Scars from a Memoir (17 page)

“Just give me a second!” I snapped. I hadn't meant for it to come out so harsh. My pulse raced through my veins, and sweat ran down the sides of my body. I pushed off the elevator doors and paced the small space. My reflection appeared in the mirrored wall behind us; unpinned pupils stared back at me. I could hear Michael's voice; he was urging me forward. I closed my eyes, and his face came into view. But the warmth I knew heroin could give me was louder, and it caused my veins to ache. Michael shouted so that I could hear him above everything else, telling me I was strong enough. Even dead, his faith in me was endless. His words brought comfort; the love in his eyes gave me strength. He was right. I could do this.

“I'm ready,” I said.

The elevator shook for a brief second before it climbed the remaining flight. I watched the PH light up; brightness filled the elevator as the door swung open. As with Michael's old place, the elevator led directly into Jesse's apartment without a hallway or a door to walk through. My eyes adjusted to the sunlight. There was a sitting area, with couches, tables, and lamps right in front of the wall that had floor-to-ceiling windows. The kitchen was to the left. Everything was white and looked clean.

Jesse sat on one of the couches with a book in his hands. He had glanced over when the elevator chimed and opened, but I pretended not to notice. This was where Michael had spent so much time, and I was taking it all in.

Asher held my hand, and we moved into the entryway. The soles of my sandals clicked on the hardwood floors. The heat between our skin caused mine to sweat.

Jesse's strides were long, but he appeared to be moving in slow motion. Everything about his pace was exaggerated: his steps, his arms swinging at his sides, his eyebrows rising as he got closer. He stopped a few feet away. “You look so much like him,” he said.

I'd heard that a lot when I was a kid, from Michael's old teachers and from a few of his friends when I had visited him in college. After I'd moved to Boston, I was too much of a mess for there to be any resemblance.

“It's nice to finally meet you, Cole.”

“Cole?” I said.

He opened his arms.

Asher released my hand.

I felt my feet move forward and stop right in front of him. My arms wrapped around his stomach. My head fell against his chest. My eyes closed.

-19-

THERE HAD BEEN MOMENTS IN MY LIFE that felt like a dream. My body would move and words would come from my mouth, but I wasn't controlling any of it. The first time it happened was when Michael got shot, and then when I turned myself in to the police. It happened again as I walked down the aisle, preparing to say my speech at the rehab's graduation ceremony. And it was happening now.

Jesse was the same height and build as Michael, and his arms hugged me tight. I never wanted him to let go. My eyes welled and my nose ran, soaking his shirt. He pulled me even closer. “It's OK to cry,” he said, making the tears come faster.

“You feel just like him,” I said between sniffles.

“We were a lot alike,” he said. “But from what Asher tells me, you and your brother share many of the same qualities as well.”

“We do?”

“Let me get you a tissue, and we can talk.”

My mascara had left a stain on his shirt. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—”

“Don't worry about it; it's just a shirt.”

When Jesse went into the kitchen, Asher grabbed my hand and took me over to one of the couches. Jesse returned with a box of tissues and three bottles of water, placing them on the table in front of me. He sat in the chair across from us.

The couch was stiff, and the pillows were for show, not comfort. There wasn't a speck of dust in the air or on the table, and nothing was out of place. But there was a homey feel to his apartment. The décor in the living room was contemporary and bold; it blended so
well with Jesse's masculinity and bright blue eyes. His features were sharp, with a strong jawline, defined nose, and hair that was spiked and messy. I could tell why Michael had been attracted to him.

I didn't know where to start, but I wanted to ease into the conversation. His apartment seemed like a good way to do that. “Have you always lived here?”

“If you mean while I was dating Michael, then yes, we spent a lot of time here. I spent a lot of time at his place too.”

I glanced over at the kitchen. I pictured Michael making dinner, like he had done for me so many times, and setting the dining room table. I could see him on the couch, his legs resting on the ottoman and a glass of wine in his hand. “What happened to all his stuff?”

