Scars from a Memoir (11 page)

I looked at Mark, my eyes wide and my mouth open.

“Sunshine was wearing blue jeans and a brown shirt, and everything else matches up,” Mark said. “Do you think it's her?”

-11-

THE LAST TIME I'D BEEN AT A POLICE STATION, I was wearing handcuffs. My fingerprints were taken, and I was booked and then thrown behind bars for two-and-a-half years. This time was different. Mark and I sat in front of Officer Hunt's desk, giving Sunshine's description and the last place we'd seen her. Hunt took notes as we spoke, probably comparing our statement to the one we'd told personnel just an hour earlier. After we answered all of his questions, Hunt told us he'd be back in a few minutes.

“Do you think it's Sunshine?” I asked.

“I hope not, but he's not giving us any information.”

All the desks were filled with uniforms who were either typing on their computers or reading from files. For the first time in a while, I wasn't guilty of anything, but that didn't mean I wanted to hang out here. The few run-ins I'd had with cops weren't good ones.

I cracked each of my knuckles, and when they wouldn't pop anymore, I bit the skin around my nails. “I can't wait to get out of here.”

“It shouldn't be much longer,” Mark said. He put his hands on my shoulders and massaged, finding a knot behind the blade. “I don't like being here either.”

Hunt returned with a man who had a thin gray mustache and wore a black suit. “This is Detective Raymond,” Hunt said.

Raymond shook both our hands. “I'd like you to come to the city morgue,” he said. “Your description of the victim is almost identical to the medical examiner's evaluation, but unless you identify the body, we won't know whether it's Frances Nelson.”

I looked at Mark.

“Are you up for this?” Mark asked.

“Do I have a choice? If I don't go, we won't know.”

We followed Raymond through the station and out toward the parking lot. The unmarked car he led us to was the same color as his suit. As Mark and I got in the backseat, I wished Raymond would put on the siren to get us there faster. He didn't. We waited through the traffic and stopped at all the red lights.

He pulled into a spot marked for law enforcement, and we went in through the main door, taking the elevator to the medical examiner's office. He flashed his badge to the woman in the front, and we were escorted down a long hallway and into a private room. There was a table along the far wall. The outline of a body could be seen through the white sheet.

My teeth chattered despite the long-sleeved shirt and jeans I wore. The room felt like the walk-in fridge at the café. The smell, decayed meat and rancid lobster, reminded me of when I was a maid at the hotel and found a dead man naked on top of a bed. The smell had made me throw up. I put my sleeve over my nose and mouth and breathed in the scent of laundry detergent.

Mark held my other hand, and when Raymond moved next to the body and asked us to join him, Mark's got as sweaty as mine.

Raymond's fingers gripped the top of the sheet; he pulled it back, revealing blonde locks, a fair forehead, a nose, lips, and finally a neck. He stopped and released the sheet.

Goose bumps covered my whole body.

“Ms. Brown,” Raymond said, “is this Ms. Frances Nelson, or Sunshine, as you refer to her?”

Not too long ago, I'd been as addicted as Sunshine. I bought my drugs from the same dealer and walked the streets of Dorchester where all the gangs hung out. I'd heard stories of what happened to girls like me who were out late at night: shootings, stabbings, muggings. I hadn't cared. Sunshine hadn't either. The skin on her neck was turning purple, her complexion was gray, and her eyes were closed. But it was her. My friend had taken her last shot and ended up in a dumpster with probably a whole lot more than just dope inside her.

“Yes,” I said, and my voice cracked. I cleared my throat. “It's her.”

Raymond looked at Mark.

“That's her,” Mark said, shaking his head.

“I'll take you back to the station so you can fill out some paperwork and get your car,” Raymond said.

I glanced at Mark. Based on his expression, we were thinking the same thing: it could have easily been me on that table.

*   *   *

Mark took me out to lunch even though neither of us was hungry. We couldn't have a drink to celebrate Sunshine's life, so we had iced tea and forced down a bowl of soup. He didn't know much about her except that we'd once been roommates. I shared some of our stories…the good times we'd had together, like when Claire had cooked us Thanksgiving dinner and made cakes for our birthdays.

“Not all of it was bad,” Mark said.

