Scars from a Memoir (18 page)

I shouldn't have been happy—graduate school would help better his writing—but I was. We had just started, and I didn't want us to end. It was too soon. Until I could leave the state, which was ten months away, it would always be too soon.

“Why?”

“I think we both know the answer.”

“
That's
the only reason?”

He smiled. “I submitted my manuscript to my editor, and from what he's read so far, he's thinks this novel could turn me into a published author. So no, you're not the only reason.”

“You're already published, though.”

“Just my short stories. This would be my first novel, and that's what counts.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him against me. “I guess I should tell you I signed the lease.”

“A lease to what? An apartment? Why didn't you tell me?”

I had told Mark all about my apartment. I must have forgotten to share the news with Asher.

“We haven't really had a chance to talk,” I said.

“That's going to change, right now.” He took my hand and led me to the curb, hailing a taxi.

“Are we going to your apartment?”

He winked, and I felt my pulse quicken.

“I think it's better if we go to the park,” he said. “We don't get much talking done at my place.”

*   *   *

I lay on my bed, cuddled beneath the covers, one hand gripping the blanket and the other holding my cell phone to my ear. My parents had just finished dinner, and Mom was telling me about a cooking club she'd joined and how they were learning to prepare different cuisines. Tonight she had tried Chinese. My father was on the line, too, and said it was almost as good as Panda Garden, the restaurant we'd always gone to when Michael and I were kids. I could picture my father sitting with the cordless phone in the recliner in the family room, the Red Sox playing on the TV. Mom would still be in the kitchen, the phone's spiral cord stretched out from the wall as she wiped down the counters.

Jesse hadn't said anything to my parents about us meeting or that I was dating his brother. He thought my parents should hear it from me. I agreed—I just didn't know how to tell them. During my taxi ride home from the park, I'd rehearsed various ways to approach it. Nothing I came up with seemed right.

“I'm dating Jesse's brother,” I suddenly said, interrupting my mom, who had begun telling me why she chose low sodium soy sauce over high. There was silence. My father turned off the baseball game. “You already know that I've been seeing someone, but I thought you should know it's Asher.”

“How…” Dad said. “How did you meet him? Through Jesse?”

I told them about the night I'd gone out with Sada, skipping the part about her and Nadal doing coke in his bedroom, and how Asher and I started going for walks. After I explained that Asher had told me that Jesse was his brother, there was silence. “I know you weren't excited when I told you I was dating someone. Do you still feel the same?”

Because my parents were going to Nar-Anon meetings, they knew all about the one-year dating preference. When I'd first told them there was a guy in my life, they were disappointed. They said they were worried that he would enable me and I'd relapse. I tried to assure them he wasn't an addict and was good for my sobriety, but it didn't matter. They wanted what was best for me, and a man wasn't it.

“I still don't think you're ready to date,” Mom said.

“I agree with your mother,” Dad said. “But since you're not going to listen to us, I feel better knowing it's Asher. Michael always said that he and Nadal were real gentlemen.”

It was strange hearing Jesse's name, along with Asher's and Nadal's, come out of my father's mouth. My two worlds were finally merging, but I hadn't told them the most important part.

“I met Jesse today.” I waited for them to say something, but they didn't. My mother's breathing just got heavier. “Asher took me to his apartment, and we finally got the chance to talk.”

I heard a click, and Dad said, “Hun, wait.”

“Dad?”

“Your mother went upstairs. She's getting there, but she's still fragile.”

My dad was the stronger of the two, but his pain showed in his voice rather than through tears. I didn't think Mom hanging up had anything to do with Asher or that I'd met Jesse. It was being reminded of what she'd lost, of what I took from her. Her son was gone, and my parents would never be the same. Neither would I.

“I know, Dad, but I wanted to be honest with you.”

“You know we're coming to Boston when you move into your new apartment. We had planned on seeing Jesse, but now that you two have met, he should come to dinner. Asher, too.”

“You want Asher to be there?”

“He's important to you, isn't he?”

