Scars from a Memoir (15 page)

He turned to face Asher, and my eyes followed. When he looked back at me, his expression was soft. “I'm sorry, Brother.” He stood and stepped over me, glancing between Asher and me. “I didn't mean to start shit.”

“That's exactly what you wanted to do.”

Nadal looked between Asher and me and shook his head. “Whatever,” he said, disappearing from the room.

“What was that all about?” I asked. Asher wouldn't look at me, so I moved over to the couch and kneeled on the cushions, putting my hands on his shoulders. “Asher, talk to me.”

When he finally glanced up, there was hesitation in his eyes. “My parents were in town for the weekend. Nadal brought Tyme to dinner, and it didn't go well…”

“You said you were writing all weekend. You lied to me?”

“I didn't lie; I wrote this weekend.”

Asher had finally told me a little bit more about his parents. The doctor and his charity-running wife wouldn't be excited to hear that their son was dating a recovered addict with a criminal record. He said he and his brother were already too dark for their parents’ taste, with their pierced skulls and Goth clothes. But if Asher's mom thought Tyme looked like a stripper, I could only imagine what she'd think of my track marks. He was too ashamed to introduce me to his parents. That was the only explanation.

My hands dropped from his shoulders, and I walked toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

His fingers gripped my stomach. “Don't go.”

“So you typed a few words? I don't consider that writing all weekend. If Nadal hadn't said anything, I never would have found out your parents had been here.”

“No, I—”

“I've been a mess for the last three days, wondering why you didn't call or want to see me. Now I know why.”

“No you don't,” he whispered.

He tried to turn me around, but my feet wouldn't move.

“I told my parents about us, and that didn't go so well either.” His lips touched my ear. “I didn't tell you because I didn't want to hurt you.”

“They know I'm Michael's sister? I was a heroin addict? I sold my body—”

“They know everything, even how I feel about you.”

My whole body started to shake. “Your parents don't want us to be together, do they?”

“I don't care what my parents think.”

“I do! If they never accept me, how can we be together?”

“My parents’ opinion has never stopped me from doing what I want.”

I glanced around the living room. “But you need their support, don't you? What if they threatened to take everything away?”

“Have you told your parents about me?”

He didn't answer my question. Maybe that was because he knew I was right and he didn't want to admit the truth. Not only had he lied, but I was never going to be welcomed by his family. Was Asher really right for me? I searched his face. Had I secretly known this was coming all along?

“They don't know about your connection to Michael,” I said. “But yes, I told them about you.”

“It seems like a rather important detail to leave out.” His hands went to my stomach. “Come here, I need—”

I pushed his hands off my stomach and turned around. “You don't understand.”

He moved closer, and I took a step back. “Make me understand.”

“Every time Michael's name comes up, my parents completely shut down. So, yes, I had to leave out that detail. But if I did tell them, would they even know who Jesse is?”

“Would they know who Jesse is? What are you talking about?”

I felt my eyes fill with tears, and I caught them just before they dripped off my chin.

“There's so many things I don't know. So much I don't understand.” My chest tightened, and I had to fight through the lump in my throat.

“Like what?”

“Did he tell my parents he was gay? Did they meet Jesse? The letter my parents sent me in prison said the funeral was beautiful, but I don't know who was there or any of the details.”

Asher reached for my hands, but I pulled away.

“I don't know what Michael loved about Jesse, if he liked hanging out with you and Nadal, how much he shared with my parents, or how he found me on the street the night he died.”

“Do you want those answers?”

“Of course I do. I lost so much because of heroin…I missed so much…I'd do anything to have a little of it back.”

“Then Jesse should be the one to give those answers to you.”

“But he would never—”

“He's ready to meet you, Nicole. Are you ready to meet him?”

-16-

TIFFANY WAS MAKING COFFEE as I came out of the bathroom. I thought I'd smelled it when I'd gotten out of bed, so this must be her second pot. Today, unlike most mornings, she was dressed and her makeup was done. On the table were two packets—like the ones she'd given to Diem and me when we first moved in—listing the Twelve Steps, a cleaning schedule, the rules, address and phone number to our apartment, and our meeting spot.