I tried to think of other times we'd hung out when we weren't working the track, getting high, or going through withdrawal. I couldn't come up with anything. “Most of it was, but she shouldn't have been beaten to death and left in a dumpster.”

“I hope they find whoever killed her and that he rots in prison…” He put his hand on mine. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you.”

“You didn't. I deserved the time I spent in jail. If I hadn't gone there, I probably would've ended up like her.”

“As awful as this sounds, I'm glad you went there too.”

There was something about Mark that was comforting. Maybe it was that he knew the old me. He knew how far I'd come, and somehow, he showed up whenever I needed help. He'd changed a lot, too; he didn't smell like stale beer and cigarettes anymore. His hair was cut short, he'd taken out his earring, and—even though they looked vintage—I could tell his clothes were expensive.

“I owe you an apology,” he said, cutting off my thoughts.

“For what?”

“We've come a long way, Nicole, and I'm glad you're back in my life. But that doesn't excuse what I tried to do to you.”

“I was going to talk to you about that.”

He took a sip of his drink. “I was so in the wrong. You were high and vulnerable, and I took advantage of that.”

“I was—”

“No, this is all on me. I never should have touched you. I'm so sorry.”

He apologized, and there was sincerity in his eyes. There was no point in dragging it out. I had planned to agree to have sex with him to get my heroin back. It wasn't like I'd been in the right, either.

I put my hand on his. “Me too.”

“I better get you back to work. If Al wasn't short staffed this week, I'd take you to the aquarium.”

I laughed. “The aquarium? Really?”

“Haven't you ever been there?”

“Junkies don't hustle to buy tickets to see fish.”

Mark smiled. “You don't know what you're missing. We'll go next week, and I'll introduce you to Myrtle the Turtle.”

The waitress dropped off the leather receipt holder, and Mark put his credit card back in his wallet.

“Sounds like fun,” I said.

After he signed his name, he looked up and smiled. “You're going to be with me; of course it will be fun.”

There had been an awkward silence when we'd driven back to the city after dropping Sunshine at rehab, but that was gone. Mark told me about the townhouse he had just closed on, a three-bedroom place in the South End, and how the bar was doing so well that he was opening a second one in the Back Bay. The new bar was more upscale: no framed posters of AC/DC and Kid Rock, no beer and wings on Sundays. He was catering to the professional crowd and was turning into one of them himself.

When we got to the café, Mark double-parked and asked, “You going to be OK?

“I'll be fine.”

“So we're on for next week?”

“You know where to find me,” I said and got out of the car.

I walked inside the café; Nadal was still at the same table, but now Asher was with him. I rushed into his arms.

“How did it go?” Asher asked.

I pushed my face into his chest. “She's dead.”

“I'm so sorry,” he said. His arms tightened around me.

I closed my eyes and took in his scent. “Me too.”

Nadal moved to my side and put his hand on my shoulder. “I'm sorry about your friend.”

“Thanks for calling Asher and for sticking around.”

He squeezed tighter. “I'm glad I can be here for you.”

“Why don't you come over?” Asher asked. “We'll watch some movies and get your mind off everything.”

Jami was managing the counter by herself, and there was a long line of customers. Through the window pass, I could see that Al was mixing something in a big bowl.

“My boss really needs me here.” My eyes shifted between the twins. “Can I come over tonight?”

“I'll cook us dinner,” Nadal said. “I promise it will be better than that shit Asher called lasagna.”

Asher punched Nadal's arm. “Hey, Nicole said she liked my cooking.”

“She lied,” Nadal said, and they both looked at me.

I shook my head. I wasn't getting in the middle, at least not today. “Can we make it a late dinner? I want to go to a meeting first.”

“We'll see you at eight,” Asher said. He kissed me on the cheek and moved toward the door.

-12-

SOMETHING DELICIOUS WAFTED INTO THE HALLWAY when Asher opened the door. Nadal's cooking smelled a hell of a lot better than his, but I would never say that to either of them. I held the box of cupcakes off to the side, brushed my lips against Asher's, and snuggled into his chest. “What did Nadal make?”

“I don't know; he won't let me in the kitchen.”

Nadal poked his head out of the pass through. “Nicole, come in here, I need a taste tester.”

“He wants my opinion?”