I didn't answer his question. If Asher weren't important to me, I wouldn't have said anything to my parents.

“Before you set anything up, let me run it by your mother.”

I told him it was a little over a month away, and he said he'd let me know. Before he hung up, he thanked me for being honest. When an addict was commended for
being honest
, the phrase wasn't just a common statement. I knew my father was thanking me not only for telling them about Asher and Jesse but also for not lying. That was new for me, and he recognized that.

Just as I turned the phone off, I heard a scream from Tiffany's room and jumped out of bed. I hadn't realized anyone was home besides me. Tiffany was in front of her closet, pulling pants and shirts off their hangers and throwing them on the floor. Her mouth was open, her lips in a snarl, and spit was flying out as she grunted.

“What's wrong?” I asked, stepping between her and the remaining clothes.

“I can't find anything to wear.”

I put my hands on her shoulders, trying to pull her into a hug, but she wouldn't move. “I'll help you, OK? What do you need an outfit for?”

“Tomorrow.”

“For school?”

“Get out of my way!” She pushed my hands off her and reached into her closet, tugging the rest of her clothes off the rod and tossing them across her room. She grabbed her comforter and ripped it off the bed. I ducked as pillows flew toward me.

“Tiffany, stop.” I gripped her waist and held her down on the mattress. She was so light that I needed only my arms, but I straddled her waist too. “What's wrong with you?”

Tears and lines of mascara streamed down her pimpled cheeks. Her head rolled from side to side as though she were fighting something that wanted to come out. “I don't know what to wear,” she yelled.

“I'm going to help you find something, but you have to tell me what you need an outfit for.”

“My baby,” she whispered, her head no longer moving. “For when I kill my baby.”

I had been so consumed with Asher, Jesse, and my parents that I'd forgotten Tiffany's abortion was scheduled for tomorrow. When I had gone in for mine, I hadn't acted like this. But I had thought I knew what I wanted until I got on the doctor's table. “Are you sure this is what you want? No one is making you have an abortion; you can—”

“Yes!” She shouted the word over and over again, banging her head against the bed. I held her face to stop her, and her expression turned blank. Her lids were covered in black makeup, and the whites of her eyes were red from crying—but her pupils were the right size. Her mouth wasn't dry, and there was no powder on the inside of her nose. Still, something wasn't right.

“Why does it matter what you wear?”

“It's a funeral, Nicole,” she said, drawing out the last part of my name. “I'm never going to forget this day.”

“It doesn't have to be a funeral. You don't have to do this—”

“I have to; the doctor said I should.”

I released her face and moved next to her. “What doctor?”

“The doctor I've been seeing.”

“For what?” I asked.

“The cancer.”

“You have cancer?”

Her eyes welled again, and her lip quivered. She reached for my hand and rubbed my fingers along her cheek. “I'm going to be joining my baby soon.”

-21-

TIFFANY HAD A BRAIN TUMOR? Did that cause weight loss and lack of appetite? I needed to do some research. Before my grandmother died, her skin had turned a strange color, and her hair thinned and fell out after she went through chemo and took all the medications. I didn't know if brain tumors would cause the same side effects, but Tiffany had symptoms similar to the ones my grandmother had. When I asked where in her brain the tumor was located, how the doctor was treating her, and what medications she was on, she wouldn't answer. She said it was inoperable and terminal and then rolled on her side and sucked the tips of her fingers. She was twenty-eight and in love with the professor…and she knew she was going to die. I couldn't blame her for acting this way.

Tiffany needed someone to talk to…a professional who wouldn't cry and show fear. I wasn't that person. My eyes welled when I heard her diagnosis. But a therapist would have the right words and know how to balance her meds with her addiction. But then, with a death sentence, I wasn't sure whether controlling her medication was even important at this stage.

I stayed in her room for the night, curling up on the bottom half of her bed. I lit her cigarette when her hands fumbled with the lighter, rubbed her back when she thrashed under the covers. My eyes wouldn't leave her. I thought that if I looked away for a second, something might happen, like she'd stop breathing. Or maybe if I stared at her body long enough, my gaze would destroy the tumor that was killing her.

