The Heaven Trilogy (76 page)

Ivena turned one of four taps by the greenhouse door and the overhead misters hissed inside. She opened the door. The musty smell of dirt mixed with flower scent always seemed to strengthen with the first wetting.

She'd shown Helen the garden yesterday evening and the flowers seemed to have calmed her. Ivena had known then, seeing the spindly gray stalks of her daughter's rosebush, that it was for all practical purposes dead, despite the strange green shoot at its base. She was still having difficulty remembering if she had—

“Huh?” Ivena caught her breath and stared at the dead bush.

But it wasn't dead! Or was it? Green snaked up through the branches; vines wrapped around the rose stalks and spread over the plant.

Ivena stepped forward, barely breathing. It looked as though a weed had literally sprung up overnight and taken over the rosebush! But that was impossible!

The bush had seven main branches, each one as black and lifeless as they'd been yesterday. But now the green vines ran around each one in eerie symmetry. And they all came from the base of the plant; from the one shoot that had been grafted in.

But you did not graft that shoot, Ivena.

Yes, I must have. I just don't remember it.

Ivena reached her hand out to the strange new plant and ran a finger along its stalk. How had it grown so quickly? It had appeared yesterday, no more than four inches in length and now it ran the height of the plant! The skin was very similar to that of a healthy rose stalk, but without thorns. A woody vine.

“My goodness, what on earth do we have here?” Ivena whispered to herself. Maybe it was this vine that had killed her rosebush. A parasite. Perhaps she should cut it off in the hopes of saving the rose.

No, the rose was already dead.

“Ivena.”

She whirled around. Helen stood in the doorway, her hair tangled, still dressed in her pajamas.

“Well good morning, my dear.” Ivena walked toward her, shielding the bush. “I would ask you how you slept, but I think I have my answer already.”

“Very good, thank you.”

“Wonderful.” They stepped into the kitchen and Ivena closed the door to the greenhouse behind her. “Now you'll need some food. You can't shop properly on an empty stomach.”

HELEN WATCHED Ivena with an odd mixture of amusement and admiration. The Bosnian woman wore her gray hair quite shaggy. She held her head confidently but gently, like her words. Both she and Janjic shared one stunning trait, Helen thought. They both had eyes that smiled without letting up, bringing on pre-mature wrinkles around their sockets. If there were other human beings with Ivena's unique blend of quirks and sincerity, Helen had never met them. It was impossible not to like her. In the woman's presence the small voice that called Helen back to the drugs sounded very faint. Although it was still there—yes it was, like a whisper in a hollow chamber.

They ate eggs for breakfast, and then readied themselves for a few hours of American indulgence, as Ivena put it. She seemed amused by the five checks she waved about. When Helen asked her why, she just smiled. “It's Janjic's money,” she said. “He has far too much.”

Helen insisted Ivena take her far from the central city district—with Glenn's men on the prowl, anything within a five-mile radius of the Twin Towers was out of the question. Even here it took Helen a good hour to satisfy herself that the chances of Glenn finding her were nearly nonexistent.

Ivena drove them to a quaint shopping district on the east side, where most of the merchants spoke with heavy European accents. They parked Ivena's Volkswagen Bug on one end of the district and made their way through the shops on either side of the street.

“Honestly, Ivena, I really love the halter top. It's so . . . fitting, don't you think?”
Glenn will love it.

“Yes, Helen. Perhaps,” Ivena returned with a raised brow. “But the red blouse, it is a lady's choice.”

“I don't know, it looks a little old for me, don't you think?”
He'd kill me if I wore that thing!

“Nonsense, dear. It's fabulous!”

They held the choices up to Helen's neckline, each arguing their case; trying not to be too forceful. A moment of silence ended the debate. It was then that Ivena, the final judge, issued her verdict. “We'll get both.”

“Thank you, Ivena. I swear I'll wear them both.”
Glenn . . .

Get a grip, Helen. Glenn's history.

“Yes, I'm sure you will, dear.”

