Stealing Heaven (25 page)

to me. "You hold on to it."

I have. I am. I keep it by the window next to the plant I bought
last week. I've never had a plant before. It's not a dog, but I figure it's
best to start slowly.

Mom is staying in a hotel. It's really nice, the kind of place we
always stayed in when things were going well. She has a big room, a beautiful
view, a maid coming in and turning down the beds every night. When I told her I
was going to find a place of my own she looked at me like I was crazy and
gestured around the room. "You have a place."

"A real place."

Mom turned away from me, stared out the window. "This is
real."

I took a deep breath. "I want to do this."

She was silent for a long time, and then she turned and looked at
me.

"Baby," she finally said, "don't expect me to come
with you."

I hadn't, but it still hurt when she said it.

One of the nurses who works chemo helped me find my apartment. Her
brother was moving to Kansas and needed to sublet his place. She told me that
when

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I was looking through the classifieds, wrote her brother's phone
number down on top of the paper after she hooked Mom's IV into place. I sat
with the paper folded in my lap after she walked off, looking down at it and
listening to the slow harsh sound of Mom breathing.

"You should call."

I looked up. Mom was staring at her IV.

"I can wait."

Mom looked at me. "Someone who wants to sublet won't ask
questions like a landlord will. No credit check, no background check..."

I got up and made the call. When I came back Mom was reading a
magazine. She handed it to me. "Quiz me."

I did. She was an "all or nothing kind of gal." She
smiled when I told her that. The nurse came by and said the IV was looking
good.

"So, this apartment," Mom said to her. "What's the
neighborhood like?"

"Oh, it's perfectly safe. Right by the university. I have two
little ones myself, and I know how it is. You want to make sure your children
are taken care of."

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"That's right. And thanks to you, she's got a good place. Now
all she needs is a millionaire husband. I don't suppose you know where she
could get one of those."

The nurse laughed and told us about a neighborhood on the far west
side of the city. "You should see the houses. A new museum wing"
--she gestured at the newspaper on the floor--"was just donated by someone
who lives out there."

"Oh, I read about that," Mom said, and looked at me.
"Baby, when we're done here, let's go for a drive, okay?"

"Okay," I said, and tried to want what I knew was
coming.

I couldn't..

We went for our drive. I saw Mom sit up straighter when we finally
reached a neighborhood that called to her. I watched her look out the window at
the houses. I saw how happy they made her.

I took her to see my apartment the next day. She waited while I
talked to the guy, charmed him when he spoke to her. She watched him hand me
the keys. She came in, looked around.

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"You're really doing this."

"Yes."

"Nice view," she said. "Can you take me back to the
hotel?"

I did. She hasn't unpacked her bags yet. I don't think she ever
will.

I've thrown mine away. I bought a dresser last week at a thrift
store. It's old and the drawers are warped and it leans a little to one side,
but it's mine for as long as I want. For forever if I choose. I keep my books
on top of it.

I'm still getting used to the school thing. I thought signing up
for GED classes would be a big deal but it wasn't. I just went and did it. Just
like that. I don't mind the homework, but talking in class is weird. I'm used
to being silent, blending in, only saying what I'm supposed to. It seems
strange to be asked to give my opinion on a book or what happened to some long-dead
president hundreds of years ago. I kind of like it, even if I do have a lot to
learn.

Everyone in class calls me Dani. I really like that. The girl who
sits next to me says I'm lucky because I never went to high school. Her name is
Rachel and she works at a sandwich place in what everyone

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around here calls "The Fan."

The sandwich place is pretty cool. The owner, Maureen, is into art
and is always having exhibits of stuff made by university students, She says
she hired me because I'm the only person who ever asked what the statue on her
desk in the back is supposed to be. She says I have a creative mind.

Mom was mad about the job. I told her about it after chemo one
afternoon, when we were driving down a wide tree-lined street through the only
neighborhood that seemed to bring her any joy. She was looking at houses, one hand
pressed against the window, but she turned to look at me after I finished
talking.

"A job?"

I nodded and I knew from her voice I definitely wasn't going to be
telling her about school yet.

"You got a job," she repeated. "Why?"

"I wanted to."

"Pull over."

I did and she reached over, turned the car off, and took the keys.

"Baby," she said. "Look at me. This house--"
She gestured around us. All I could see was the street and

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a security fence. "This house is maybe worth concentrating
on. Maybe. But it's just one place and there are others out there. Better
places. Better things. You know that."

"Maybe I don't want better."

She turned toward me. I saw so many things on her face.
Disappointment. Fear. Love.

"I know I'm going to die."

"Mom-"

"I am. You talk to the doctor, baby, but I watch his face. I
watch his hands. He always taps the desk when he talks about my future. You see
my hands?" She held them out toward me. "They're still. They're still
because I know what to do with them. The doctor doesn't, not when he's talking
about me, and we both know why."

"You don't know that. You--"

"Stop. Listen. I know, and you do too. And I want more for
you than this when I'm gone. I want more for you than what I had when I was
your age. I taught you everything I know, and there's nothing in. this world
you can't do. Nothing."

"I know," I said, and watched my mother's face fall.

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We sat in silence for a long time. Finally she handed me the car
keys.

"I'm sorry," I told her.

