Verwandte Artikel zu Eleanor

Eleanor - Hardcover

Gurley, Jason

 
9781101903513: Eleanor
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 1101903511 ISBN 13: 9781101903513
Verlag: CROWN PUB INC, 2016

Inhaltsangabe

When a terrible accident claims the life of Eleanor’s twin, her family is left in tatters, and her reality begins to unravel, dropping her in and out of unfamiliar worlds. When she returns to her own time and place, hours and days have flown by without her. One fateful day, Eleanor leaps from a cliff...and vanishes. In a strange in-between place, she meets a mysterious stranger who understands the weight of her family history: Eleanor’s twin wasn’t the only tragic loss. And unless Eleanor can master her strange new abilities, she may not be the last.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

JASON GURLEY is the author of Greatfall, The Man Who Ended the World, and the fiction collection Deep Breath Hold Tight, among other works. His stories have appeared in the anthologies Loosed Upon the World and Help Fund My Robot Army!!! He was raised in Alaska and Texas, and now lives and writes in Portland, Oregon.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Part One

1985

Agnes

The twins are six years old—just weeks away from their shared birthday—when it happens.

Agnes rushes about the house, looking for her rain boots.

“Esme,” she huffs as she climbs the stairs. “Ellie—have either of you seen my galoshes?”

“They’re called rain boots, Mom!” Esmerelda shouts. “Galoshes are the things you wear over your shoes.”

“Those are called overshoes,” Agnes says.

“No, they’re—”

“Just—” Agnes pauses on the landing, breathing hard. “Stop. Just stop.”

Esmerelda stands in the doorway of the girls’ bedroom. She shrugs, then squeezes past her mother and walks to the bathroom.

“Where’s your sister?” Agnes asks.

“Attic,” Esmerelda says, as if it should be obvious, and she shuts the bathroom door.

Agnes raps on the door with her knuckles. “Make it fast in there. Your father’s going to be waiting at the airport for us.”

“Whatever,” Esmerelda says, her voice muffled by the door.

Agnes pounds the door sharply with her fist. “Young lady, you’re too young for ‘whatever.’ Save it until you’re thirteen. What are you doing in there?”

Esmerelda doesn’t answer. Agnes turns and leans against the wall and presses her fists against her eyes and drops her mouth open in a hushed scream. Then she straightens up, pushes off the wall, and unclenches her hands slowly, stretching her narrow fingers wide until they tingle slightly. She takes a deep breath, then exhales.

“One thing at a time,” she says softly. “One thing, one thing.”

She stands there for a moment, almost swaying on her feet, eyes still closed. Then she takes a deep, calming breath, opens her eyes, and goes to the attic door.

“Ellie!” she shouts up the stairs. “You’d better be ready!”

Eleanor

Eleanor sits alone in her father’s workshop, studying the unfinished model house. It’s dim in the attic. The rain has turned the outside world a pleasant gray. She prefers days like this to any other kind—no sunshine, just rain. At age six, her favorite word is inclement. She uses it whenever she can, having learned it from her first school closure of the year. Today can certainly be described as inclement.

But the light spilling through the circular window at the far end of the attic is too pale, too far removed from the workbench, and Eleanor cannot see the details of her father’s latest project. Reluctantly she reaches up to the lamp and switches it on. A warm orange glow floods the work space, and the small house before her casts a long brown shadow across the table.

She can see the house clearly now and can almost pick out the last part her father painted: a hardened dollop of blue paint lurks beneath one tiny windowsill. She can picture his careful, deliberate brushstroke. He would have realized that he had too much paint on the brush. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have dabbed the excess paint on the mouth of the small bottle, but he had probably been in a hurry, in which case she could imagine him stroking the exterior of the house this way, then that way, and working the extra blob of paint into the narrow crevice beneath the windowsill, where it would be mostly hidden from view, a secret that only she can share with him.

The rest of the house is well constructed. She thinks it’s probably her father’s best work yet. The floor plan is creative, different from the simpler houses that she draws during art hour at school. Her houses are single-room blocks with leaning doors and lumpy rooftops. Her father’s are split-level constructions, sometimes with elaborate windows that reach all the way from the floor to the ceiling of a room.

Her favorite days are spent in the attic with him, perched on the stool on the other side of the table. She would be careful to stay out of his light. He would pull the lamp closer and peer through its magnifying lens at the house, delicately pressing the skeletal bones of the structure into the Styrofoam foundation with tweezers.

“Why do you make little houses?” she had asked him once.

“Well,” he answered slowly, drawing the words out as he fit a miniature chimney into place, “because I’m not a very good architect.”

“What’s an architect?”

He smiled at her without looking up. “Someone who designs buildings. They say where everything goes and what it looks like.”

“Why aren’t you a good one?”

“I’m not a very good student,” he confessed. “You have to be a good student to be a good architect.”

“Oh,” Eleanor replied. Then she said, “But you make pretty houses.”

“Well, thank you, sweetheart.”

She watched him a little longer, then asked, “What’s your work instead?”

“You know the answer to that,” he said. “What does Daddy do for a job?”

Eleanor bit her lip. “Real cheese.”

“Realty,” he corrected.

“I know,” she said, then laughed. “ ‘Real cheese’ is funnier.”

She studies the unfinished house on the table now and marvels at the microscopic detail: the insect-size stairs leading to the front door, the little brass knocker on the door itself. Her favorite parts are the lawn and trees, something her father’s houses didn’t always include but which this one does. The lawn spreads wide around the roofless home, rolling with little hills and crunchy vegetation. The driveway is empty, but a perfect mailbox stands at the end of it.

Down the attic stairs, the second-floor door bangs open. Eleanor jumps, jostling the diminutive house in her hands.

Her mother calls upstairs. “Ellie! You’d better be ready!”

“I’m ready, Mom!” she shouts back.

“Good.”

Eleanor hears the door creak as Agnes begins to close it again, but then the sound stops.

“You shouldn’t be up there without your father,” her mother adds. “Come on down now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Eleanor jumps down from the stool. It rocks under her bottom, and she takes a moment to steady it before heading downstairs.

That’s when she notices the mailbox, its post snapped clean in half.

Agnes

The attic door opens a little more, and Eleanor comes out, looking sheepish.

“You know your dad wouldn’t like you being up there alone,” Agnes says.

Eleanor nods meekly and stares at the floor. “Yes, ma’am.”

“No time for moping,” Agnes says. “I can’t find my galoshes.”

“Your rain boots?” Eleanor asks. “They’re by the back door.”

Agnes shifts her jaw and goes into her thoughts, then snaps her fingers. “That’s right—I was covering the petunias.”

Eleanor turns toward her room, but Agnes puts a hand on her shoulder.

“No goofing off,” she says to her daughter. “I need you both downstairs. We’re late.”

Paul will return from Boca Raton in just under two hours. He had complained to Agnes on the phone last night that he’d seen only the inside of a Holiday Inn—his room and the banquet hall where the realty seminar was being held—for six days straight. He had put postcards in the...

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Verlag
CROWN PUB INC
Erscheinungsdatum
2016
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
1101903511
ISBN 13 
9781101903513
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
384
Kontakt zum Hersteller
CROWN
https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/

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