Lighthouse Nights

7

*  *  *

emma’s bedroom smelled like wet vitamins and fabric softener. the wallpaper was overbearing; the girliest shade of pink possible with a border of white butterflies hovering above the ceremony. she wedged a wooden chair beneath the door handle and jules noticed a dozen more carpet divots around the planted legs. 

a full-length mirror hung on the back of the door, its edges framed with layers of stickers, stamps and glued celebrity cutouts. emma slid the cotton dress from her body and removed a gown (beauty-queen pink to match her walls) from a shopping bag. she inspected the fit by standing sideways. she smoothed the fabric down her waist. “am i sexy, or what?”

“fantastically sexy. if i were a boy, i’d have my way with you all over that bed.” jules sat cross-legged on the floor and felt like a demon in such a precious room. she took a pretend swig of vodka (in accordance with trevor-rule number two: never drink on the job) and offered the bottle to emma.

“wait!” the girl leapt over jules and opened the bottom drawer of her vanity. she pulled out a jewelry box—ivory with a curved lid—then sat beside jules so their knees touched. she unlatched the tiny chest and revealed a plastic ballerina rotating to a delicate, plinking tune.

from the lowest compartment, emma removed a single joint as if she was collecting a robin’s egg from its nest. “it’s the only thing that makes me forget.” she ritualistically placed the cigarette on the carpet and looked to her leader for approval.

“have a lighter?” jules asked.

emma grinned at the official sanction, then removed a transparent bic from the box and positioned it on the floor beside the weed.

“perfect.”

“i got something else.” emma reached into the depths of the singing chest and clutched a tiny bag. she opened her hand to show off her treasure. 

jules saw the capsules and snatched the baggie, then shook the pills into her frantic palm.

emma stammered, “they’re oxycodone—”

“i know what they are. how many do you need?”

“what?”

“take what you want. now.”

emma’s eyes flicked between jules and the pills. “i—”

“honey, take what you need from my hand.”

she took three.

jules forced the vodka into emma’s hand. “swallow them.”

the girl obeyed, one at a time, wincing with every gulp until her eyes watered.

jules stood up and marched to the bathroom, dropped the remaining tablets in the toilet, and flushed.

“is everything okay?” emma asked when jules returned to the floor.

“yeah, hon. everything’s fine. are you ready to do this?”

*  *  *

jules held the balm in her lungs, closed her eyes, then released from her lips a controlled ribbon of smoke. she used a CD case as an ashtray and held the garbage bag open.

emma dropped the ballerina music box inside, then scoured the room for items of value: a pink ipod, three purses, a fleece blanket, romance novels, a pair of diamond earrings, a pearl necklace, a digital video camera, armfuls of loose and expensive makeup, (“maybe they can use my scrapbook if i take out the pictures...”), a porcelain bank shaped like a kitten, empty frames, two coloring books, and more of the like. she found a tattered teddybear under her pillow. “i’ve had sarah for sixteen years. no need for her now.” makeup couldn’t suppress the red blotches materializing across her cheekbone. she kissed sarah’s fabric nose, placed her in the bag, and took the joint from jules. “did you bring anything to give?” she asked.