Scars from a Memoir (2 page)

“What are your plans?” Mom asked.

“Tomorrow morning, I'm moving into sober living.”

Dad studied me. “Is that nearby?”

“It's an apartment in the North End,” I said, wiping my mouth with my sleeve. My lip gloss smeared onto the cotton. It was deep red, the color of blood. My mind wandered, the same question repeating in my head: Would I ever be able to forgive myself?

“Cole?”

My eyes met Dad's.

“We lost you there for a second. Are you OK?” he asked.

I cleared my throat. “What was your question again?”

“Will you have roommates?”

I told them I'd have a housemother and three other roommates, and I was required to get a job, keep curfew, and test clean. Sober living was a six-month program. When it was over, I'd have to find my own apartment.

“With everything that's happened here,” Dad said, “do you really think Boston is the right place for you?”

“Until I finish out my probation, Boston's home.”

It didn't matter where I lived; the memories would follow me everywhere. But I wanted to stay not only because of my probation. I had so many questions about my brother, and none of them had been answered.

“You're always welcome to come live with us,” Dad said.

Mom stared at her fruit cup. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. Her raised eyebrows and pursed lips were enough.

Jail had been my punishment for getting busted with heroin, and while I was in there, I did a ninety-day substance abuse program. Then I screwed up again, trading cigs, food, and sex for whatever pills or powder I could get in the prison yard. It was a lonely place.

A few weeks before my release date, I'd asked my social worker to get me into rehab. I wanted to face my other crime—living in Boston without Michael—with clean eyes. The memories and nightmares weren't a big enough sentence for getting my brother killed. Neither was the look on my mother's face.

It was going to take a lot more than jail and rehab for my parents to forgive me…if they ever did. They'd heard my apologies, but always before, my words had only proven to be lies. I had to show them what I'd learned from being in the dark, that I was never going back there again.

“Thanks for the offer, Dad,” I said. “But I don't think Bangor is the right place for me.”

He nodded. “Your cheeks have filled out,” he said. “And your color is coming back.”

I'd gained only a few pounds while I was in prison. The food was so bad. In the last three months, I'd put on fifteen, but I was still underweight.

“You guys look good, too,” I said.

Mom glanced over at Dad; her forehead creased as she raised her eyebrows again. Then her eyes moved to me. “How are you going to get a job? If they run a background check—”

“I don't know,” I said.

Dad told me I should go back to school. If I could show an employer that I'd gotten my shit straight and finished my bachelor's degree, they might overlook my criminal record. Mom asked if I
could apply at the rehab center. They weren't hiring, but even if they had been, I'd need a year of sobriety before they'd consider me.

I munched on the rest of my sandwich.

*   *   *

After lunch, my parents had to leave. Dad had work in the morning, and Bangor was a four-hour drive. I walked them to their car and handed them a piece of paper with my new address and phone number. Mom put the paper in her purse, and they both hugged me. Dad squeezed tighter than Mom.

When I got back inside, I asked Allison if we could talk. She took me into her office, and I told her about the conversation I'd had with my parents. She asked how I felt. That was the way she started and ended all our therapy sessions.

“I thought they'd tell me they were proud of me.”

“They are,” she said. “Trust me, they are.”

I didn't know if that was true, but I was proud of myself. Ninety-three days was the longest I'd ever gone without using. In rehab, we were told to take one day at a time.

Today I was sober, but tomorrow wasn't here yet.

-2-

I DIDN'T HAVE MUCH TO PACK. I'd left prison wearing the same sweatshirt and sweatpants I'd gotten at the hospital the night Michael died. In rehab, I was given two pairs of jeans and three shirts because I didn't have any other clothes. I threw it all in a trash bag along with my soap and toothbrush. When I'd lived on the streets, a thin, white plastic bag used to hold everything I owned.

After I said good-bye to the staff, Diem and I went to the parking lot and got in the van. She was an ex-junkie, too, and looked no older than twelve, standing less than five feet tall, with a flat chest and acne. She was twenty-five. She had also been honored in yesterday's ceremony and was going to be my roomie in sober living.

