Scars from a Memoir (16 page)

“What are you thinking about?” Tiffany asked.

“I'm so sober.”

“Feels weird when you're one of the only sober ones in the room, doesn't it?” She patted my leg, and when she pulled her hand away, I stopped her.

“What's going on with you?”

She held my stare for a few seconds. Makeup covered the tiredness around her eyes, but sadness filled them. Her lips rubbed together; she blinked hard and looked away. “Is that Mark? He's walking straight toward us.”

He was dressed in a black suit with a matching shirt and tie, and his shoes sparkled from the pin lighting.

“You didn't tell me he was so good-looking,” she whispered.

His dark hair complimented his olive complexion. When he smiled, his white teeth gleamed, and the scruff along his jawline was more defined. I'd never seen him in anything but jeans. He'd never looked this sexy before. Or maybe I just hadn't noticed.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, pulling me against him and kissing me on the cheek.

“This is Tiffany,” I said, after leaving his arms.

He leaned over to her side and kissed her cheek as well, but his hand still held the small of my back. “It's so nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she said. “The bar is beautiful. Congratulations.”

He thanked her, and his eyes moved back to me. They were intense and full of questions.

“I came to support you,” I said.

His smile grew, but his grip on my back didn't loosen. “You look gorgeous.”

In all the years I'd known him, he hadn't seen me in anything other than my work clothes, with mascara and a ponytail. He didn't break eye contact, yet his stare covered my whole body.

I grabbed the glass off the table, and just as I got the straw to my lips, he yanked it away from me and took a sip.

“It's orange juice,” I said.

“I was just making sure,” he replied. “If you came here and relapsed, I—”

“I know,” I told him, putting my hand on his chest. “Don't let us keep you; I'm sure everyone wants a piece of your attention tonight.”

His fingers traced circles on my back, sending my lips into a smile, and he shook his head and sighed. I wrapped my arms around him, and his spicy cologne filled my nose. The scent was delicious. His scruff brushed over my shoulder, and the air he exhaled hit my chest. I felt like I was being tickled on the inside.

“You'll never know how much this means to me,” he whispered. His breath warmed my skin. “Please don't take this the wrong way, but I don't want you to stay.”

“We're going to leave after we finish our juice.” I suddenly felt like a child, wearing Tiffany's clothes and drinking a nonalcoholic beverage. The only thing missing was a sippy cup.

“Tiffany, it was a pleasure,” he said.

“Same here.”

Mark squeezed my hand before walking away. As I watched him disappear into the crowd, I asked Tiffany, “Do you want to go?”

“I think that's probably a good idea.”

There were cabs waiting along the sidewalk, and we picked the first one in line. Tiffany climbed inside and I got in after her, giving the driver the address to our apartment. She rolled down the window, despite the rain trickling in, and used her purse to fan her face.

A thin cardigan covered my arms and I was still shivering, yet there were beads of sweat on Tiffany's forehead. “Are you OK?” I asked.

“Pull over,” she shouted to the driver.

He mumbled something in a language I didn't understand and stayed in the middle lane.

“If you don't pull over, I'm going to throw up in your backseat.”

The driver weaved into the right lane and came to a stop. Tiffany pulled herself across the seat but didn't make it out in time, throwing up all over the curb. I held her hair and rubbed her back, trying not to get a whiff of the bile that was splattering by my feet.

The rain had turned from a drizzle to a pour, and I was soaked. My hair stuck to the sides of my face, and I was standing in a puddle. Tiffany heaved again; now I heard laughter from behind me. Two girls were pointing and cheering Tiffany on. I gave them the finger and told them to keep walking.

“I'm done. You can let go,” Tiffany said. The wetness on her lips gleamed from the streetlights. Mascara and liner ran from her eyes.

She kept the window down, resting her head on the edge, and raindrops sprinkled over her face. Her eyes closed. She hugged her purse against her chest, her rounded shoulders causing her collarbone to stick out even more.