"No," she said. "You aren't."

She's right. Fm not sorry for the choices I've made. I see her in
me now, finally, in how I've made up my mind and am moving forward. I get up in
the mornings and make sandwiches. I study. I take Mom to chemo. I ask the
doctor questions, do research at the library, and come back with more
questions. I go to school. I walk by the university and think that maybe
someday I could be there.

I visit Mom at the hotel and watch television with her. She's met
a businessman. He brings clients to the hotel, takes them out to eat in the
restaurant. He says it impresses them and his clients always want to be
impressed. He sells real estate. He's offered to take her to see one of the
houses he's trying to sell this weekend.

"You'll be careful?" I ask, and hand her a glass of
juice. She has a hard time eating or drinking after chemo. It leaves a funny
taste in her mouth. She says it never goes away.

"Don't worry about me." She takes the glass. The

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sun shines in through the window, dances through her hair. It is
still dark and full, beautiful. The nurses tell her she's lucky. Mom always
smiles and says she guesses she is.

"I can't help it."

"I know." She takes a sip, grimaces, and then puts the
cup down. "But you don't need to."

"I know," I echo, and lean over, rest my head on her
shoulder. She changes the channel, kisses the top of my head, and then moves
away, sinking into the pillows with a yawn. I watch her lying there, perfectly
still with her eyes closed, and then I get up and rinse out the juice glass. I
stand watching water spill out of it and rush down the sink for a long time.
When I go back to the bed, I cover her with a blanket, tucking it around her.

"I love you," I whisper. Her face twitches, but she
stays still, stays silent. I grab my stuff and leave, go to class. Rachel asks
me if I want to take over her shift tomorrow morning. I say I do.

"What are you going to do?" Mom asks when we're sitting
in the hospital waiting room one afternoon. She's thinner now, frailer. She no
longer wants me to

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sit with her during chemo. She says some things are easier on her
own.

I know what she's really asking. I know what she wants the answer
to be, and part of me wants to tell her what she wants to hear. She raised me
to live a certain way, to believe in certain things.

"Go to school," I tell her. "That's what I'm going
to do. That's what I am doing."

"School? After everything you've seen and done, everything
you know, you want to go to school? What can school teach you?"

"I don't know." I look at her and smile. "I guess
I'll learn."

She doesn't smile back. "You should want more." I lean
over, rest my hand on top of hers. "I'm happy."

She shakes her head but doesn't pull away. When the nurse comes to
get her she says, "You don't have to wait, you know."

"I know. I want to."

I read magazines after she's gone. There aren't any new ones yet
so I read the ones Mom and I have read before. I take a quiz she once did. I'm
starting to add up my answers when I hear a voice ask where the

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waiting room is. I look up.

Through the glass doors I see Greg approaching. His hair has grown
out to the crazy stage again, but even without it I'd still know him anywhere.
I sent a postcard to him at the police ^station last week, a picture of a
sculpture I saw in the museum. I didn't have to go to the museum for school or
anything. I just thought it would be interesting to go. It was.

The sculpture I saw looked like nothing from far away, just a lump
of rock, but up close you could see it was a figure pushing up out of the
ground and reaching toward the sky. There was a little plaque under it. It said
"Stealing Heaven." I looked at it for a long time. On the back of the
postcard I wrote the hospital name and then my own. Dani. Just that, and
nothing more.

My mother taught me to believe in silver, to believe in things,
but I think it's more important to believe in me.

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the riveting new novel by

ELIZABETH SCOTT

75 days

Dear Julia

Get this, I'm supposed to be starting a journal about "my
journey." Please. I can see it now:

Dear Diary,

As I'm set adrift on this crazy sea called "life," I
like to think of an inspirational poem I heard not long ago, one that made me
weep because of its beauty. Today, I truly believe each day is a precious
gift....

I don't think so.

Anyway, while Dr. Marks (mustache like you wouldn't believe, long
and shaggy and made even worse by the

318

fact that he's always got crumbs in it) babbles on about how we need
a place to share our "experiences," I'm writing to you.

I don't want you to think everything here has been so useless. I
mean, Pinewood is a "teen treatment center," so there's, you know,
the unpleasantness of just being here, but it hasn't all sucked. It's going to
follow me around forever, though. "Was in rehab." Just like all the
other "

"I carry now.

You know, I always thought I told you everything, but there are
some things I should have said and never did. I should have told you about the
time I lost your new sunglasses. I know you really liked them. I should have
apologized every time I puked on your shoes and especially the time I ruined
your brand-new skirt, the one with the beading. I should have apologized for a
lot of stuff.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything.

It's been seventy-four days since I had a drink. I miss it. I miss
the way it made me feel, how I didn't seem so tall and stupid, how everything
went soft around the edges. I've even been dreaming about it. I'm told this is
normal, though. I'm told I can still leave. I'm "better,"

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you see, and the world is waiting.

Dr. Marks just asked if I'm okay. He's such a freak. I don't know
how he ended up in charge of group therapy. You should hear how he talks, you
really should. He can't say my name like a normal person. Amy. How hard is that
to say? But Dr. Marks always calls me Amyyyyyyyyyy-yyyyyyyyy, like y is a
letter he doesn't get to use often enough.