I hadn't envied only Tiffany's body when I'd first moved into sober living; I'd also yearned for her strength. She had it together—
finishing her college degree, staying sober after an intense coke addiction, and mentoring the women she lived with. I had been so weak, unsure how I was going to stay clean or get a job with a criminal record, and she'd held my hand through all my insecurities. She brought me to meetings, encouraged me to share my emotions with the group, and made sure I was on time to meet with my parole officer. Our situations were different, but I was going to do the same for her.

The blanket jerked; Tiffany leaned over the bed, throwing up in the wastebasket I'd placed on the floor. I tried to hold her hair, but between heaves, she asked for some privacy. We had only an hour before her appointment, so I left her room to get ready. We passed each other when I came out of the bathroom; her head hung low, and her feet dragged on the ground.

I knocked on her bedroom door. “Do you need help picking out an outfit?” Finding something to wear to her appointment had been really important to her last night, and her room was still a mess. The clothes from her closet were all over the floor; she was never going to find an outfit with everything mixed and piled together, and I didn't want her to be late.

She opened the door dressed in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, her wet hair in a knot on top of her head and wearing no makeup. “Nope, let's go.”

“That's what you're going to wear?”

“Do you have a problem with my outfit?”

“No, it's just that last night…” I didn't need to make her relive what had happened. “You're probably going to have some cramps, so something loose around your stomach is perfect.”

She scowled.

Nothing I said was right. That's why she needed to talk to a professional. No one had come with me when I'd gone in for my abortion, and I'd wished I had a hand to hold. At least Tiffany wasn't going alone.

We got in a taxi, and when the driver asked for the address, she told him to wait and searched her purse.

“Commonwealth, between Naples and Babcock,” I said, and the driver pulled into traffic. Tiffany looked at me. “I've been there before, remember?”

She closed her purse and stared out the window, drawing shapes on the glass. There was a noise coming from her mouth, a combination of humming and groaning. I touched her arm to calm her, but she threw my hand off and continued tracing circles on the window. Heather, one of the squatters who'd hung out at my old dealer's house, had acted the same way as Tiffany: drawing things in the air with her fingers, making weird sounds, and behaving like a child. But Heather was on meth, so being beyond strange was normal for her. People dealt with stress and pain in different ways; cancer meds were probably some heavy shit, but would they make her act this crazy?

Once inside the clinic, Tiffany collected the paperwork from the receptionist and handed it to me, telling me to fill it out and make up what I didn't know. I did the best I could, leaving her list of medications and medical conditions blank, and handed back the clipboard.

Tiffany was gone when I turned around; she had taken a seat at the kids’ table, helping a little girl with a puzzle. I sat behind her in one of the adult-sized chairs. There were toys scattered throughout the room and kids playing, reading books, and racing cars around the miniature train track. The clinic didn't only perform abortions. For the women who were here getting one, the children were a horrible reminder of the procedure they were about to have done and the emotions that would follow.

A nurse appeared in the doorway and called out Tiffany's name. Tiffany didn't respond. She didn't even stand up.

I moved to her side. “They're ready for you.”

She looked up as though she didn't recognize me and continued trying to fit a corner puzzle piece into the center of the picture.

“Tiffany, we have to go.” I put my hand on her elbow and lightly pulled.

“Get off me,” she said a little too loudly.

The girl she shared the table with left to sit on her mom's lap, and the other kids stared.

Tiffany pushed off the table, sending the plastic chair toppling over, and joined the nurse. At the end of the hallway, the nurse took her height and weight before escorting us into a private room. I
remembered walking down the same hall, the scale showing ninety-six pounds. Tiffany weighed less than that.

She changed into the cloth gown and got up on the table. Her legs swung into it, causing the paper to crackle and her feet to thump against the side. She danced to her humming, dipping her shoulders and wiggling her waist. She obviously didn't want me to touch her, so I didn't get too close.