Because I'd gone straight from prison to rehab, I hadn't seen the city in almost three years. But every night I'd looked at the skyline tattooed on my foot. I'd gotten the tattoo not too long after Eric and I had moved to Boston. It represented how well I'd thought I was doing since the rape and how free I'd felt since leaving Bangor. But drugs had already owned me by then. The inked buildings on my foot were marred with tracks that hadn't healed. Heroin had a hold of me. It wasn't ever going to let go.

In rehab, I wondered if I'd feel the tiniest taste of freedom when I saw the real skyline. I didn't. Fog covered most of the high-rises. It was an overcast day.

Stan, the rehab tech, double-parked outside our apartment. It was a six-story brick building, snuggled between a dry cleaners and nail salon, and a meat market was on the first floor. Slabs of beef hung in the window, and men in white jackets worked behind the
counter. As I got out of the van, I was hit with the scent of spaghetti sauce and garlic—one of my favorite smells. The North End was the Italian section of Boston, and restaurants bordered both sides of the street. As long as I didn't get kicked out of sober living, I'd be back to a healthy weight soon.

Tiffany, our housemother, met us on the second-floor landing. She was a little bigger than me but fit, with long, blonde hair that curled at the ends and makeup that looked like it had been done at the beauty counter of a department store. She showed us her bedroom, the bathroom, and then the room Diem and I would be sharing. Diem placed her suitcases on the bed by the door. I dumped my trash bag on the twin by the window and fit all my clothes in the top drawer of the dresser. I gave Diem the other five.

Once Diem unpacked, Tiffany called us into the living room. We took a seat on the couch, and Tiffany sat on the floor in front of us. She was twenty-eight and told us she'd been addicted to coke for five years. After two interventions and four attempts at rehab, she'd been sober for three years.

“Remember, I know what you're going through, so I want you to feel comfortable coming to me for anything,” Tiffany said.

While she talked, her eyes went wide as though she'd popped an E pill. They were the same color green as Karam's, one of my old Johns.

“Now about the rules,” Tiffany said. “They're simple: Attend three meetings a week, pass my random drug tests, keep the apartment clean, get a job, and be in by your midnight curfew.”

“Midnight?” Diem asked.

Tiffany raised her eyebrows. “Is that a problem?”

If I'd had friends or a place to go, the curfew might have been a problem. I didn't have either.

“What happens if we break the rules?” Diem asked.

“You'll be kicked out,” Tiffany said. “Rent and groceries are a hundred a week. You have three weeks until your first payment is due, and if it's late, you'll be kicked out for that, too.”

Diem said she was going to our room to search for jobs on her parents’ laptop. Tiffany's cell phone rang, and she left the room to answer it.

There was nothing in my room that was going to get me a job. Since living in Boston, I'd worked at two places. I waitressed at Mark's bar where I smoked dope in the bathroom until he busted me and took my stash. I tried to steal it back, but he caught me and cornered me in the hallway. Eric found us while Mark's hands and lips were all over me, and he beat Mark's ass. I was also a maid at the hotel we lived in, but when Eric OD'd and died in our room, the owner threw me out. Everyone else I knew who could hook me up with a job was either dead or in jail.

“Need help?” Tiffany asked. She stood beside the couch, holding a glass of water.

“I need a résumé, right?”

She nodded.

I didn't have one. I didn't have a cell phone, either, and until a few weeks ago, I hadn't even had a driver's license. I'd left it at my first rehab center. What was I going to write? College dropout, junkie, and ex-con still on probation? Even a drug dealer wouldn't hire me.

In the corner of the living room was a desk with a computer and printer, and Tiffany sat in front of it. “Let's see what we can find.”

By the time I brought over a chair, she had already pulled up an employment site.

“Do any of these categories sound interesting?” she asked.

The first one was administration. Working in an office where I'd have to answer phones, do filing, and use techy gadgets wasn't my thing. “Are any coffee shops hiring?”

I'd worked at a coffee shop in college and made sure the carafes were full at rehab. Serving caffeine would be safer than waitressing at a restaurant. Alcohol wasn't my drug of choice, but being around it every day would be too tempting.

