Page 96 of A Fabulously Unfabulous Summer for Henry Milch

“But if you go back to L.A. you won’t stop with the pills. And you’ll die.”

“That’s not true.”

For a bit, she didn’t say anything else. The room was very still. She stared at me, her eyes so brown, like my mothers, like mine. After taking a deep breath, she said, “While I still have the chance, I want to say thank you for the things you’ve done for me, taking care of me the way you have.”

“I’m not very good at it.”

“Well, I won’t fight you on that, but you stayed and you did what was needed. That’s what’s important. So, thank you.” She got up, leaning on her cane, then added, “I think it’s time for a little nap in front of the TV.” And she wobbled out of the room.

What the—I’m sure I was standing there with my mouth open. It was all too much to take in. I needed to go upstairs and take—But that’s what an addict would do. Take a pill and make it all go away.

And in that moment, it was the only thing in the world I truly wanted.

Crap.