And so the day went, from shop to shop. With halters and blouses; with jeans and skirts; with T-shirts and dresses; with tennis shoes and pumps; with everything except for lingerie. In the end they spent a thousand dollars. But it was just money, Ivena said, and Jan had altogether too much of the stuff. They walked and they laughed and then they spent another hundred dollars on accessories.

The beauty salon presented a challenge because two choices simply couldn't be made without resorting to wigs, and Helen would have nothing to do with wigs, despite Ivena's urging. Helen favored the short sporty look. It was sexy, she said. “Sexy? And you think a full-bodied woman's look is not sexy?” Ivena countered. The beautician tried to interject her opinion, but Ivena kept cutting her short. “It's Helen's hair,” she finally announced. “Do as she wishes.” And she retreated to a waiting chair. Helen walked out wearing a big smile and her hair just below the ears in a cropped style that even Ivena had to admit was “quite attractive.”

Three times Helen thought about the life she'd left, and each time she concluded that this time she would stay straight if it killed her. She couldn't ignore the feeling of butterflies that accompanied the brief memories—a yearning for the drug's surge of pleasure—but watching Ivena carry on about a dress, she could not imagine crawling back to her old life.

It was three o'clock by the time they returned to Ivena's flower-laden home. It was four by the time Helen had wrapped up her fashion show, displaying every possible combination their purchases allowed and then some. Ivena looked on, sipping at her iced tea and boldly proclaiming how beautiful Helen was with each new outfit.

It was five when Helen began to come unglued.

Ivena had gone out to deliver a batch of orchids to a floral shop. “Make yourself at home—smell some flowers, warm up some sausage,” she'd said. “I'll be back by six.” Helen retreated to her tiny room, Ivena's sewing room actually, and sat on the bed, running her hand through the clothes piled beside her. She wore a dress, the one Ivena had proclaimed the winner of the bunch before leaving—a pink dress, much like the one Ivena had loaned her yesterday, but without all the frills.

She sat on the yellow bedspread in a sudden silence, with her legs swinging just off the floor like a little girl, feeling the fabric between her fingers, when her eyes settled on the blue vein that ran through the fold in her right arm. The room was dim but she could not miss the small mark hovering there. She pulled her hand from the clothes, opening and closing it slowly. The muscles along her forearm flexed like a writhing snake. It had been some time since she'd used the vein. Heroin was too strong, Glenn insisted. It ruined her. He couldn't stomach a rag doll sapped of passion. With Glenn it was all the new rich man's drug. Cocaine.

Glenn
.

She blinked in the dim light and felt butterflies take flight in her belly again. She let familiar images crash through her mind. Images of the Palace, as he called it, where she'd lived for the last three months, on and off, but mostly on. Images of the parties, teeming with people under colored lights; images of mirrors mounded with cocaine and dishes with needles; images of bodies strewn across the floor, wasted in the wee morning hours. They were images that seemed ridiculous sitting here in the old lady's sewing room. She'd heard of sewing rooms, but she'd never expected to actually see one. And now here she was,
sitting
in one, surrounded by a pile of clothes that were presumably hers.

What do you expect to do, Helen? Use these people the way you've used the rest?

Suddenly the whole thing felt not just silly but completely stupid. And just as suddenly a craving for the mound of white powder ran through her body. An ache rose to her throat and she swallowed against it. She closed her eyes and shook her head. What was she doing?

Helen lifted a hand to her neck and rubbed the bruised muscles near the spine. She had put up with her share of abuse no doubt, and she could give it as well as she took it. A slap here and little punch there; it was all business as usual. But this strangling business—Glenn had nearly killed her! She'd had no choice but to run.

Here where there were no people she let tears fill her eyes. Now what? Now she was a little girl sitting on the bed, swinging her legs, wanting to be rescued.

Wanting a hit . . .

And she had been rescued, hadn't she? By a preacher, of all things. And his crazy old friend.

No, Helen, don't think of them like that. These are good people. Precious.

“Precious? And what would
you
know of precious?” she growled. The tears began to slip down her cheeks and she wiped them angrily with her wrist.