“You better do what he says.” Asher laughed and winked. “He takes his cooking very seriously.” He took the box out of my hand and shut the door, following behind me.

The TV was off, and Coldplay came out of the speakers. The table was set for three, with candles in the middle and ice tea in all the glasses. Nadal stood in front of the stove, stirring a pan of sauce. He held the spoon up to my lips. “Blow first, and then tell me what it needs.”

“I'm not going to know if it's missing something,” I said.

“He doesn't actually think it needs anything,” Asher said. “He just wants you to tell him it's amazing.”

It tasted like garlic and seasoning, with a hint of mushrooms. “It's incredible, whatever it is.”

“Go sit down; I'll bring your plates out,” Nadal said to both of us.

Four trips later, Nadal finally joined us at the table.

“All right, we have green beans with toasted pine nuts, roasted potatoes with rosemary, and chicken with a mock marsala sauce.” He smiled.

This was the first time I'd seen the twins interact. They fed off each other; when one started telling a story, the other inserted random details. At times, they only had to look at one another to have a conversation without words. By their tones and expressions, they had missed each other. This dinner wasn't just about Nadal getting to know me or about me showing him I wasn't going to take his brother away. They were reconnecting.

“Before the summer is over, why don't we take the girls to the Cape?” Nadal asked.

Asher looked at me. “Can you get off work?”

“Would it just be a weekend trip?”

“A long weekend,” Nadal said. “Mom and Dad are going to be in Italy for Labor Day, so we should go then.”

“What do you think?” Asher asked me.

Jami would take my weekend shift, and if I gave my parole officer enough notice, he'd probably reschedule my visits as long as I came in before and after the trip. I didn't know how I would be able to afford splitting the hotel room with Asher, though. I'd only been to the Cape once, when Eric and I had first moved to Boston. His boss threw a party there, and our room was over three hundred a night.

“I'll just be moving into my own place, and I'm going to need to buy furniture—but I'll try.”

“Our parents have a house there, so you won't have to pay for a thing,” Asher said.

Nadal brought his plate to the kitchen but didn't sit back down. “I'll call Stacey in the morning to confirm that Mom and Dad will be out of town. Once you get the OK from your boss, I'll have her make sure the house is ready.”

I helped Asher bring the rest of the dishes into the kitchen. Nadal was an excellent cook, but a messy one. Sauce had splattered all over the stovetop, and specks of green seasoning were sprinkled on the counter and floor. Asher wiped down the tile while I washed the dishes.

“Who's Stacey?” I asked, handing him a clean pan.

“She's my parents’ assistant.”

“At their office?”

“No, their personal assistant.”

Asher rarely spoke about his parents and hadn't mentioned what they did for a living, but a house in the Cape didn't come cheap.

Once the kitchen was clean, we moved into the living room. I slid out of my flip-flops, put my feet under me, and leaned into Asher. This was a lot more comfortable than the park bench.

Nadal walked toward the couch with a bag over his shoulder. “I'm glad you came over.”

“Me too,” I said.

“Where are you going?” Asher asked.

“Tyme just got out of work.” He looked at me. “I hope I'll be seeing more of you.”

“You will be,” Asher said before I had a chance to respond.

We were alone. Finally. And by the way Asher's eyes followed Nadal to the door and then traveled slowly back to me, I knew he realized it too. His face was so close to my neck that the air he exhaled hit my skin, sending tingles all the way down my chest. I could see the light from the TV, but I had no idea what was on or how the lamp had suddenly turned off. My eyes were closed. Asher's hand held the back of my head, and his lips were by my ear, moving down my jawline. I felt his warm breath roll over my neck, and my heart began to beat faster.

He turned my chin toward him, and his heat vanished. When I opened my eyes, there was hesitation in his expression.

“Are you ready for this?” he asked.

I reached forward and pulled his lips to mine. His kisses were too soft for the way I'd answered his question, and after a few pecks, he pulled away.

“Tell me,” he said.

“I'm ready.”

*   *   *

Asher kneeled down beside me. “You're just as beautiful as I imagined.” His voice was deep, almost raspy, and it made me tingle. He grabbed my arm, and I gasped when his tongue touched my wrist. I tried to pull it away, but he held me tightly, his hand covering the crevice behind my elbow.