I paid the driver, and when I got on the curb, I held out my hand for her. She didn't take it. She followed me upstairs, and once we got inside our apartment, she went straight to her room. Diem and Mona still weren't home. Curfew wasn't for another hour and I didn't know when we'd be alone again, so I knocked on her door. When she didn't answer, I knocked a second time and waited a few moments before I walked in. None of the doors in our apartment had locks. This was the first time I appreciated that.

Tiffany was standing in front of her full-length mirror. Naked. When she noticed me come in, she didn't cover up. She turned and looked at herself from the side angle. She stretched her hands across her flat stomach. What caught my attention wasn't her frailness, although that was hard to look at; it was the way she rubbed her tummy.

“How far along are you?” I asked.

She closed her eyes and her chin dropped down. “Ten weeks.”

“Does the professor know?”

Tiffany was allergic to birth control medicine. It was a conversation we'd had about a month ago when I'd told her I was going on the pill. She said she and the professor used condoms and complained how inconvenient they were. Something else was going on, though—pregnancy alone couldn't explain all the signs—but this was a start.

“He doesn't need to know because I'm having an abortion.”

She took one last glance in the mirror before slipping on a bathrobe and getting into bed. Her arms wrapped around one of the decorative pillows, and she held it against her chest.

“I'll go with you.”

She shook her head. “I don't need anyone.”

“I know what you're going through.” I sat down next to her and put my hands on her knees. “Trust me, you need someone there.”

“Did it hurt?”

*   *   *

I'd left the clinic right before the doctor had started the procedure, deciding the baby was going to be my reason to quit dope. How I'd sat in the hotel room that I'd shared with Sunshine, my hands rubbing my belly, knowing that little bean-shaped blob was going to grow into something special. There were five wax-paper packets on the table that I'd gotten that morning, and they were going in my vein. Then I'd get clean. During my nod, I dreamed of my little girl. She was on my lap in the park, pointing to different parts on my body and saying their name. That was until I noticed the blood on her diaper. When I woke up from my nod, I went to the bathroom; clots of blood with something tissue-like filled the toilet.

*   *   *

My eyes opened, meeting Tiffany's. “I went to the clinic, but I couldn't do it…and yet the miscarriage I caused from using was even worse.”

“I can't have this baby.”

“Why?”

“I just can't.”

I reached for her hand. “I wish someone had been there with me.” I took a deep breath. “I'm going to be there for you.”

“My appointment is on Monday.”

I nodded and pulled her into my lap. She rested her head on my leg, and I ran my fingers through her hair. Her tears fell onto my shorts that were already wet from the rain.

“I'm so messed up, Nicole.”

I rocked back and forth, swaying to the rhythm of the droplets that were hitting the window. When she finally stopped crying, I asked her what was so messed up. She didn't answer. She pretended to be asleep.

-18-

WHEN I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING, snuggling one of Tiffany's decorative pillows, she was gone. Last night's clothes were still on the floor, and the kitchen didn't smell like coffee. I sent her a text asking if she was OK and got into the shower. I didn't have much time. Asher was picking me up in an hour, and it was going to take me that long to get ready. I had no idea what a person was supposed to wear when meeting the ex-boyfriend of her dead brother. Maybe he'd kick me out before I even got inside.

I hadn't said anything to my parents about Jesse yet, or that Asher was related to him. I wanted to hear Jesse's side first—how much my parents knew about him, and Michael's last few months before he died—and then my parents and I would have that discussion. I wanted to repair things, not make my parents retell their nightmare.

The only full-length mirror was in Tiffany's room, and I stood in front of it like she had last night, looking at myself from different angles. I'd borrowed one of her dresses, a light pink maxi with vines of dark flowers going up one side, and a pair of flat sandals. I wore my hair down and straight and put on a light coat of mascara and lip gloss. I was sure Jesse had an image of me in his head. I wanted to show him how much I'd changed, not hide behind a layer of makeup.

Asher called when he was outside. I took one last spin, grabbed my purse, and replayed Mark's words as I walked down the stairs. While I was getting ready, he had phoned to thank me again for coming to his bar opening, and I'd told him about Jesse. “You both have pain, but this isn't just about Michael; it's about you and Jesse too,” Mark said. “Seeing how far you've come and what you've accomplished will help him heal. Let his words heal you.”