“When are the new girls coming?” I asked.

She had taken the seat across from me and was reading her textbook. “Anytime now.”

“What are they in for?”

“Coke and crystal.”

With everything that had been going on with Asher, I'd forgotten about Mark and the idea I'd come up with to show how much I appreciated his friendship. It would also give me a chance to spend more time with Tiffany and possibly find out what was going on with her.

“Do you have plans for Saturday night?”

She let out a long sigh and closed her book. “Why?”

“The grand opening of Mark's new bar is on Saturday, and I want to go and support him.”

“Are you telling me this because you want my approval?”

“No, I want you to come with me.”

Nothing in our rulebook said we couldn't go to a bar. But as our housemother, Tiffany might have a separate set of rules.

“The rehab center wouldn't be impressed.”

“Who's going to tell them?”

She took a sip of her coffee and swished it around in her mouth before she swallowed. “An hour, no more—and you better not say a word to anyone about it.”

I grinned and squeezed her shoulder on my way out the door.

*   *   *

Diem had to work, so Tiffany and I took the new girls to their first meeting. While we walked, Chastity, the crystal meth addict, asked how they were run. I told her they were just like group meetings in rehab, where everyone had a chance to speak and share what happened during their day.

“Have you gotten in trouble for being late for curfew?” she asked.

“I've never been late. I wouldn't recommend it; she'll kick you out.”

“But midnight? That's bullshit.”

“You'll get used to it.”

“How do you pass your drug tests?”

I glanced over my shoulder. Tiffany and our other new roommate, Mona, the coke addict, were too far behind to hear us. “What do you mean?”

“Do you use someone else's pee or what?”

“I've been sober for two hundred and thirty-seven days.”

“Junkie? Tweaker? Coke head?”

“Junkie.”

“So you switched to alcohol so it doesn't show up in your pee?”

“It's not just a pee test; she uses a breathalyzer too.”

“How do you get around it?”

We stopped at the crosswalk and I looked into her eyes. They were lost. “I don't.”

“Whatever. I'll get it out of you eventually. A girl's got to learn the tricks to every new pad; it's just a matter of time before I figure out yours.”

In rehab, we were told at least one of our roommates in sober living would relapse. I guess the four of us had been a rare bunch. Chastity hadn't been out for a day; she was probably only going to last a few more. I wasn't a goody-goody or about to preach all the
wrongs and rights of living a clean life, but damn, I hadn't been this hungry the day I'd gotten out. Or maybe I had been; I just knew the consequences if I used.

*   *   *

Asher's lips met mine as soon as he opened the door. His hands grabbed me, lifting me in the air, and he carried me to the kitchen table. I clung to him in a desperate attempt to soak in the warm strength that seemed to flow from his body.

Last night was still fresh in my mind. I had left his place right after he'd asked if I would meet Jesse. I needed to process everything: the potential meeting of Michael's ex, Asher lying about his parents’ visit, and the fact that they weren't willing to accept me. I still didn't know how I felt about any of it, and I'd hit the ignore button the two times he'd called today, sending him a text that I'd be over later. Sometime throughout my day, the confusion I felt was replaced with the need to be with him again.

*   *   *

He gently set me on the floor, with a steady hand on my back as I slowly let go of him, and then he led me over to the couch. There was an open can of soda on the table, and he handed it to me. It was still cold.

“I'm sorry I lied to you.”

There weren't any lights on, but the TV lit up his face. I'd always been able to read a man by his eyes. Yesterday, his were sharp and cold. Now they were filled with honesty.

“I accept your apology, but don't ever lie to me again.”

He didn't say anything. He didn't need to; his response could be felt in his touch.

“If you want to be a part of my life, you need to understand that my sobriety comes first. I can't be constantly worried that you're hiding things from me to protect my feelings.”

“I don't want to be the cause of your pain; I want to be the reason you smile.”