“Now that you've almost completed sober living, your parents are hoping you'll take it out of storage and move it into your new apartment.”

“They want
me
to have it?”

“That's why we didn't include it in the sale of his condo.”

“So you keep in touch with my mom and dad?”

He smiled and nodded. “They've been wonderful. You're lucky to have them as parents.”

Did they feel the same way about me? My parents would always love me, but I didn't know if they were proud of what I'd accomplished. I didn't know if they even knew what I'd gone through and how far I'd come.

“When did you meet them?”

“Not too long after you threatened to show them the picture of Michael and me kissing.”

I had found that picture during one of my attempts to score money. I'd told Michael I was going to show it to our parents if he didn't help me. He must have taken me seriously. Heroin had turned me into such a monster.

I reached for a tissue. “I'm sorry—”

“You don't have to be sorry. You've already paid for those mistakes. Your past is your past. I don't hold it against you.”

“You should.”

And I meant that. If I were Jesse, I wouldn't have let me in. I never would have agreed to meet me. He was a better person than I was.

“It wasn't your fault. Michael knew what kind of people hung out on the streets and what they were capable of.” He pulled one of the pillows onto his lap and gripped the edge. “He took a risk every time he went to find you, including the night he got
himself
killed.”

“How did he find me?”

“The track, where you worked, is how he originally found you.”

“But I never told him I was a prostitute.” I did tell Michael that I sold my body to whoever was willing to buy it, but I'd never used the word “prostitute”.

“You didn't have to tell him. He went to Nar-Anon meetings and learned everything he needed to know about your way of life. Once he found you on the track, he followed you to the hotel and paid the owner for information.”

“Frankie helped him out?”

Frankie, that scumbag hotel owner, had really scored. He got money off my brother and sex from me because I couldn't afford to pay my rent.

Jesse took the last sip from his bottle of water. “Michael went to Frankie at least once a week, paying him to find out whether you were at the hotel or on the streets, and he'd tell Michael what he knew.”

“But Michael never came to my room or tried to stop me from working.”

“Would it have mattered?”

I didn't have to think about his question. I already knew the answer and shook my head.

“Knowing where you were, that you weren't dead, gave him some sort of peace,” Jesse said. “I didn't understand it, but I guess that was his way of making sure you were still alive.”

There was a knot in my throat, a bigger one than I'd ever felt before. I couldn't stop the tears from streaming down my cheeks, my bottom lip from quivering, or my body from shaking. I couldn't get my next question out.

“Frankie called Michael when you and Dustin left rehab and moved back into the hotel. But after the hotel burned down, Michael hired a private investigator.” He put up his finger and then disappeared down the hallway.

Asher took his arm off my shoulder and rubbed circles on my back. “Are you feeling any better?”

His expression hadn't changed since we'd sat down. It was intense and serious, and his eyes had moved back and forth, following whoever was talking.

“This is a lot,” I said.

“But you're getting the answers you've wanted.”

“I'm surprised by all of them.”

Jesse returned with a folder and handed it to me. “Open it.”

On the first sheet of paper, with the PI's information printed at the top, was a report of the places I'd gone that day, the number of times, and whether I was with anyone or alone. There had to be at least fifty more sheets behind it. Underneath the papers was an envelope with a stack of pictures. I took off the rubber band and flipped through each one. They showed me all over the city—wandering down sidewalks, coming out of the hotel, digging through the trash, and going into stores. They were dated and in chronological order; I looked worse in each one. Near the end of the pile was a close-up in which I was staring right at the camera. I dropped the rest of the photos and held the picture up to my face. My skin was grayish, brown smudges were under my eyes, boils and scabs covered my forehead and cheeks. Sections of my hair were dreaded. My lips were dry and cracked. But my eyes stood out the most. They were lost.

“After you were released on bail, Michael hired the PI again and found out you were working for a pimp,” Jesse said. “He hoped that if he showed up on the street and offered to help you find an attorney and negotiate a deal in lieu of jail, you would go with him.”

My mouth opened, but no words came out.

“I don't have to tell you what happened next.”

