Scars from a Memoir (34 page)

In the days that followed, Mark and I spent every possible moment together, planning the next six months. We both decided I should be a housemother in sober living instead of getting an apartment; neither of us liked the idea of me living alone. Mark was going to get his house ready to sell and would set up a more reliable computer system that would allow him to work from Florida. He wanted to keep the bars for as long as he could, they were doing so well, and he even mentioned opening one down south. We looked online at houses near the rehab center that we could buy after his sold, and we talked about what furniture—his and Michael's—we would move to our new place.

I stood on the sidewalk next to my bags and put my hands on his shoulders. “I'll see you in a month?”

“Twenty-eight days, babe. It will go by so fast.”

“I don't know about that. Once-a-month visits don't seem like enough.”

I leaned into his lips. We'd done so much talking over the past few weeks; I knew exactly how he felt about our future and how many hours it would be until I was in his arms again. What I wanted now was a kiss that would keep me going for another twenty-eight days. And he gave me just that.

“I don't want to miss my flight,” I said. His lips made me hungry. If I didn't leave now, I never would.

I gave him one more kiss, told him I loved him, and rolled my bags into the airport. I didn't look back. I didn't need to see his face, the fingers he would wave, or the love in his eyes. I'd memorized all of it. Just like when the plane looped around the city, I knew exactly what was below. Boston was a city I'd never forget. It was tattooed on my foot, it was my past, and it was where I'd found my first love: heroin. I couldn't take any of it back, and I accepted that. But what had happened in this city wasn't going to define the person I would become.

I didn't know if I'd return, if I'd ever again walk through the streets of the North End, Back Bay, South End, Roxbury, or Dorchester and point out to my kids all the places where my memories were born.
Some things didn't need to be revisited. But if they were, I could prove how far I'd come.

Just before I closed the window shade and leaned back into my airplane seat, I took it all in…the skyscrapers, the park, the harbor, and the heroin…and I said the word I'd always feared. It was permanent. But I was all right with that.

Good-bye, Boston.

-39-

MY LAST PATIENT CLOSED THE DOOR on his way out of my office. This had been his twelfth session, and I hadn't cracked him yet. He didn't believe he had an addiction; he thought he could stop using meth anytime he wanted. His wife had filed for divorce and moved their kids into her mother's house. The drug had already cost him his family and almost his life. During a five-day binge, he had wrapped his car around a palm tree, and the judge had given him the choice of jail or rehab. I'd worked with enough addicts to know which ones were committed to the program and who would relapse right after graduation. He hadn't reached his rock bottom; sadly, death would probably come first.

I charted several paragraphs of notes, detailing our last one-on-one, and shut down my computer. My ankles were throbbing, and I lifted one to rub. I had stayed off my feet for most of the day, but the humidity was making them swell even more. As I massaged my calf, the wedding picture on my desk reminded me that I had to pick up dinner. Grouper? Steak? I couldn't recall what Mark had said he wanted to grill. These long nights and lack of sleep were making me forgetful. Thankfully, I had only a month to go until my master's degree was complete.

With my briefcase looped over my shoulder and keys in hand, I locked the door and went into the lobby. Pat, who was working behind the desk, handed me tomorrow's schedule. “Did you hear about Santos?” he asked.

I reviewed my appointments and shook my head.

“He was released last week. Something about good behavior; can you imagine?”

“I wish he would have shown that good behavior in here.”

Santos was one of my first patients after I was hired full-time. He was addicted to bath salts and was in a psychosis at the time of his admission. He refused to wear clothes—they harbored nests of bugs, he said—and he threatened our staff. He was later transferred to another facility, but he made quite the scene in the lobby before his departure. He broke a framed painting and tried to slash his wrists with the glass.

“I'll see you in the morning,” Pat said.

