The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,46

Gregory says. He grabs her arm and wrenches it straight, exposing the socket of flesh inside her elbow. Turning it to make sure I can see the marks. “You call this place a sanctuary, Mother? From what, the cops? I knew the standards were pretty low here, but I didn’t realize the liberties extended to letting your clients shoot up.”

The hard, small eyes of Mother Zacchaeus narrow, but she doesn’t answer back.

“I should call the cops,” he says. “They’d run you out on a rail.”

I put a hand on his shoulder. “Gregory.”

“What?”

“You’re just making things worse. Move out of the way.”

Reluctantly, he trades places with me. I kneel beside the mattress, taking one of Sam’s hands in my own. Her palm feels hot and clammy. She closes her eyes again.

“Sam, listen to me,” I say. “You need to go home. Your mother is waiting for you, she loves you, and everything will be all right.”

“She doesn’t,” Sam mutters. “She hates me.”

“Nobody hates you, especially not your mother. She’s worried sick about you, Sam. So is Greg. He’s here to take you home.”

Mother Zacchaeus says, “Nobody takin’ this girl nowhere.”

I ignore her. “Listen to me. You can’t stay here, not like this. You know what’ll happen just as much as I do.”

Her head lolls back, but I can tell she’s listening. On some level, no matter what’s swirling in her veins right now, the girl can hear my voice. As I continue to cajole her, stroking her hand in a soothing rhythm, Gregory and Mother Zacchaeus step toward the window for a whispered argument.

“Where’d she get the drugs?” he asks. “Did you hook her up? Is that how you make your money, supplying the girls you keep locked up in here?”

“She ain’t got no money when she come in here.”

“Then how’d she score, answer me that?”

“How you think a girl like that pays when she got no money, huh? How you think?”

I try to tune them out, pulling Sam into my arms, pressing her flushed, sweaty face against my shoulder. It’s no use. Their voices grow louder and the girl starts pushing away.

“Will the two of you shut up?” I ask, wheeling on them.

For a moment, they both stand frozen. Then Mother Zacchaeus stomps past me into the hallway, her face rigid but trembling with rage. She continues down the hall, her footsteps carrying. Gregory cups his hands over his mouth.

“What do we do now?” he asks.

“This girl’s out of it. I don’t think we’re gonna get through to her. Not now. Not today.”

“We have to.”

“Just leave me alone,” Sam moans.

We pause, staring at each other.

“Okay, fine.” Gregory starts pacing. “All right. Let me think.” I’m about to say something when he interrupts. “Tell you what, Eliza. You’re probably right. Let me talk to her alone for a second, though. Just to be sure. In the meantime, you’d better go see what the nun is up to. I don’t want her calling the cops on us. Go ahead, it’ll be all right. Tell her you want to take the official tour or something. Keep her distracted so she doesn’t cause any trouble.”

“You know, if you’d just be a little more decent with people—”

“I know, I know. I just can’t stand these petty tyrant types. People like that know how to push my buttons. But you’ll smooth everything over, Liz. Pretty please?”

I leave him with Sam and go in search of Mother Zacchaeus. As I descend the first flight of stairs, I can hear her steps a level down, slow and deliberate, like she’s afraid of stumbling. When I catch up to her, she’s crossing the main room to the front door, reaching for the metal bar against the wall.

Oh dear.

Irrational fear: I imagine her turning and clubbing me, the latent violence of our surroundings suddenly unleashing itself on my body. Broken bones. Coughing up blood.

But when she does turn, rod in hand, my presence there startles her. She jumps. The metal bar clangs to the floor. She clamps her hand down on the enamel pins dotting her chest.

“You scared me,” she wheezes.

“You kind of scared me too,” I say, nodding toward the rod.

She picks it up and leans it carefully against the wall, catching her breath. “You don’t understand,” she says. “Good Christian woman like you. What a good Christian woman doing in a place like this, huh?”

“Don’t say that. What about you? You’re a nun.”

She touches the spray-painted cross dangling from her neck, as if to confirm that she is