Scars from a Memoir (13 page)

As I stepped off the elevator, Mark put his arm around my shoulder and whispered, “Everything is going to be OK.” If he thought I was nervous about Martin, Dustin, or my meeting with Melissa, he was wrong. It felt as though I'd been here only moments ago.

My breakfast was splashing around in my stomach, and my mouth started to water. I told him I'd be right back. I already knew where the bathroom was and made it there just in time. Three cups of coffee, a bagel with cream cheese, and some of last night's dinner came out. There wasn't anything left in me. I washed my face, then found Mark standing in the same place I'd left him. The splashing in my stomach was gone, but I didn't feel any better.

Melissa's office was off the sitting room, and her assistant pointed to the closed door. “She's expecting you; go on in.”

Mark knocked but didn't wait for a response before opening it. Melissa was typing on her computer, and we took a seat in front of her. Her assistant brought in two bottles of water; I unscrewed the cap, downing half of mine.

“How can I help you, Nicole?” Melissa asked.

The first time I'd met Melissa was right after Dustin and I had been arrested. A cop took me out of my holding cell and into a room where she was waiting. She wouldn't look at me. When she finally did, her eyes had been thin slits, the color of mud, and cold like snow. She had given me the same stare I'd given to Richard after he'd raped me. I hadn't had money to hire a different attorney. I still didn't. And she wasn't any warmer.

“Has a date been set for Dustin's appeal?”

“I haven't been notified of a trial date. I do expect to hear something within the next few months.”

“Do you think I'll be subpoenaed to testify?”

“You're the state's leading witness. With your statement, I believe Dustin's appeal will be denied. So, yes, I think you'll be subpoenaed.”

Melissa was only confirming everything Dustin and I already knew. He was smart for not wanting me to appear at his trial.

“So what will happen? The state will contact me?”

Melissa glanced at Mark and then back at me. “If you're subpoenaed by the state, we'll meet with the district attorney and review your statement a week before the trial.” She walked over to her door and opened it. “Do you have any more questions?”

Mark gave me a pleading look. We had discussed it again during the car ride; he knew I wasn't going to tell Melissa anything about Dustin, his threats, or the messengers.

I thanked her for her help, and she said she'd be in touch if she heard any news. Mark's arm went around my waist, and he led me outside to his car, waiting for me to get in the passenger seat before he shut the door.

“Thank you,” I said as he put on his seatbelt.

“For what?”

“Dealing with my drama so well. I shouldn't have dragged you into it, but I seem to do that every time we hang out. And for not saying anything to Melissa—I know you wanted to.”

He looked at me when we got to the stop sign. “I did want to say something, but this is your decision, and I have to support you. And it's not drama; it's life.”

If that was true, my life was still messed up. And it wasn't just because of Dustin and all his bullshit. There was my addiction…there wasn't any medicine to cure it—only opioid blockers like Suboxone and methadone. I wasn't on either. Dr. Cohen, the head doctor at the rehab facility, didn't want me on them because when it was time to taper off, the withdrawal could be as bad as heroin. There was no way to stop my mistakes from haunting me. Dope would wipe away my memories of the past: the two times I'd been raped, the hurt I'd caused my family, the night Michael had died, and the two-and-a-half years I'd spent behind bars. But as soon as
the high wore off, all those thoughts would come flooding back in. Still, I understood why Sunshine didn't want to get sober.

But then there was Asher, Mark, my roommates, and my parents—who weren't crying as much when we talked on the phone. I didn't know which side weighed more, but the middle didn't feel like a good place.

Mark parked, and we both got out. I looked up and down the street, and there weren't any coffee shops or restaurants; nothing looked familiar. “Where are we?”

“I didn't think you'd be hungry, and I have coffee at my place. I hope that's OK…”

I'd forgotten that Mark had come to the café to take me out for a snack. He was right; I wasn't hungry.

“Coffee sounds good,” I said.

I had been to the South End only a few times, but that was years ago and I'd been high. Unlike other parts of the city, where shops and restaurants were on the first floor of each apartment building, this area was all residential. Flowerpots hung in the windows, and trees were planted in front of the sidewalk. There wasn't any graffiti or litter on the ground. Mark had picked a nice neighborhood to live in.