The grocery store was only a few blocks away, and I found a parking spot near the front. It was in the nineties outside, but inside it was at least fifteen degrees cooler. That was the problem with Florida summers: a layer of sweat covered your body as soon as you stepped into the sun, yet you dressed in winter clothes so you wouldn't freeze from the air conditioning. I filled the basket with three sweet potatoes and a head of broccoli and then stood between the fish and meat cases. The thought of grouper's flaky consistency made me want to gag. I asked the butcher to cut me three pounds of fillet. After he handed me the wrapped meat, I moved to the checkout line.

The cashier swiped the steak across the scanner. Then she looked at my belly and smiled. “When are you due?”

I dug my fingers into my back, trying to relieve some of the pain. “Three weeks.”

“Not soon enough, right?”

“Exactly! The little one doesn't know the difference between day and night, and neither does my bladder.”

“Is this your first?”

I nodded. “How about you?”

I normally didn't ask a stranger if she was pregnant. But the cashier was petite, except for her stomach, and she had that glow.

“My fourth—and my last,” she said. “Do you know what you're having?”

“We wanted to wait. We like surprises.”

She laughed. “Oh, you're in for a surprise, all right.”

“That's what I hear.”

I thanked her as she handed me my receipt, and I waddled back to my car. The traffic was heavy along the beach. August was when
Europeans took their holiday, and for the entire month, the town was packed with tourists. I didn't mind, though. The sun shined down on the dark water, and teal waves splashed along the sand. Parents were making sandcastles with their kids. In a year or two, Mark and I would be doing the same. That was, if I could take the weekends off; work was getting busier. The rehab center was adding on a new wing to house more patients and was acquiring six more apartments for the sober living program. I managed and counseled the housemothers, and the results of the drug tests—from the residents
and
the housemothers—were sent to me. Drug testing was a procedure I had implemented soon after getting hired. I wasn't going to let a situation like Tiffany's happen again. My graduates needed a sober mentor; if the housemothers didn't test clean, they were removed from the apartment and offered another chance at rehab.

I drove past the spot on the beach where just three years ago, Mark and I had exchanged our vows. It was an intimate ceremony, officiated by a justice of the peace, and only our closest friends and family attended. Al served as Mark's best man, and Jesse was my man of honor. Diem's daughter was our flower girl. Since leaving sober living, Diem had stayed clean and gotten married. Shortly after her daughter was born, she got divorced, moved to our coast, and opened a clothing boutique. We lived minutes from each other and were best friends.

The morning after the wedding reception, Mark and I flew to the Bahamas and spent a week there. When we got back, I found out I was pregnant. That was the first of three miscarriages. We stopped trying after that; the pain became too much for us—especially for Mark. He was so hopeful every time I got pregnant, and the letdown destroyed him. Six months ago, the doctor confirmed the pregnancy tests I'd taken at home. We didn't have any expectations, and this turned out to be the one.

As I grabbed the groceries out of the trunk, the sun shone down on my fingers, and Claire's band sparkled. I hadn't taken it off since the morning I'd graduated rehab over five years ago. It was a little too tight, but I insisted on wearing it. My ankles weren't the only things that had swelled from this pregnancy. I was thirty-three years old, was happily married, had a career and an almost complete
master's degree, and would be a mother in a month. But sometimes I needed to be reminded of where I came from. Claire's ring did that for me. It brought back memories of my time on the streets—of how the high had never been enough, of all the people I'd lost to my addiction.

I set the groceries on the counter and walked through the family room, stopping in the doorway of the nursery. I was always the first one home from work, and for the few minutes I had alone, that was where I spent my time. It had taken us months to finish it. We hired an artist to paint an animal mural on the wall, assembled the furniture, and chose neutral colors. The chocolate furniture was a bit masculine, but that was because I was secretly hoping I was having a boy. Our real estate agent's name was Michael, and she was the first female I'd met with that name. If we had a daughter, she would be Michael too.

I heard footsteps on the tile and closed my eyes, waiting for Mark's arms to wrap around my belly. They didn't. They touched the base of my neck, and I took a deep breath, trying to inhale his scent.

“I told you I'd see you one day.”

My eyes shot open. It wasn't Mark's voice; it was deeper, with an accent. Panic blasted through me as I tried to place his voice. My knees became weak, my stomach churned.

