Odd Thomas

you won't leave me alone, if you won't stop forever sucking and sucking on me, draining me like a leech, then for God's sake pull the trigger, give me some peace."
        Into my mind's eye came the wound in Robertson's chest, as it had plagued me for nearly twelve hours.
        I tried to drown that insistent image in the swamp of memory from which it had risen. It is a deep swamp, filled with much that stubbornly will not remain submerged.
        Suddenly I realized that this was why I had come here: to force my mother to enact the hateful ritual of threatened suicide that was at the core of our relationship, to be confronted with the sight of a pistol pressed to her breast, to turn away as I always do, to hear her command my attention… and then, sickened and trembling, to find the nerve to look.
        The previous night, in my bathroom, I hadn't been strong enough to examine Robertson's chest wound.
        At the time, I'd sensed that something was strange about it, that something might be learned from it. Yet, nauseated, I had averted my eyes and rebuttoned his shirt.
        Thrusting the pistol toward me, grip-first, my mother angrily insisted, "Come on, you ungrateful shit, take it, take it, shoot me and get it over with or leave me alone!"
        Eleven-thirty-five, according to my wristwatch.
        Her voice had grown as vicious and demented as ever it gets: "I dreamed and dreamed that you would be born dead."
        Shakily, I rose to my feet and carefully descended the porch steps.
        Behind me, she wielded the knife of alienation as only she can cut with it: "The whole time I carried you, I thought you were dead inside me, dead and rotting."
        The sun, nurturing mother of the earth, poured a scalding milk upon the day, boiling some of the blue from the sky and leaving the heavens faded. Even the oak shadows now throbbed with heat, and as I walked away from my mother, I was so hot with shame that I would not have been surprised if the grass had burst into fire under my feet.
        "Dead inside me," she repeated. "Month after unending month, I felt your rotting fetus festering in my belly, spreading poison through my body."
        At the corner of the house I stopped, turned, and looked at her for what I suspected might be the last time.
        She had descended the steps but had not followed me. Her right arm hung slackly at her side, the gun aimed at the ground.
        I had not asked to be born. Only to be loved.
        "I have nothing to give," she said. "Do you hear me? Nothing, nothing. You poisoned me, you filled me with pus and dead-baby rot, and I'm ruined now."
        Turning my back on her for what felt like forever, I hurried along the side of the house toward the street.
        Given my heritage and the ordeal of my childhood, I sometimes wonder why I myself am not insane. Maybe I am.
        

CHAPTER 54
        
        DRIVING FASTER THAN THE LAW ALLOWED TO the outskirts of Pico Mundo, I tried but failed to banish from my mind all thoughts of my mother's mother, Granny Sugars.
        My mother and my grandmother exist in widely separated kingdoms of my mind, in sovereign nations of memory that have no trade with each other. Because I loved Pearl Sugars, I had always been loath to think of her in context with her demented daughter.
        Considering them together raised terrible questions to which I had long resisted seeking answers.
        Pearl Sugars knew that her daughter was mentally unstable, if not unbalanced, and that she had gone off medication at eighteen. She must have known, as well, that pregnancy and the responsibility of child-rearing would stress my fragile mother to the breaking point.
        Yet she did not interfere on my behalf.
        For one thing, she feared her daughter. I had seen evidence of this on numerous occasions. My mother's abrupt mood swings and hot temper cowed my grandmother even though she was not intimidated by anyone else and would not hesitate to take a swing at a threatening man twice her size.
        Besides, Pearl Sugars liked her rootless life too much to settle down and raise a grandchild. Wanderlust, the lure of rich card games in fabled cities - Las Vegas, Reno, Phoenix, Albuquerque, Dallas, San Antonio, New Orleans, Memphis - a need for adventure and excitement kept her away from Pico Mundo more than half the year.
        In her defense, Granny Sugars could not have imagined