Scars from a Memoir (35 page)

I knew I would have to look Que in the eyes, at some point, and remind him of what he had done to my mother, to my family. I wasn't ready to do that yet, so I stared at my father. Dad's jaw was clamped shut; the bones in his cheeks moved as he ground his teeth and glared at him. Twenty-five years had passed since Mom's death, and we were all in a good place—my husband and I had just closed on a townhouse, Dad volunteered every Sunday at the rehab center, and he and Mommy-D were looking at beautiful houses in Arizona where they'd retire soon—but Que triggered memories that brought out emotions in us.

“Ms. Nicole Conrad,” Jocelyn said, “is there anything you would like to say to the prisoner?”

I took a few deep breaths, stood, and turned toward him. I didn't want him to know how badly he'd hurt me by taking the mother I'd never known, so I pushed back my shoulders and stared right at him. He had aged quite a bit from the pictures I'd seen in the newspaper clippings, but there was still evil in his eyes and no remorse in his expression.

His gaze penetrated my face…only for a few moments, and then he looked away. Maybe he was surprised that I had been named after my mother, or turned off by how much I looked like her.

He knew the story. I was going to remind him anyway. “You almost killed me; it's a miracle I'm still alive. The first bullet missed, and the second grazed just above me. I wish I could say the same for my mother, but she died when the doctors tried to remove the bullets. I spent the first three months of my life in the NICU. If she hadn't been so far along in her pregnancy, you would have murdered us both.” My father grabbed my fingers and squeezed. “You've been in jail for twenty-five years, and that isn't nearly enough time. I've
met people whose life my mother touched for good. What you are is a murderer, drug dealer, and gang member. And even worse, you cut down those who chose to break away from the evil you introduced them to. You deserve to spend the rest of your life in here. And as you waste away, I hope you're haunted by my mother's face, a good woman you shot in cold blood, and by all the addicts who died from the drugs you sold them.”

I turned my back to him and looked into the eyes of the parole board. “Do you want a man like him living near your children? Shopping at the same stores as your wives or husbands? Because this isn't his first heinous crime, and you can tell by his face that he isn't sorry for what he's done. I beg of you, please, don't grant him parole.”

I sat down, and before my father released my hand, he pulled it up to his mouth and kissed my knuckles.

“Mr. Mark Lucido, would you like to address Mr. Sanchez?”

My father remained seated, his fingers clinging to the armrest. He probably didn't trust himself to stand. I didn't blame him; Dad wasn't a violent person, but Que had murdered my mother. Dad had been unable to protect us, and I knew the emotions from that horrific period of his life were resurfacing as he viewed this perpetrator of such evil.

Dad cleared his throat and turned toward him. “Nicole wasn't just my best friend and the woman I loved. She was my breath. My home. My everything. You took her from me and shattered my reason for being. If my daughter hadn't survived, I don't know if I would have either.

“Do you know the woman my wife turned out to be? The amazing person she became? She didn't have an easy life, but she used her past to make a difference. She dedicated all her time to changing lives and giving addicts hope. And she didn't deserve to die—not my baby—and you didn't have the right to play God. You selfish son-of-a-bitch, you took my angel from me; I hope, God I hope, they don't have mercy on your soul.”

I lifted his hand off the armrest, wrapped my fingers around it, and pulled it up to my lips, kissing his skin the way he had done to mine. I couldn't remember the last time my father had been this stirred up. There was always happiness in his voice whenever he
talked about Mom, especially when he would tell me about her pregnancy—the peanut-butter and pickle sandwiches she had eaten every day and the early morning walks they would take on the beach because her ankles would swell up at night. Mom was his first love; they had moved to Florida because she wanted a fresh start, and being here probably reminded him of that. As he learned, regardless of where they lived or how hard she tried, she couldn't completely escape her past.

Diem had been my mother's best friend; after the shooting, she'd helped with everything. She arranged the funeral, took care of my dad and me, even ran Dad's bar when he couldn't bring himself to go to work. They grieved together, they eased each other's pain, they told me stories about my mom, and eventually they fell in love. That was partly because of me. When I was three, Dad sold the bar and house in Florida and we moved back to Boston. He wanted to be closer to Uncle Al, Uncle Jesse, and Nana and Papa so they could help raise me. But I asked for Diem every day. I cried for her daughter, Shay—my soul-sister. Diem came for a visit, and she never left.

“Mr. Que Sanchez, is there anything you would like to say?” Jocelyn asked.

Que's eyes darted between my father's and mine. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He shook his head. Nothing.

Jocelyn asked us to wait in the hallway while they discussed the case. Que was removed as well. I leaned against the wall next to Dad. I wanted to say something—anything that would break the silence—but I didn't have any words. At least not yet.

Jocelyn stuck her head out the door and asked us to come back in. We took our seats, and Que was shackled into his chair. The paperwork was piled in front of her, and next to the stack were two stamps. She chose the one closest to her and pressed it onto the top sheet. She removed it, “DENIED” stamped in red capital letters.

“After careful consideration,” she said and paused, “we've come to a unanimous decision. Mr. Que Sanchez, your request for parole has been denied.”

Que didn't make eye contact with my father or me. His expression didn't change. And when the guard lifted him out of the chair, he turned his back and shuffled out of the room.

My father wrapped his arms around me, and I squeezed as hard as I could. My tears fell onto his collar, and I used my sleeve to wipe my eyes.

“I can't wait to tell your mom,” Dad whispered.

We had agreed to make one stop before the four of us headed back home to Boston. The beach close to our old house was where my family had scattered Mom's ashes, and we wanted to visit her again. When I was younger, Dad and Mommy-D would take me to the beaches near Boston. As we swam and made castles, they would always tell me that a piece of my mom was in the water and in every grain of sand. But Mom wasn't just on the beaches. She was in the air and sprinkled across the sun. She was in Dad's heart and in Diem's touch. She was in me.

“Neither can I,” I whispered back. “Neither can I.”

THE END

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