“That doesn't make it right.”

He nodded. “I know.”

I couldn't change the way his parents felt about me. My past wasn't going anywhere, and it was their choice not to accept it. I didn't know how that was going to affect my relationship with Asher, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that there was one thing I could do to heal. For years, questions had haunted me, and those answers were finally within my reach. Fear shouldn't stop me from finding out the truth. “It's time I confront my brother's death. I'm ready to meet Jesse.”

-17-

CHASTITY DIDN'T LAST EVEN A WEEK. On her second night, she tested positive for meth and Tiffany booted her. She didn't go easily. Tiffany had to call the police and have her escorted out of the building. But with her gone, Diem hanging out with friends, and Mona working the night shift at her new job, Tiffany and I didn't have to explain why we were getting ready together or where we were going for the night.

When I'd first met Tiffany, I was envious of her body; she had toned legs and arms, the perfect pinkish complexion, and boobs that were just a little too big for her frame. But now when she took off her T-shirt to slide on a tank top, her collarbone and ribs stuck out. Instead of muscular arms and legs, there was skin tightly wrapped around her bones. Her face was gray, as though she had moisturized with cigarette ash. Her strapless bra pushed up a chest that looked like a teenager's going through puberty.

I chose a pair of dressy, black shorts and a tube top, with heeled sandals to make me average height. Tiffany didn't have to use concealer on my face—there was nothing to hide anymore—but she painted my eyes in sparkly black shadow and traced my lids with liner. My hair had grown out so much since it had been cut in prison, and she straightened the shoulder-length locks and curled the ends.

It was drizzling and chilly; neither of us wanted to get wet, so we took a cab. Tiffany reached into her purse to pay half the fare, and something rattled inside. The noise sounded like pill bottles, but it was too dark to see inside her bag. And when the bouncer at the door asked for her ID, she closed her purse too fast for me to get a glimpse.

Frosted glass chandeliers hung over each of the black high-tops. Sheer silver panels draped over the walls and dangled between the booths to give privacy. The same lighting from Mark's bedroom—tiny, star-like bulbs—were scattered between the chandeliers. The waiters, walking around with trays of champagne, were dressed in all black with white ties. I was underdressed compared to the people around me.

“Thanks for coming,” I told Tiffany. With all the chatter and the background music that sounded like rain, I could barely hear myself.

“Should we get a drink?” Tiffany said in my ear.

I nodded, and she reached for my hand, pulling me further into the room. We squeezed into a spot near the end and leaned against the bar's marble edge.

“What can I get you?” a bartender finally asked.

“Orange juice,” Tiffany said.

“A screwdriver?”

“Just juice; hold the vodka,” she said.

He looked at me.

“I'll have the same.”

As I watched the bartender fill our tumblers with ice, I smiled on the inside. This was what normal people did on the weekends, and I fit in. I wasn't tempted to order anything stronger, and from what I could tell, neither was Tiffany. She was still holding my hand, and it wasn't sweaty or shaky. There was no uncertainty or waver in her tone. I glanced at her, noted the weight loss, remembered the quiet behavior and missed meetings. She hadn't relapsed on booze, but something was going on with her.

After the bartender handed us our drinks, we moved back, letting a couple take our place. I scanned the room, but there were too many people to locate Mark. Clusters hung out at the high-tops and tables, a crowd danced in the center, and others moved through the open pathways.

“He'll be working the room, so it's better if we stay in one place and watch for him,” she said.

We moved over to the far wall where it was less crowded, and when a group got up, we took their booth. Setting my glass on the shiny, black table, I leaned into the cushions and glanced around. Women's skirts were kicked up to the top of their thighs, their chests
spilled out of low-cut tops, and they flirted with their lips. The men weren't looking at their eyes when they spoke. But what really stood out was the sloppiness. People tripping over their own feet and drinks sloshed on clothes. I knew the headache they were going to feel in the morning. I didn't miss that or the regret of waking up next to someone I didn't recognize. But I envied the high, falling into a womb of warmth and giving up the control of my body.