A quirky tale of connection.
I have the phrase "One Door Away from Heaven" tattooed on my left arm.
As a mutant myself and sharing a birthday with the main character, this story means a lot to me. One Door Away From Heaven is in my TOP FIVE of favorite books by Dean Koontz. I would say FRIENDSHIP is the dominant theme in this novel - the kindness, understanding, acceptance and help of genuine friends.
Favorite Passages:
The world is full of broken people. Splints, casts, miracle drugs, and time can't mend fractured hearts, wounded minds, torn spirits.
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"It's the truth. I couldn't make up anything as weird as what is."
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"Sometimes names are destiny."
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"Change isn't easy, Micky. Changing the way you live means changing how you think. Changing how you think means changing what you believe about life."
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Nevertheless, for reasons that she could not understand, every aspect of this day - the spangled sunshine, the heat, the rumble of the distant freeway traffic, the fragrances of cut grass and sweat-soured coconut oil, three yellow butterflies as bright as gift-box bows - suddenly seemed full of meaning, mystery, and moment.
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. . . she had the curious and unsettling sensation of movement within, of a turning in her heart and mind, toward a new point on the compass.
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"You'll have to forgive me, Leilani. I've had these memory problems now and then, ever since I was shot in the head. A few wires go scrambled up here" - she tapped her right temple - " and sometimes old movies seem as real to me as my own past."
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"Old Sinsemilla fancies herself an artist with a camera, and she has this artistic compulsion to take pictures of road kill when we're traveling. At dinner sometimes she likes to talk about what she saw squashed on the highway that day."
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For an instant, in the girl's lustrous blue eyes, behind the twin mirror images of the window and its burden of smoldering summer-evening light, behind the smoky reflections of the layered kitchen shadows, something seemed to turn with horrid laziness, like a body twisting slowly, slowly back and forth at the end of a hangman's noose. Leilani looked away almost at once, and yet on the strength of a single Budweiser, Micky imagined that she had glimpsed a soul suspended over an abyss.
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Like a sylph she had come; and after she turned the corner at the far end of the hallway, disappearing into the elevator alcove, the path that she had followed seemed to be charged with some supernatural energy, as the aura of an elemental spirit might linger after its visitation.
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"At least my real dad isn't a murderer like my current pseudofather - or as far as I know, he isn't. Is your dad a murderer?"
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In spite of the girl's jocular tone, her words were wasps and the truth in them appeared to sting her, sharp as venom.
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Sometime during the two days she'd known Leilani , Micky arrived, as though by whirlwind, in a strange territory. She'd been journeying through a land of mirrors that initially appeared to be as baffling as unreal as a funhouse, and yet repeatedly she had encountered reflections of herself so excruciatingly precise in their details and of such explicit depth that she turned away from them in revulsion or in anger, or in fear. The clear-eyed, steel-supported girl, larky and lurching, seemed at first to be a fabulist whose flamboyant fantasies rivaled Dorothy's dreams of Oz; however, Micky could get no glimpse of yellow bricks on this road, and here, now, in the lingering sour scent of warm beer, in this small kitchen where only a trinity of candle flames held back the insistent sinuous shadows, with the sudden sound of a toilet flushing elsewhere in the trailer, she was stricken by the terrible perception that under Leilani's mismatched feet had never been anything other then the rough track of reality.
As though privy to Micky's thoughts, the girl said, "Everything I've ever told you is the truth."
Outside a shriek.
Micky looked to the open window, where the last murky glow of the drowning twilight radiated weak purple beams through black tides of incoming night.
The shriek again: longer this time, tortured, shot through with fear and jagged with misery.
"Old Sinsemilla," said Leilani.
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A coincidence, however, is frequently a glimpse of a pattern otherwise hidden. His heart tells him indisputably what his mind resists: This is no random event, but part of the elaborate design in a tapestry, and at the center of the design is he himself, caught and murdered.
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Micky said, "It's hard to make up anything as weird as what is."
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"Go, go, go!" Curtis urges, because the night has grown strange, and is now a great black beast with a million searching eyes. Motion is commotion, and distraction buys time, and time - not mere distance - is the key to escape, to freedom, and to being Curtis Hammond. "Go, go, go!"
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By the time that Leilani rose from the kitchen table to leave Geneva's trailer, she was ashamed of herself, and honest enough to admit to the shame, though dishonest enough to try to avoid facing up to the true cause of it.
