Free Home Before Dark by Susan Wiggs Page B

organism in an isolette, too fragile to touch. Luz remembered pressing her whole body over that clear cylinder, embracing it, praying, Live, please live for me….
    She forced herself to stop shaking and held her daughter’s hand, studying its wholeness and perfection as she thought about that newborn trapped in a nest of tubes in the NICU. Her tiny hands had been so transparent that every vein showed through, and sometimes Luz imagined she could see the blood flowing along the delicate vessels. So strange and beautiful, the nails clear ovals.
    This was some sort of punishment, Luz thought with a sick lurch of her gut. Perhaps this was the retribution she had awaited with secret dread since the day Lila was born.
    She had taken her sister’s child. Never mind that it had been for all the right reasons and that Jessie had begged her to adopt the baby. Luz had always felt undeserving of such a gift and unequal to being the mother of someone so helpless and perfect and so close to death she was practically an angel already.
    But Lila had survived. And thrived. Yet now Luz had almost lost her again.
    She’s stable. Luz wasn’t sure what that meant. She caressed her daughter’s head in a soothing, instinctive gesture. She felt dirt and grit, and something stiff and sticky in Lila’s hair. She stank of vomit and blood and gasoline, offensive smells on this child, Luz’s fussy little girl, who insisted on making special trips to the drugstore for vanilla-scented deodorant and antiseptic shower gel.
    â€œLila, can you hear me?”
    â€œMommy.” The whisper was as thin and faint and sweet as birdsong.
    Luz stiffened against a new wave of trembling, this one instigated by relief. “Baby, you’re going to be all right. I’m here now.”
    Lila didn’t open her eyes. Though she lay motionless, she seemed to drift a little, to withdraw.
    â€œSweetie—”
    â€œYou must be Mrs. Benning.” A young man with a subtle accent and dusky skin greeted her. He wore a white lab coat over spotless scrubs, a tag hanging from his pocket identifying him as Roland Martinez. His manner was brisk and competent, his smile a flash of professionalism designed to reassure. “That red hair must be a family trait.”
    As he flipped open a chart, Luz felt a beat of panic. Dear God. What if they’d done some sort of test that showed Lila was not her biological daughter? Now was not the time to have to explain things to Lila. “What happened?” she asked.
    â€œYour daughter was in a multiple-victim car accident along with five other young people. Lila was extremely lucky. Extremely,” he repeated. “She was wearing her seat belt and suffered only minor injuries.”
    Reading from the legal-sized aluminum-backed chart, he said, “Dr. Raman, the trauma resident, admitted her. She was evaluated in one of the trauma bays and sent to radiology for X rays and a CT scan. There was no evidence of internal injuries. Nothing was broken.” He gestured at a set of films. Lila’s bones were fragile white ghosts backlit by the glowing box on the wall.
    â€œShe has a small laceration on one leg, a contusion on her shoulder from the seat belt, a few minor scratches from broken glass. You’ll want to follow up with a visit to your familydoctor, but the conclusion here is that she’s your miracle girl, walking away from a wreck like that.”
    â€œIs that blood in her hair?”
    â€œFrom one of the other victims.” Dr. Martinez spoke very quietly, holding Luz’s gaze with his. She didn’t let herself ask about the other kids. Not yet.
    â€œWhy is she so out of it? Is she in shock?”
    â€œHer blood alcohol level is 1.2, Mrs. Benning.”
    Luz breathed fast, staving off a new wave of panic. Drunk. Lila had been out drinking. Dear God, why hadn’t she known? What sort of mother was she?
    â€œCan you tell me how this