I didn't recognize the girl in the close-up shot. She was a shell, with no conscience, no life in her veins, no light in her soul. The only thing living in her body was heroin.

Why did that girl have to be me?

“Cole?”

I shook my head and looked into Jesse's eyes.

“Your brother never stopped fighting for you. He knew what you were capable of, and that's what gave him hope.”

“I miss him so much,” I whispered.

“So do I,” Jesse said. “But he's watching us right now, and so proud of what you've accomplished.”

“I won't let him down.”

Jesse walked over to me. I grabbed his hand, letting him lift me to my feet.

“I hope you don't,” he said, wrapping his arms around me. “I really hope you don't.”

-20-

AS SOON AS JESSE RELEASED ME, Asher's hand clasped mine and he walked me into the elevator. Once again, the back wall held my weight, but this time I watched the numbers in reverse. It felt like years had passed since I'd last been here. Three, to be exact, because that's how long Michael had been dead.

When we got outside, Asher pulled me into his arms. “I'm so proud of you.”

My nose was stuffed up, my eyes puffy and sore, and him holding me only made them worse. “Everyone keeps saying that. Look at my life; how can anybody be proud of this?”

“What's behind you doesn't matter. Right now, this moment is what matters, and you just faced your biggest demon.”

“I…” But I didn't have any words. All I had were Jesse's echoing in my head: “Michael knew the kind of people who hung out on the streets and what they were capable of. He took a risk every time he went to find you, including the night he got
himself
killed.” My brother knew he couldn't help me or make me go to rehab, and all I had done was hurt him. And yet, he never stopped putting me first. “I know he's looking down on us right now. And I know he's thankful it's him up there and not you,” Jesse had said right before we left. How selfless could Michael be?

I leaned against Asher's chest, my arms on his shoulders, and my body went limp. I wanted to fast-forward to a time when I'd be able to think of Michael without blaming myself for his death, when my parents’ voices no longer trembled at the mention of his name, and when heroin wasn't the only thing I thought could take my pain away. When…

Asher pulled away, but his hands went to my face. Suddenly the weight of something stronger than my conscience pushed on my back. There was blackness behind my lids with swirls of white. Sweat seeped out of my pores, but I was freezing. My eyes closed for what seemed like seconds, but when I opened them, I was on a bench. My legs were spread across his lap, and he was rubbing my toes.

I hadn't thought about Asher. How he was feeling or his reaction to everything that had been dug up. He was still with me; that was a good sign.

“Are you OK?” I asked.

A weird look crept over his face, one I'd never seen before.

“Asher?”

His thumb moved to my bottom lip, silencing me. “You just passed out and you're worried about
me
?”

I nodded.

“You shouldn't be; I'm fine.” He turned his wrist, and the sun lit up the thick white line. I pressed my lips against the scar we'd never discussed, kissing his memories as he had done to mine.

He tried to pull away.

“Let me love it,” I said, holding his wrist firmly. “They're part of you, and they're beautiful.”

“It's time I told you, but today is about you.”

“No, today is about us.”

He closed his eyes and rested against the bench, holding my toes as though I were going to yank them from his grip. “I couldn't take it anymore.” He took a deep breath and exhaled through his mouth. “The pressure of my parents wanting me to be perfect, everyone comparing me to Nadal and Jesse. I didn't have my own identity. I was seventeen and I was…lost.” His eyes opened and met mine. “I came home after school and threw one of mom's vases against the wall. I wanted the nagging to stop. My hand picked up one of the shards, and I dragged it over my wrist. Again. And again.”

I waited for him to say more, and when he didn't, I said, “But you're here.”

“Only because of Nadal. He saved me. You've saved me, too.”

“From what?”

“When the time is right, I'll show you.” His voice had changed, and so did his expression. The heaviness was gone. If there was more, he wasn't going to share it with me today.

“But, Asher—”

“Just try to be patient with me.” He kissed me, but his lips turned into a grin. “I can tell you this right now, though; I've decided not to go to grad school.”