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The wall clock glowed, but it displayed the wrong time.
In spite of the slender red hand sweeping sixty moments per minute form the clock face, the flow of time seemed to have been dammed into a still pool. Saturated by silence, the house brimmed also with an unnerving expectancy, as though some bulwark were about to crack, permitting a violent flood to sweep everything away.
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In the closet: no Mom, no puke, no blood, no hidden passageway leading to a magical kingdom where everyone was beautiful and rich and happy. Leilani didn't actually search for the passageway, but based on past experience, she made the logical assumption that it wasn't there; as a much younger girl, she had often expected to find a secret door to fantastic other lands, but she had been routinely disappointed, so she had decided that if any such door existed, it would have to find her. Besides, if this closet were the equivalent of a bus station between California and a glorious domain of fun-loving wizards, surely there would be crumpled wrappers from weird and unknown brands candy discarded by traveling trolls or at least a pile of elf droppings, but the closet held nothing more exotic than one dead cockroach.
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Sinsemilla liked to sit alone in the dark, sometimes trying to communicate with the spirit world, sometimes just talking to herself.
Leilani listened intently. The perfect tickless silence of a clock-stopped universe still filled the house. Bleeding, of course, is a quiet process.
In spite of a free-spirited tendency to be unrestrained in all things, Sinsemilla had thus far restricted her artistic scalpel work to her left arm. A six-inch-long, two-inch-wide snowflake pattern carefully connected scars, as intricate as lacework, decorated or disfigured her forearm, depending on your taste in these matters. The smooth, almost shiny, scar tissue glowed whiter than the surrounding skin, an impressive tone-on-tone design, although the contrast became more pronounced when she tanned.
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Intergalactic spacecraft, alien abductions, an extraterrestrial base hidden on the dark side of the moon, supersecret human and alien crossbreeding programs, saucer-eyed gray aliens who can walk through walls and levitate and play concert-quality clarinet with their butts . . .
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Some serpents were more frightening than others: the specimens that didn't come in ventilated pet-shop boxes, that never slithered through any field or forest, serpents invisible that inhabited the deeper regions of your mind. Until now, she hadn't been aware that she herself provided a nest for such potent snakes of fear and anger, or that her heart could be inflamed and set racing by their sudden bite, so quickly reducing her to these spasms, these half-mad headlong frenzies, out of control.
Like a gargoyle above, Sinsemilla leaned over the footboard of the bed, her face shadowed but her head haloed by red lamplight, glittery-eyed with excitement. "Thingy, him a hard-ass stubborn little crawly boy."
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Tears always punctuated the conclusions of her bedtime stories. When she told fairy tales, the classic yarns on which they were based could be recognized, although she fractured the narratives so badly that they made no sense. Snow White was likely to wind up dwarfless in a carriage that turned into a pumpkin pulled by dragons; and poor Cinderella might dance herself to death in a pair of red shoes while baking blackbirds in a pie for Rumpelstiltskin. Loss and calamity were the lessons of her stories. Sinsemilla's versions of Mother Goose and the Brothers Grimm were deeply disturbing, but sometimes she recounted instead her true-life adventures before Lukipela and Leilani were born, which had more hair-raising effect than any tales ever written about ogres, trolls, and goblins.
So goodbye to Scooby, goodbye to Buzz, to Donald in his sailor suit - and hello, Darkness, my old friend.
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Leilani much preferred Sinsemilla's screwed-up fairly tales to Preson's familiar soft-spoken rant, even if, when Beauty and the Beast came to the rescue of Goldilocks, Beauty was torn to pieces by the bears, and the Beast's dark side was thrilled by the bears' savagery, motivating him to slaughter Goldilocks and to eat her kidneys, and even if the bears and the maddened Beast then joined forces with the Big Bad Wolf and launched a brutal attack on the home of three very unfortunate little pigs.
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"That there your dog?"
"Yes, sir."
"He be vicious?"
She be not, sir."
"Say what?"
"Say she, sir."
"You stupid or somethin'?"
"Somethin', I guess."
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The sooner he gets out of Utah, the better.
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"Boy, you 'member way to hell back there at the pump, when I asked was you stupid or somethin'?"
"Yes, sir, I remember."
"An' you 'member what you said?"
"Yes, sir, I said I guessed I was somethin'."
"Ever a fool was to ask you that question again, boy, you'd be better advised to tell 'em stupid!" Pounding the steering wheel again, he's off on another rant. "Shove a bottle rocket in my butt an' call me Yankee Doodle!"
