private chat among her mother, Kenny, and Renaldo a few months back, Renaldo would be up in her apartment right now, laughing and singing Spanish love songs, his strong brown arms splashing color magically over blank white canvases, instead of…
    Her eyes misted.
    Renaldo.
    She glanced at her grandmother, her throat tightening, her eyes unfriendly. She had no proof, of course—Gran had been too savvy to broach the subject with her personally—but she didn’t doubt for a second that her grandmother had been at least as guilty as the others for what had happened. Direct confrontation was seldom her style. She was The Matriarch, puller of strings.
    It wasn’t too late to send her packing.
    She considered it, glancing at her malevolently.
    But somehow, her grandmother’s delicate, slightly bent frame with its silver crown did not play well as the proud, formidable opponent who had so infuriated her only a few months before. She felt her anger drain as she walked on, brooding.
    Catherine didn’t notice her silence, all her attention focused on hiding her own growing panic. Her brave and foolish foray into Central Park notwithstanding, her view of New York remained unchanged: It was a safari park, a place to be passed through in a closed, moving