Helen stood to her feet, and the sudden movement left her dizzy. She blinked away the tears and paced the room. Face it, honey, this is not your world. This life with the flowers and the sausage and the strange accents and the old woman's crazy talk of love, like it was something Helen knew nothing of. All the hugs and the tears . . .

. . . and Jan . . .

. . . you'd think the world was turning inside out or something. Helen cleared her throat. Truth be told, she couldn't see why Ivena's daughter's death was such a huge deal anyway. Sure it was bad enough, but when you got right down to it, a bullet to the head wasn't so crazy. Not the big monstrous deal Ivena seemed to make of it. Like it was some new revelation of love or something. These two . . . weirdos . . . these two weirdos were just different, that was all there was to it. She was a fish; they were birds. And she was suddenly feeling short of breath up here with the weird birds. She needed to get back to her pond. After all, a fish could not live on the beach forever.

He's what they call a gentleman, Helen. A real man. The kind you've never seen. And don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about, girl.

“Shut up!” Goodness, he was a preacher! She felt heat flare on her cheeks.
He's not even American.

No, but he's god-awful handsome and his accent's pretty cute.

Helen hit her forehead with her palm. “You're being an idiot!”

The truth of her own words struck her and she halted her pacing mid-stride. The images of the Palace mounded with Glenn's drugs slid through her mind, whispering the promise of pleasure. Of heaven here on earth. The sound of her breathing filled the small room. Like that fish gulping up on the shore. She had no business here. This was a mistake, a stupid mistake.

Which meant she had to leave. And she
wanted
to leave, because now that she was allowing good sense to prevail, she knew that she had to have a hit. In fact, she wanted a hit as badly as she could ever remember wanting one.

It came roaring back. The urge rose through her chest with such force that for a moment she lost her orientation. She was in Ivena's sewing room of all places, a crazy place to be. She didn't belong here. She'd lost her mind!

Helen snatched a pair of Nikes, pulled them over her bare feet, and ran out to the living room. It would be best to leave out the back, in case the old woman . . .

. . . Ivena, Helen. Her name is Ivena and she's not old . . .

. . . drove up front. Helen hurried to the attached greenhouse, suddenly eager to be free. Desperate to get back into the water. She ran out to the backyard. But there were no gates in the tall fence surrounding the lawn. She gave up and ran right through the house and out the front door. It occurred to her only then that she had no ride. She should call Glenn. He would send a car. He'd be in a stew— the thought made her shiver. You pay your dues, baby. We all pay our dues. It was one of Glenn's favorite sayings. His idea of
dues
was a bit extreme.

She raced back into the house, snatched up Ivena's phone and called Glenn's private number. His secretary, the old hooknosed witch Beatrice, answered and demanded to know where she was. Helen gave her the nearest cross street and hung up.
Take a flying leap from the top story, Beatrice. And don't forget your broom.

Now she ran with the butterflies that fluttered through her belly. She took a turn at the sidewalk and did not stop for two blocks, thinking only once that she should've ditched the dress—she must look like some kind of pink butterfly in the stupid thing. But her craving for the Palace washed the thought away.

Helen sucked in the warm southern air and settled into a walk. It was going to be a good night. Not at first, of course. At first it might not be so good at all, but that would pass. It always did. A picture of all those clothes piled on that bed back there flashed through her mind.
Sorry, Ivena. At least I left them. At least I didn't take them.

Sorry, Jan.

Don't be stupid.

A long white limousine was already waiting at the corner of Grand and Mason, drawing the stares of stiff-lipped pedestrians in all directions. Yes indeed, it was going to be a good night.

BEATRICE WAS waiting for Helen when the elevator doors opened at the top of the West Tower, her nose hooked and her chin lifted like a snotty schoolmaster. She looked Helen's dress over and her lips twisted to a wrinkled frown. “So, the slug has crawled home wearing a dress. You think that's supposed to impress him?”

“Shut up, Witch. I'm not trying to impress anybody.”

Beatrice's eyes grew round and then squeezed to slits. “He's gonna tan your hide when he sees you in that ridiculous getup.” She turned on her heels and marched for the double doors leading to the Palace.