The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,53
that’s that,” Holly says.
“The good thing is, she’s going home. When I tried to convince her before, she didn’t want to go.”
Jed shakes his head, still trying to process everything. “I wonder what Dad said to her.”
“I guess we won’t get a chance to ask.”
“So,” Deedee says. “Let me get this straight. You couldn’t get her to go home. She wanted to stay in some crack house downtown? And she talks to Rick for five minutes and he turns her completely around?”
“It’s not a crack house—”
But she isn’t listening. “His first miracle,” she says to Roy. “And this is only the first week. Wait and see, I tell you. Wait and see.”
They head back to the big house.
“Now, she’s a hoot,” Holly says. “‘His first miracle.’ And can you believe that painting? Are you going to hang it up over your bed?”
I see her lips moving, but I don’t hear what she says. There’s a high-pitched noise in my ear, a wiry tremolo. And like Rick looking around the kitchen to make sure he wasn’t the only one who could see the painting, I glance at Jed and Holly, amazed that they can’t hear the sound.
It’s like Kathie Shaw’s tinnitus, canceling out every other sound. A throbbing whine you were never meant to hear but cannot ignore.
chapter 10
A Night Visitor
Every morning a clump of fresh flowers lies at Rick’s threshold, partly obscured under the falling leaves. I’m not sure where Deedee’s picking them. Maybe she drops in on the florist each afternoon during her break from painting. Since the birthday party, we don’t see her as much. According to Roy, she spends most of her time working on the mural.
“It’s extraordinary the way she goes at it,” he tells me. “The priest had the bishop over for a look, and he seemed almost jealous that she wasn’t doing her mural for the cathedral. You really should go by and see it.”
But I haven’t visited the parish church. Why should I? I get an eyeful every time I climb the stairs. Without even asking permission, Eli drove a nail dead center in the upstairs landing and hung Deedee’s portrait of his sainted father. Hauling clean laundry upstairs, I keep imagining myself tripping and falling backward. Landing at the foot of the stairs, my legs twisted at odd angles, the painted Rick staring down at me, thinking, Serves you right.
Days have passed and I still haven’t confronted Eli about the marijuana. I make a point of sniffing him when he comes home. So far, nothing. Maybe Gregory got it wrong? I don’t think so. More likely, Eli knows his uncle recognized the smell. He’s taking more precautions now. This could be all in my head, but I imagine him on his guard around me, waiting for the moment I bring the subject up, ready with counterarguments.
So I’m biding my time, hoping to catch him off guard.
While cooking or doing dishes, washing and folding clothes, I remember the flat expression on Sam’s face when she emerged from the shed. Resignation, I guess. What did Rick say to her? I imagine him giving some kind of Scared Straight speech, taking advantage of her disorientation. If life at Mission Up wasn’t enough to scare her straight, though, how could Rick manage the job? Try as I might, I can’t visualize that scene.
I’ve called Gregory several times to check on the girl’s progress back home. After the joyous, tearful reunion—most of the emotion coming from her mother—Greg managed to get her into a drug counseling program. But she’s depressed, he says, rarely leaving the house. She hasn’t returned to class and probably won’t anytime soon. I suppose Rick’s miracle only went so far. From the description, it sounds like Sam is anything but healed.
“Is that how you want to end up?” In my imagination, I confront Eli with the question. And in my imagination, he breaks down and renounces pot in perpetuity.
I keep the key to Stacy’s beach house on my nightstand. I’m still sleeping on my side of the bed. If I’m careful, I can turn the covers back and get a good night’s sleep without disturbing the tucked-in side where my husband used to sleep.
“You can’t drop out,” Holly says. “You can’t put your whole life on hold.”
The phone feels warm in my hand, we’ve been talking so long. Talking in circles, rehashing the same themes.
“How am I dropping out?”
“What about last night? You missed the makeup party.”