Scars from a Memoir (14 page)

I called some of the ads I found in the newspaper, scheduling showings at three places. Kathy picked me up after work. The landlord was waiting for us outside the building in Chinatown and led us up the four flights of stairs. When Eric and I had moved to Boston, we'd lived in an apartment only a few blocks away, and this room was almost identical. I could touch both of the bathroom walls when I spread my arms out. The barred window faced an alley. And the smell would be something I'd have to get used to—this apartment and most in this area were above Chinese restaurants. Other than its tiny kitchen, this place wasn't much different from my jail cell.

The air was hot and stale, and I pushed up my sleeves to cool down my body. “How much do I need to move in?” I asked the landlord.

“First, last, security,” he said. “No late on rent or I evict you.”

“We'll think about it; thanks for showing us the unit,” Kathy said. She headed into the hallway, but I looked around one last time.

The landlord followed me. I could feel his stare traveling over my body, and it made me uncomfortable.

“You cook?” he asked.

“Do I cook? A little bit, but not much.”

Hi eyes moved down and stopped at my arms. “You no cook for a living?”

“Oh, no, I'm not a cook.”

Judging by his expression, I had a feeling I knew where this was going, and I was right.

“Those not burn marks, then. Those drug marks.” He put his finger in the air and pointed at me. “I don't want your kind here. No drug users in my apartment.”

“Excuse me,” Kathy said, raising her voice, “you have no right to talk to her like that, and you're completely out of line. She's not a drug user.”

“I call police if you no get out.”

“Kathy, it's fine. I think we should go.”

“It's not fine,” she yelled. “He's making assumptions, and he has no right to do that.”

The landlord pulled out his cell phone. “Calling police right now.”

“Kathy, we need to go.”

I pulled her out the door, and as soon as we got outside, she put her hand up, swishing air into her face. “If you had lived there, you would have smelled like an egg roll.”

“What?”

“That's right; that place was a dump, and you would have stunk like egg rolls. Screw him and his horrendous apartment. There are much better places out there.”

I knew the majority couldn't identify with my struggles. People from my past had reminded me of that, slapping me with their harsh words and assumptions; I'd wish each time they'd just keep their mouths shut. I didn't look like a junkie anymore; I didn't act like one. I treated people with respect, and I deserved the same in return.

“An egg roll would have been an improvement over how I smelled back then. I used to go weeks without showering,” I said. “What an asshole; I can't believe he threatened to call the police because I have scars on my arms.”

Her hands went to my cheeks. “Don't let that jerk get to you. Don't even think twice about what he said. You're not a junkie anymore.” She tilted her head into my neck and sniffed. “You definitely don't smell like one; you smell—”

“Get out of here,” I teased, wiggling away. My face turned serious. “Thank you.”

“I've got you. Always.” She grinned and squeezed my arm even tighter.

We were a few minutes early, so we leaned against the building, waiting for the next landlord to show.

“This block doesn't look any nicer. Why the hell did you pick Chinatown?”

“It's halfway between Asher's and work, and I can't afford to live in the Back Bay.”

The night after Asher and I had decided we were serious, I came out to all my roommates, telling them the truth about our relationship. Tiffany was supposed to enforce the rehab's preference on dating, but even she was happy for me. I still hadn't shared the news at a meeting. I wasn't ready to take that step yet.

“Why don't you move in with Asher?”

“He didn't offer.”

She opened her mouth to say something but then closed it.

“I think I need to live on my own for a while and learn how to do things for myself,” I said.

“You know I don't mind, but why am I here instead of him?”

I broke eye contact, staring straight ahead. “He had a lot of work to do this weekend.”

“Is everything OK?”

“I don't know…”

The door to the Chinese restaurant opened, and a man came out, asking if I was Nicole. I nodded, and he took us upstairs, showing us an apartment that was exactly the same as the last. The third apartment we looked at wasn't much different. The sink and toilet were stained orange, and instead of Chinese food, it smelled like bad breath in the room. Kathy wouldn't move past the doorway and yanked my arm into the hallway as soon as I got within her reach.

