One Door From Heaven

injections.
        In ordinary times-or as ordinary as any time could be aboard the Fair Wind-Leilani would have been patient with her mother, would have assumed the bitter role always expected of her in these dramas, providing sympathy and reassurance and attentive concern, drawing out the woman's anguish as a poultice draws upon a wound. But this moment was extraordinary, for lost hope had been restored by means fantastic and perhaps even mystical; therefore, she dared not squander this chance by being once more entangled either by her mother's emotional demands or by her own yearning for a mother-daughter reconciliation that could never happen.
        Leilani didn't sit on the bed, but remained standing, didn't offer commiseration, but said, "What do you want? What do you need? What can I get for you?" She kept repeating these simple questions as Sinsemilla wallowed in self-pity and in perceived victimization. "What do you need? What can I get for you?" She kept her tone of voice cool, and she persisted, because she knew that in the end no amount of sympathy or attentive concern would in fact bring peace to her mother and that Sinsemilla would, as always, finally turn for solace to her drugs. "What do you need? What can I get for you?"
        Persistence paid off when Sinsemilla-still crying, but trading anger for a good pout-slumped back against the pillows, head hung, and said, "My numbies. Need my numbies. Took some stuff already, but wasn't numbies. Weirded me. Must've been bad shit. Supposed to take me after Alice down the rabbit hole, but it weirded me into some snake hole instead."
        "What numbies do you want? Where are they?"
        Her mother pointed toward the built-in dresser. "Bottom drawer. Blue bottle. Numbies to chase the head snakes out."
        Leilani found the pills. "How many do you want? One? Two? Ten?"
        "One numbie now. One for later. Later's gonna come. Mommy's got a bad day goin', Lani. Snaky day goin' here. You don't know trouble till you've been your mommy."
        A bottle of vanilla-flavored soy milk stood on the nightstand.
        Sinsemilla sat up and used the milk to chase the first pill. She put the second on the nightstand with the bottle.
        "Do you want anything else?" Leilani asked.
        "A new book."
        "He'll buy you one."
        "Not that damn book."
        "No. Something else."
        "Some book makes sense."
        "Ail right.";;
        "Not one of your stupid pigmen books."
        "No. Not one of them."
        "You'll get stupid reading those stupid books."
        "I won't read them anymore."
        "You can't afford to be ugly and stupid."
        "No. No, I can't."
        "You've got to face up to bein' screwed up."
        "I will. I'll face up to it."
        "Ah, shit, leave me alone. Go read your stupid book. What does it matter? Nothing matters anyway." Sinsemilla rolled onto her side and drew her knees up in the fetal position.
        Leilani hesitated, wondering if this might be the last time that she saw her mother. After what she had endured, after growing all these grim years in the harsh desert of Sinsemilla, she should have felt nothing less than relief, if not joy. But it wasn't easy to cut yourself loose of what few roots still held you down, even if they were rotten. The prospect of freedom thrilled her, but life as a tumbleweed, blown here and there and to oblivion by the capricious winds of fate, wasn't a much better future than this.
        Leilani murmured too softly for her mother to hear, "Who will take care of you?"
        She had never imagined that such a concern would cross her mind when the longed-for chance to escape at last arrived. How peculiar that so many years of cruelty had not hardened Leilani's heart, as she had so long believed to be the case, but proved now to have made it tender, leaving her capable of compassion even for this pitiable beast. Her throat thickened with something not quite grief, and her chest tightened in a Gordian knot of pain the causes of which were so complex that she would need a long, long time to untie it.
        She retreated from the bedroom. Into the bath. Into the galley.
        Holding her breath. Expecting Curtis and Polly to be gone.
        They were waiting. And the dog, tail whisking the floor.

Chapter 72
        
        MICKY HAD NOT DRIVEN more than sixteen hundred miles just to die. She could have died at home with a