Tiffany found eight ads. Each said to email a résumé and that they'd contact me if they were interested. I didn't have email, so she helped me set up an account. Instead of putting together a résumé, I wrote a paragraph explaining my job at Mark's bar and the coffee shop, and then clicked send.

“Seven more to go,” she said.

I pecked at the keyboard; I was supposed to meet with my parole officer in a few hours. “This is going to take all day.” I didn't have all day.

“No, it won't; I'll teach you how to copy and paste.”

Her words were another reminder of how much I'd forgotten.

She took control of the mouse, copying the email addresses from the ads and the paragraph I'd written. When all eight emails were sent, she asked if I wanted to practice interviewing.

I moved over to the couch, leaned back into the pillows, and curled my toes around the edge of the table.

“Is that how you're going to sit?”

I put my feet on the floor.

“Why do you want this job?”

Staying busy would help keep my mind off heroin. If I didn't get a job, I'd be kicked out of sober living. I couldn't say either of those. “Next question.”

“Nicole—”

“We'll come back to that one.”

“OK, then tell me what makes you a good candidate for this job?”

“I have the experience. I'm a hard worker.”

I could cook up a shot of dope in less than thirty seconds. Finding a vein took a little longer because most of them had collapsed, but I would keep poking or stick muscle if I had to.

My mouth began to water.

“What are your skills?” she asked.

Seeing the flash—when my blood crept into the chamber—would boost my adrenaline, and my heart would beat really fast. The tingles and rush would start as soon as the needle was empty.

“I know you must have some, Nicole, so what are they?”

My palms were sweating.

I slid to the edge of the couch and rubbed my hands over the fabric. My heels tapped the carpet. I felt my body sway back and forth.

“Where's your head at?”

I looked up at her. Slowly. “I want to use.”

“But you want to stay clean?”

“Yes—”

“And you want a job?”

“I need a job,” I said.

“Tell me why.”

“I'll end up back in jail if I don't start working soon. And my brother…I need to stay sober for him.”

“So your brother is behind you, supporting—”

“My brother's dead.” I took a deep breath. “My pimp shot him, but he should have shot me instead.”

She came over to the couch and put her arm around me. “I know this is a lot, but you're doing great.”

The lump in my throat was choking me.

“Your brother is looking down at you right now, and I know he's so proud.” She wrapped her other arm around me, and I squeezed back as hard as I could. When she released me, she took my hand and led me to the front door. “We're going to a meeting.”

“But I have—”

“Meeting first; then we'll go see your parole officer together.”

*   *   *

The other girls trickled in while Tiffany and I were making dinner. At some point during the afternoon, Diem went to hand deliver résumés and landed a job at a boutique. Another roommate, Ashley—a meth addict—worked at a music store; Kathy—an alcoholic—was an assistant baker at a café. The three of them were at the kitchen table, comparing their jobs and hourly wages. The only good thing that had happened to me was that after the NA meeting, Tiffany had offered to be my sponsor and I accepted. I wasn't sure at first if living with my sponsor was the best thing. But I wouldn't have to worry about finding her—she'd always be available to talk at midnight, and maybe having her so close would keep me track free.

I stood at the stove with my back to them, stirring the rice.

“I think you can stop mixing,” Tiffany said from behind me.

The rice had formed into a big clump, glued to the middle of the pan. I lifted the pan off the burner, and when I turned around, Tiffany was still standing close.

“Don't get discouraged; your time will come too,” she whispered.

Time was something I didn't have. Every hour that passed, I was that much closer to getting kicked out of sober living. The street
would become my home again. Then I'd end up back in jail because I'd be too high to meet with my parole officer.

Diem had left rehab only ten hours ago and already found a job. Ashley and Kathy found theirs on their first day out, too. They all had it so easy. It was as though their addiction had merely been a pause in their real life, and now they were back living again. Not me. Eight years of using wasn't a pause; it was almost a third of my life. And heroin was going to stay with me forever. If the coffee shop owners ran a background check, it would take me more than two weeks to find work.