“Did you see the cockroaches in the kitchen?” she asked as we hurried down the stairs. “You're not living in a place like that; you'll sleep on my couch before I let that happen.”

“This is all I can afford.”

“Did you check the Internet?”

“Just the newspaper.”

“I'm going to find you something better.”

When we got home, Kathy and I sat at the kitchen table. She asked me questions, like how many bedrooms I wanted, if I needed to be close to a train station, and how much I could afford. I watched her type my answers into her laptop.

“There are over two hundred apartments that fit your criteria,” she said. “We need to narrow down the list. What part of the city do you want to live in?”

I'd lived in a lot of places when I was on heroin: Chinatown and downtown, the border of Roxbury, and Dorchester. My dream had always been to live in a loft in the South End with a Boston terrier named Pork Chop and to teach first grade. But once I got arrested and charged with a felony, I lost the opportunity to ever teach. I couldn't
afford a dog and an apartment, and the South End was even farther away from my job than the Back Bay.

Michael had lived in the Back Bay, and so did Asher. It had an artsy vibe, unlike other parts of the city, and even though I saw Michael when I closed my eyes, I felt closer to him whenever I was near his old building.

“The Back Bay,” I said.

She tilted her computer screen. “Read this ad.”

The listing described a Back Bay loft between Columbus and Dartmouth, close to the train station, with exposed brick and lots of character. The pictures showed the bathroom, tiled in black and white, and bright yellow appliances in the kitchen. I didn't know the building, but I knew the intersection; it was only about ten blocks from Asher's apartment.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“It looks perfect.”

Kathy took out her cell phone and called the number on the ad. The landlord said the apartment would be available to rent in two months. He could show it to us tomorrow, and if I wanted to sign the lease, I needed the first month's rent, a security deposit, and a list of references. I had all three.

-15-

AT SATURDAY'S MEETING, ONE OF THE VETS asked if I had anything to share. Diem had to poke me to get my attention. I told him I wasn't feeling well, and he moved on to the next person. My mind was stuck on Asher; why hadn't he called or taken a break from his writing to see me for a few hours? Guiltily, I pulled my mind back to the meeting. I should have told the group about the lease I'd signed, how it was a loft like I'd always dreamed of living in. And I was 236 days sober. Couldn't I have shared that?

Asher was affecting all my decisions, and I was putting him before my sobriety. I couldn't let that happen if I wanted to stay clean, so at Sunday's meeting, I told everyone the truth about our relationship. Some said I should break up with him and stay single until I could take care of myself. Others said I showed maturity by facing my lie. They thought I could handle having a boyfriend as long as I put my well-being first. But I wasn't looking for advice. I thought I knew what was best for me: Asher. Besides, could I really say good-bye even if I wanted to?

I came home from work Monday afternoon to change my clothes for Kathy and Ashley's moving-out party. There was a note on the table from Tiffany saying she would meet us at the restaurant. Diem didn't get out of work until six, and the other girls were probably settling into their new apartment.

I passed their old room on the way to mine, and something made me stop and turn around. Yesterday, plants had filled the shelves, fake trees were in the corners of the room, paintings rested on top of end tables, and new bedding and towels were in bags that
covered the floor. Now, the only things left were the two twin beds and a dresser. I missed them already.

Kathy had been promoted to head baker at her pastry shop. Ashley was taking her three children to counseling, trying to repair their relationship after her meth addiction. Neither let the men they were dating—whom I had only recently heard about—get in the way of their sobriety; they attended meetings every day and called their sponsors when they needed to talk instead of enabling one another. They were independent women who didn't rely on their boyfriends or each other but worked as a team. They were my inspiration.

My phone beeped, snapping me out of my daze. On the screen was a text from Asher, asking if I wanted to come over tonight. I knew I shouldn't just run to him; I should let him know how much he had hurt me. I had acknowledged that my sobriety needed to come first—that was an important step. I wrote back, telling him I was going to dinner with the girls and that I'd be over after. I moved away from the doorway and went to my room to get ready.