“
Que
?”

His fingers dug into my throat, and he stabbed something into the side of my neck. “Surprised that I found you?”

“Please don't hurt me,” I begged. “My husband will be home any second—”

“He won't be here for another fifteen minutes.”

How did he know that? Did he have someone following Mark?

“I'll give you anything you want; just don't hurt me.”

“Shut up!”

Tears streaked down my face; I could taste the mascara on my lips. I was too big to try to escape his hold. But even if I weren't eight months pregnant, I wouldn't have been able to escape the gun he was driving into my neck.

In school, I was trained to handle hostile situations, but nothing could have prepared me for this. Still, I knew that if I could keep him talking, I would have a better chance of surviving.

“You don't know anything about me, what I do for others, how I coordinate rescue missions to get addicts—like Renee and I had been—off the streets and into rehab…and how I can help you.”

“I told you to shut up!” He pushed the gun even harder against my skin. “Don't you dare mention her name.”

I cried out in pain. “I have a baby inside me—”

“You think I care about your baby? You didn't give a shit about my baby when you had Renee killed, did you?”

“Of course I cared about your child. I love children—”

“Renee was my baby's mama, and you took her from me.”

“I didn't have anything to do with it. It was all Dustin, I swear. Renee set me up and got me in trouble with your cousin, and when Dustin found out, he flipped. He went to find her—that's when he killed her. I wasn't even there—”

“It's too late for explanations,” he said and laughed. “You took my family away from me, and now I'm going to take yours.”

The last thing I heard was the gunshot. My tears weren't caused by my blurred vision. It was the animal mural, the baby mobile, and the crib passing by my eyes. I hit the carpet.

My mind drifted to Mark, hoping desperately he wouldn't be killed when he came through our front door, and to our baby, praying the little one wouldn't die with me. I hadn't been able to escape my past, but the years I'd had since making the right choices were the best I'd ever had…with my mind finally free to see the love that was always waiting for me. Mark and my baby were my true loves. Not heroin. Dope had led me straight into the darkness…left me with scars. Now it was singing me a lullaby.

Pain seared my muscles. Something came out of my lips. And finally, there was nothing but darkness.

EPILOGUE

I HAD WAITED YEARS FOR THIS MOMENT, and now that it was here, my stomach was in knots. Mommy-D—that's what I called Diem, the only mother I had ever known—had taken my angel pendant out of my hand and pinned it to my shirt when we'd left the hotel this morning. I'd squeezed it for good luck as we passed through the metal detector at the prison's entrance, and I held it now as I waited outside the double doors. The pin was warm from my touch and seemed to calm my stomach. Dad and Mommy-D had given it to me on my eighth birthday; it symbolized my mother's constant presence with me, and I knew she was here today.

My dad sat next to me. Two months had passed since our trip to Hawaii, and he was still tan. So was my husband, because he had skin just like my dad. My tan never lasted more than a few weeks—I had Mom's complexion—and Mommy-D and my sister covered up so they wouldn't freckle. The trip had been for my parents’ anniversary, a date we celebrated every year as a family. It was our time for remembrance of all good things: how Mom was still deeply embedded in our hearts, how strong we all were, and how much love there was now between Dad and Mommy-D.

A woman opened the double doors and asked us to come in. We sat across from her and two men dressed in suits. They introduced themselves, spreading some papers out in front of them, but I forgot the first two names as quickly as they said them. I remembered Jocelyn—her name was the same as that of the first patient I had ever treated at the rehab center. I'd found her during one of our community outreach programs and had stopped her from overdosing on heroin.
She later became a housemother at one of our sober living facilities, and in a few months I would be attending her wedding.

The three of them glanced over the paperwork; when they were done, they signaled the guard at the far wall. The door creaked as it opened. For several seconds, feet shuffled against the concrete floor and steel rattled as the chains rubbed together, and then Que appeared.

Jocelyn pointed to the end of the table. “Please place Mr. Sanchez right there.”