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What a wonderfully unpredictable world it is, Micky, when being shot in the head can have an upside. In spite of an embarrassing moment of confusion now and then, it's delightful to have so many glamorous and romantic memories to draw upon in my old age! I'm not recommending brain damage, mind you, but without my quirky little short circuit, I would never have loved and been loved by Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart, and I'd certainly never have had that wonderful experience in Ireland with John Wayne!
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"Well, we rarely have cola in the fridge. Old Sinsemilla says caffeine inhibits development of your natural telepathic ability."
"Then you must be a terrific little mind reader."
"Scarily good. . . "
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"Leilani, would you like a big fat sugar cookie?"
"Yes, thank you."
"So would I. Very much. Unfortunately we don't have any. Some nice crisp cinnamon cookies would be good too. How about cinnamon cookies with vanilla Cokes?"
"You've talked me into it."
"We don't have any of those, either, I'm afraid." Geneva sipped her drink, pondered a moment. "Do you think chocolate-almond cookies would go with vanilla Cokes?
"I'm reluctant to have an opinion, Mrs. D."
"Really? Why's that, dear?"
"It seems pointless somehow."
"Too bad. Not to brag, but my chocolate-almond cookies are quite wonderful."
"Do you have any?"
"Six dozen."
"More than enough, thank you."
Geneva brought a plate of the treats to the table.
Leilani sampled a cookie. "Phenomenal. And they go with vanilla Cokes just fine. But these aren't almonds. They're pecans."
"Yes, I know. I don't particularly care for almonds, so when I make chocolate-almond cookies, I use pecans instead."
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"Strictly speaking, it's not really a goiter. It's a tumor, and because it's benign, she won't have it removed. Clarissa doesn't trust doctors, and given her history with them, who can blame her? But she just lets it hang there, getting bigger. Even if they could cope with her age and weight, prison officials would worry about the goiter scaring the other inmates."
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Carrying the shotgun, Polly went to the door, took a deep breath, as she'd always taken just before she had disembarked, nude, from the flying saucer and had descended the neon stairs in that Las Vegas extravaganza, and she stepped into a prairie night turned as strange as any land reached by rabbit hole.
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"So if Gaea smiles on us, we'll have more than one miracle baby. Two, three, maybe a litter." She grinned mischievously and winked. "Maybe I'll just curl up on a blanket in the corner, like a true bitch, with all my little puppies squirming against me, so many tiny hungry mouths competing for just two tits."
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"I am a sly cat, I am a summer wind, I am birds in flight, I am the sun, I am the sea, I am me!"
"What does that even mean?" Leilani asked.
"It means - who else but your own mama is cool enough to bring a new human race into the world, a psychic humanity bonded to Gaea? I'll be the mother of the future, Lani, the new Eve."
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Elsewhere, the California dream might still have a glowing tan; but here it had blistered, peeled, and faded.
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"Your work is so exciting. If I could live my life again, I'd be a private investigator, too. You call yourselves dicks, don't you?"
"Maybe some do, ma'am," Noah Farrel said, "but I call myself a PI. Or used to."
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The warm afternoon is gradually cooling as the clouds pour out of the west, roll down the rocky peaks, and, trapped between the mountains, condense into ever darker shades of gray.
The day smells of the sheltering pines, of the forest mast, of rain brewing.
Death-still, the air is also heavy with expectancy, as if in an instant, the eerily deep calm might whip itself into a raging tumult.
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"My numbies. Need my numbies. Took some stuff already, but wasn't numbies. Weirded me. Must've been bad shit. Supposed to take me after Alice down the rabbit hole, but it weirded me into some snake hole instead."
"What numbies do you want? Where are they?"
Her mother pointed toward the built-in dresser. "Bottom drawer. Blue bottle. Numbies to chase the head snakes out."
Leilani found the pills. "How many do you want? One? Two? Ten?"
"One numbie now. One for later. Later's gonna come. Mommy's got a bad day goin', Lani. Snaky day goin' here. You don't know trouble till you've been your mommy."
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Curtis's mother always said that the better you know others, the better you will know yourself, and that in the fullest sharing of experience, we learn the wisdom of a world. More important still, from the sharing of experience, we learn that every life is unique and precious, that no one is expendable: and with this discovery, we acquire the humility that we must have to live our lives well, with grace, and with gratitude for the gift of breath.