*   *   *

Tiffany was silent all through dinner, her eyes fixed on her plate. She slid around pieces of lettuce and piled the tomatoes in a corner with her fork. Her body was lost in a loose sweatshirt and jeans. Her blonde hair looked crispy, and her black roots were more than an inch long.

I wasn't the only one who noticed. The girls had been staring at her, baiting her to join the conversation, but she didn't. When the waitress took our plates, Tiffany got up to use the bathroom. We all looked at one another.

“Do you think she's relapsed?” Kathy asked.

Diem looked at me and raised her brows. We'd discussed the same thing in our room after curfew several times. She thought I knew more than I was letting on because Tiffany was closer to me than to the other girls.

“We'd know if she was high,” I said.

“Not necessarily,” Kathy said. “She could be taking small bumps while we're at work, but not enough to make her look high.”

“Could any one of us just take a small bump?” I asked.

“She could be anorexic,” Diem said. “I never see her eat.”

“Do you think we should confront her?” Ashley asked.

“Do you remember what happened when someone confronted you?” Diem asked. She glanced around the table when she spoke. “It made
me
want to use more.”

“So what do we do?” Ashley asked.

“We can rat her out to the rehab center, but I don't see the point,” Diem said. “She's doing her job; what more can we ask for?”

Tiffany was at the apartment every night at curfew, she tested us like she was supposed to, and she was there in the morning when we all left for work. But what was wrong with these girls? If Tiffany had relapsed and we continued to ignore all the signs, we were enabling her. Maybe she needed our help in a different way and didn't know how to ask. I had to get through to her without calling her out or getting her in trouble with the rehab center. I just didn't know how.

“Diem is right,” Kathy said. Tiffany was slowly approaching the table, so her voice turned to a whisper. “Until she stops doing her job, I don't think calling the rehab center is the right thing to do.”

Tiffany's cheeks were flushed. She was moving her tongue over the front of her teeth, and her eyes darted around the table. When I had snorted coke, I used to wipe the leftover specks on my gums so I wouldn't waste any of it. The powder turned my mouth numb, and I would run my tongue across my teeth, enjoying the feeling.

There was a concerned expression on each girl's face as we made eye contact with one another. No one spoke, and the silence wasn't broken until the waitress delivered our checks.

When we got outside, Ashley and Kathy hugged Diem. I heard them tell her to have a safe move to Florida, and tell Tiffany something about taking care of herself. They both wrapped their arms around me and said they would be over as soon as I moved into my apartment. And they made me promise I would come over to theirs next week for dinner. Once we all said good-bye, we went in different directions. Mine was to the train station.

*   *   *

I tried to read Asher's eyes as he opened the door, but I didn't have a chance. He grabbed my waist and pulled me against him, cradling the back of my head with his hands. With my ear on his chest, I could feel his heart pounding. He had missed me.

“Screw you,” Nadal shouted, and something smashed to the floor.

We rushed inside and found a broken vase on the carpet. Nadal was sitting in the chair watching TV with a beer bottle in his hand.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Asher asked.

Nadal turned his head, and his movements were slow. His eyes were glossy and red, but they weren't swollen or teary. Something had to really be bothering him for him to have gotten high before I came over.

“Don't start with me, Asher,” Nadal said.

Asher opened his mouth, and I put my hand on his chest to quiet him. “Let me,” I whispered, and moved over to Nadal, crouching on the floor in front of him.

I still wouldn't call him my friend, but something had changed between us when we'd talked at the café and during the time we'd spent together since. Asher's shouting wasn't going to make Nadal's pain go away, and neither was Nadal's attempt to bury his feelings under a high. I knew that better than anyone. But I also knew there was something I could do to help.

“What happened?” I asked.

He took a sip of his beer. “Tyme, that's what happened.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“She got wasted and made a fool of herself, and then my mother called her a stripper.”

“Nadal, don't—”