Once I got inside, there was a large staircase and a living room off to the right. Most townhouses were divided, an apartment on each floor, with locked doors separating each unit. Mark's was completely open.

“Is all of this yours?”

He nodded. “Along with the three bedrooms upstairs.”

When I had worked for him, some days he had been too hungover to come out of his office. I had thought his place would match his appearance: tattered couches, beer spilled all over the table, and a slimy fish tank he'd never cleaned. But Mark had changed. The bloat in his neck and stomach were gone, his skin no longer had a red tone to it, and he said he didn't drink much anymore. Because of how together he appeared, I wasn't surprised his apartment was spotless, but I was impressed with how decorated it was. The couches looked like they were made of suede, and there were plants in the corners of the room and a tropical arrangement on the coffee table. Everything was coordinated, from the throw pillows to the window coverings.

“What do you take in your coffee?”

“Cream and sugar,” I said, following him into the kitchen. There was a big island in the center of the room with a basket of lemons on top. Everything glowed under the lights—the stainless steel appliances and the glitter in the stone counters, even the handles on the chocolate brown cabinets.

He told me to take a seat at the table and brought over a plate of cookies.

“These look familiar,” I said, holding one up in the air.

“Al gives me a box of sweets every week. I usually bring them to the bar, but I save the chocolate chip ones. They're my favorite.”

I took a bite. “Mine too.”

He didn't make coffee like we did at the café. He put a little plastic cup inside a machine and placed a mug underneath. Then a steaming stream poured out. When both mugs were filled, he set them on the table and took a seat across from me. “How much longer do you have in sober living?”

“Only two more months.”

“And then what?”

“I have to find an apartment to rent.”

“If you want to stay here, you know, to save some money, you can.”

Most of the men from my past had given me a place to live, clothes, food, and drugs. If I was going to stay sober, I couldn't be anyone's child anymore. I had to learn how to pay bills, budget my money, and be held accountable for my responsibilities.

“I really appreciate your offer, but I have to do this on my own.”

“I understand.”

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. When Mark and I were together, it was always all about me. No one wanted a one-sided friend; he deserved more than that.

“So are you dating anyone? Are the employees giving you any trouble? How's the new bar coming along?”

He wrapped his hands around the mug and laughed. “I'm single. No one has given me as much trouble as you.” He winked. “And the grand opening is next week.”

“Then why are you here with me? Don't you have a ton of stuff to do?”

“Nothing that can't wait.”

Saying “thank you” again for putting me before his work just didn't seem like enough. I had to show Mark how much I appreciated his friendship, and I knew just how to do that. But first, I had to talk to Tiffany to make sure she was down with the idea.

Neither of us had broken eye contact, but his stare turned intense. His eyes, light brown with a touch of tan around the edges, went wide, and then he sighed. “I'm going to talk to Al. He'll start driving you home after work—”

“No, I can't be protected from everyone and everything. Bad shit is going to happen, one way or another, and I'm going to have to deal with it.”

He looked at his hands, grinding his teeth together so the lines in his jaw moved. “Nicole, I know all about triggers and how they can cause a relapse. I don't want that to happen to you.”

“I don't want that to happen to me either, but I'm taking it one day at a time. That's all I can do.”

“But—”

“Why don't you show me around your house?”

His lips parted and stayed open for a few seconds until he finally said, “Follow me.”

He took me through the dining room, and we passed a small bathroom before going upstairs. After showing me the guest rooms and bathroom, he stepped inside the only remaining door and watched me look around. The four-poster bed was covered in a black, silky comforter with lots of pillows, and above the headboard was a design made of little glass tiles. The room was painted light gray, and instead of lamps, tiny bulbs were inside the ceiling. When I squinted, they looked like stars. I moved into the short hallway; there was a big closet with lots of wooden shelves and drawers, and the bathroom had a tub with jets.

“Your bedroom is sexy,” I said, rejoining him by the bed. His house wasn't too decorated; it was masculine and comfortable. But sexy was the only way to describe his bedroom.

“You think so?”