I got inside the taxi; Asher pulled me close, rubbed his nose over my cheek, and gave me a kiss. “You look beautiful.”

The cars on the other side of the street were idle in traffic, but we passed through each intersection without having to stop. Where were the red lights and the bumper-to-bumper pace?

Until I met Asher, I never thought I'd get the chance to speak with Jesse. Talking to my parents wouldn't be the same; knowing Michael, he probably kept things from them. He wouldn't have done that with Jesse. The truth was only minutes away.

My limbs were numb, my head cloudy. I could barely feel Asher's breath, which hit the side of my face, and his hands resting over my chest. I was floating above my body, watching everything from the outside looking in. Maybe that was the best place for me to be.

I hadn't rehearsed what I was going to say. I didn't know how I'd handle his words. Would I run out of his apartment and take the train to Roxbury to buy dope, or would I feel relief?

The cab double-parked in front of a tall building that had glass windows covering the front and a doorman standing outside. I didn't know what part of the city we were in or what roads we'd taken to get here. It didn't matter. Maybe it did if I had to catch a train to Roxbury.

The doorman opened the door to the backseat, and Asher climbed out. He reached for my hand; my feet touched the ground. He didn't let go when we moved through the lobby, when he signed in at the desk, or when we stepped into the elevator. His finger touched the PH button, and it lit up. Music played softly. There weren't any words, just the sound of a piano. The back wall held all my weight and supported my neck as I watched the numbers change, quickly passing each floor.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

Underneath the button that closed the elevator doors was a red knob.
Stop
, was written on it.

Eleven. Twelve.

The numbers stopped after fifteen.

I yanked my hand out of Asher's and pulled the knob. The elevator jerked and halted between the fourteenth and fifteenth floors. My arms went over my head, my face pressing against the cold metal of the steel elevator door. My lungs felt like they were closed, but I still took deep breaths.

Asher's fingers went to my stomach. His chin nuzzled my neck. “You can do this.”

“I can't.”

“He's just as nervous about meeting you.”

“I'm not ready. I thought I was, but this is…this is all too real.”

He moved to my shoulders and spun me around. “You've been waiting years for these answers. Don't you think it's time you finally got them?”

Only one thing could settle my stomach, take away the nausea, and calm my nerves. My arms were healed, so it would be easy to find a vein. It had been so long since I'd shot up that one bag would get me so rocked that this whole day would melt into something beautiful.

“Nicole?”

I shook my head, focusing on Asher's face again.

“Don't go to that place,” he said.

“It's so much easier.”

“No, you're going to stay here with me and think about Michael.”

I nodded.

“Remember what you said; there was a reason Michael brought us together.” His hands went to my cheeks. “This is one of the reasons.”

“I know.”

“Jesse is going to give you the closure you need. The closure both of you need.”

We both had pain, but I was the cause of his. My own, too. Maybe the closure Jesse needed was to tell me what he thought of me, that I'd ruined everyone's life. I deserved that, but would hearing about the last moments of my brother's life, how he had found me on the street, and how much my parents knew be enough to help me move on?

“I'm going to push the button now. Are you OK with that?” he asked.

I looked into his eyes.

After today, I didn't know if things would ever be the same between Asher and me. Digging up the past meant Asher would see the hurt and pain in Jesse's face again, and he could resent me for what I'd put his family through. I was sacrificing my relationship for the truth. Was that putting my sobriety first? I didn't know. I didn't know anything anymore.

“Nicole, are you OK with that?” Asher's voice echoed around me, coming from every direction.

My stomach churned, my mouth watered, and my body began to shake. I was about to meet my brother's soul mate, and all I could think about was nodding out. I didn't have to face this. Heroin could take these nerves away; it could swallow my memories and fill me with warmth. I could have that again. I could make all this pain disappear.

But I needed to stay sober. Not just for me—for Claire, my parents, and Michael, too.

“Cole?”