“Why are you single?”

He tipped his head back and laughed, returning with a huge smile on his face. “None of the women I've been with have made me want to stay.”

I'd worked with some of the girls Mark had dated. The waitresses were really pretty, but their personalities were flat. Then there was Renee, my old roommate, who was a heroin addict; she had lied to him, saying he was the father of her child. He needed someone who would challenge him and hold his attention, and none of those girls were capable.

“You just pick the wrong women.”

“You're one to talk.”

I laughed. “Good point.”

My phone vibrated, showing a text from Asher, asking if I wanted to order pizza instead of going out. I sent a quick reply, telling him pepperoni sounded great, and noticed the time. Mark's smile was gone when I looked up.

“You've got to go?” he asked.

“I'm sorry, I don't want to be late to NA.”

“I'll give you a ride; come on.”

He put his arm around my shoulders and walked me out to the hallway. His hold felt protective, and part of me didn't want him to let go.

-14-

A WEEK HAD PASSED since Asher and I had decided to make our relationship official, and we couldn't get enough of each other. But tonight was different. When I slid my foot up his leg at the table, he held it in place so I couldn't move it any higher. As we were washing and wiping the dishes, he didn't respond when I nuzzled his neck. Instead of leading me to his room, he sat down on the couch and turned on the TV. Even with his arm around me, there was a distance between us. I hadn't even told him about Martin's visit or my meeting with Melissa. He spent our entire meal talking about Nadal and Tyme and how they'd hit a rough spot in their relationship. He seemed too full for my drama.

As he flipped through the channels, I asked him what was wrong. He said his editor had given him a deadline and he had only a few weeks to finish his book. His parents were pressing him about graduate school; classes started in a month, giving him a week to decide. Telling him my thoughts on graduate school would only add to his stress. My probation would prevent me from leaving the state for another year, and a long-distance relationship, only seeing each other over holiday breaks, would never work.

Something else was bothering him; both his editor and parents had been on him for a while, and it wasn't like him not to look at me when he spoke. But he wasn't saying any more, and I couldn't help with either. I leaned over and placed my lips at the collar of his shirt, kissing around his neck and up his jaw. His eyes closed. I tried to take his lobe between my teeth, but he stopped me. His eyes were open, staring at our hands.

I could feel his rejection rushing through my body. My face turned red, and I pulled away, grabbing my purse from the back of the couch.

“Where are you going?”

“I have to open the café in the morning.”

“I'll walk you home.”

Asher knew it wasn't like me to leave three hours before my curfew. But he wasn't asking me to stay, and he didn't seem bothered that I wanted to go. Something was off; he wasn't opening up or trying to fix it.

“Don't worry about it, I'm just going to take the train.”

He followed me to the door. Before I opened it, I turned and faced him. Maybe he thought physical intimacy was all I wanted. “Let's go to the harbor tomorrow when I get out of work or—”

“I'm going to write all weekend.”

There was emotion in his eyes, but I couldn't tell what it was, and the rest of his face was blank. I waited a few seconds, hoping he'd change his mind. Instead, he reached forward and pecked my lips.

“I'll see you on Monday,” he said and shut the door behind me.

In the past, heroin had kept me clouded. I wouldn't have noticed if Dustin was acting strange, or cared if he took off for a weekend-long drug run. But Asher's emptiness flowed directly through me. Sure, he was overwhelmed with choices and deadlines, but he didn't have an ex-boyfriend who wanted him to disappear or a friend found dead in a dumpster. He had an editor who wanted to shop his book to publishers and an acceptance letter from every graduate school he'd applied to. His parents’ nagging hadn't mattered when he chose Northeastern instead of Dartmouth, so it shouldn't make a difference now.

*   *   *

Kathy and Ashley were the only ones home when I got back from Asher's. They'd completed their six months at sober living and were in their room, packing up their belongings. In a few days they'd be moving into a two-bedroom in Beacon Hill. I asked if they'd go apartment hunting with me tomorrow; they'd already been through the process. I had less than two months left, and my parents said I
shouldn't wait much longer to find somewhere to live. Ashley said she had to work, but Kathy agreed to come.