Scars from a Memoir (3 page)

*   *   *

I went to bed before everyone else. I really wanted to go for a walk, but I knew I'd end up in Roxbury, buying dope from some street pusher. Sober living wasn't much different from jail except that my desire to stay clean was what kept me locked inside. Not just for Michael—for me too.

When I closed my eyes, mounds of powder filled the darkness. We didn't have a TV in our room or any pictures; except for the poster of the Twelve Steps above the dresser, there was nothing to look at. I'd memorized all the Steps. I'd rehearsed them at the NA meeting today. What I wanted to read was the emblem stamped on a wax-paper packet of junk that would tell me what brand it was and how strong the hit should be.

My roommates laughed at the TV in the living room. Cars swished by and honked. Doors slammed.

I got out of bed; the lights from the buildings sparkled against the window glass. Clickety-click. The pedestrians on the sidewalk rhythmically sped by. Maybe I was just used to everything moving so slow in prison. And when I'd been high…

I shivered.

My bedroom was as cold as the air outside. It was lonely. My sweatpants and T-shirt weren't warm enough. But I'd always been so warm. Even when I'd been naked, a toasty feeling was in my veins.

I put on a sweatshirt.

I was still freezing.

The flood of memories should have been enough to put me to sleep. My body was the only thing that was exhausted.

*   *   *

When I came out of my bedroom the next morning, everyone had left for work except Tiffany. She was in her pajamas making coffee. I grumbled a good morning and logged onto the computer, where two new emails were waiting in my inbox. Both were replies from coffee shops, saying they'd like me to call them to schedule an interview.

I gulped down a mug of coffee and brushed my teeth, hoping my voice wouldn't sound like I'd just woken up. Tiffany sat next to me on the couch and watched me dial the first number. I was told to come in at four and bring a résumé.

I hung up with the second manager and put the phone on the table. “He wants me there at two.”

“What's with the frown?” she asked. “You've got two interviews lined up.”

“I'm just nervous and…”

“I'll help you get ready. If you need clothes, you can borrow mine.”

I didn't ask how she knew. I just nodded and smiled…but the smile quickly faded when we got to work on my résumé. Tiffany's fingers hovered over the keyboard, waiting for me to give her something to type. I told her the name of the college coffee shop and Mark's bar and the dates I'd worked there. Everything about the hotel was too fuzzy—the name and how long I'd been a maid—so I decided not to mention it.

“What were your responsibilities at the coffee shop?”

“I poured coffee.”

“And at the bar?”

“I smoked a lot of heroin and was too high to work, so the other waitresses delivered my food for me.”

She glanced toward me. Her lips were rubbing together, and the corners of her eyes pointed down. “Go hop in the shower.”

“But—”

Her lips changed to a smile. “I'll take care of this; don't worry about it.”

I silently thanked her and went into the bathroom.

*   *   *

After Tiffany dressed me in her clothes, painted my face with her makeup, and straightened my hair with her flattening iron, she hugged me good-bye and wished me luck. Once I stepped outside, the cold March air ransacked my body and I tied the strings of her coat around me. The coffee shop was on the other side of the North End. I didn't have money to take the train; I walked. Her black boots rubbed just enough to give me blisters on the back of my feet. The pinching gave me something to focus on. I could handle pain better than nerves.

When I got to the counter, I asked one of the girls if I could speak to the manager. I couldn't remember his name. I should have written it down.

“He's out sick today,” she said. “Can someone else help you?”

“I just talked to him this morning, and he asked me to come in for an interview.”

“You must mean Al, the owner, not the manager,” she said and picked up the phone by the register. She hit a few buttons and spoke into the receiver. “Your two o'clock is here.”

After twenty-two deep breaths, a middle-aged man appeared at the counter. He introduced himself, and I followed him through the kitchen and down a long hallway. Just as I stepped inside his office, the door shut behind me and the man sitting at the desk turned toward me.

The heels of the boots wobbled, and I gasped. What the hell was Mark, my old boss from the bar, doing here? I glanced over my shoulder. Al was standing next to the door with his arms crossed.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“You look good,” Mark said. “I was hoping jail would have that effect on you.”

Al moved across the room and unfolded two chairs that were resting against the wall. He offered me a seat before he sat down.

“To answer your question, my brother called for a reference,” Mark said, nodding in Al's direction. “And I told him I'd like to sit in on the interview.”

Before becoming an addict, I would have been surprised that Mark's brother owned this coffee shop. Nothing really shocked me anymore.

My eyes shifted between the two men. “Why?”

“Nicole, please take a seat,” Al said.

In case I needed to bolt, I slid the chair closer to the door and sat on the edge of the seat.

“I wanted to see how you're doing since you've been released,” Mark said. He looked at his hands, which were intertwined on his lap, and then his eyes closed. When they reopened, he said, “I care about you.”

“But you fired me.”

“You didn't give me much of a choice, did you?”

Before he canned me, I'd thought I was holding it together. But Mark was right. I was a mess. I barely made it through my shifts, used the other servers to wait on my tables, and nodded out in the bathroom during my breaks.

“Are you clean?” Al asked.

“Ninety-five days,” I said.

“In that case, I need someone to work the counter,” Al said, “and to serve the seated customers at their tables.”

I shook my head. “You're offering me a job?”

“Mark said you were one of the best servers he's ever had. You were a fast learner and great with the customers.”

“You could hire anyone for this job. Why me?”

Al was the one who was supposed to be asking all the questions. At least that was what Tiffany had told me when she'd prepped me for this interview. But this situation was…different.

“I know what you're going through.” Al reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. “Ten years clean.” He held the coin up in the air.

When Mark had busted me smoking dope in the bathroom, he hadn't even been mad. He took me into his office, stayed with me while I nodded out, then sent me home to rest. Now it all made sense.

Al described the responsibilities of the job, the pay, and how after three months he would give me benefits. “So what do you say?”

The pay was more than I was expecting.

“Can I let you know in the morning?” I asked.

“Of course,” Al said. He moved over to me and shook my hand. “It was a pleasure.”

I thanked Mark, and we walked out of the office together. His pace matched mine. He followed me to the door, opening it, but he stopped in the doorway.

“I'd love for you to come work for me again.”

“The bar wouldn't be good for my sobriety.”

“That's why I didn't ask. I hope you'll consider what Al's offering. It's a great opportunity.”

“I will.”

His expression was so inviting, his lips slightly parted in a soft smile and his eyes flirting with their slow blinks. “I appreciate you helping me out, Mark,” I said, stepping out onto the sidewalk.

The compassion Mark had shown during the interview was because of Al's addiction. But I still had questions about why he'd tried to have sex with me in the hallway before Eric had found us. I needed to ask him, but today wasn't the right time.

During my walk home, I thought about what my dad had said at the graduation ceremony. Too many things had happened here. Because I'd taken a plea and ratted everyone out, both of my drug dealers and their gangs were in jail. But they had friends who could be looking for me. Although Mark wasn't involved in that mess, he was someone I had mistreated and used, too. He had forgiven me. That didn't mean the next person would.

I unlocked the door to our apartment, and just as I touched the knob to the bathroom, it was yanked from my hand and opened from the other side. I lost my balance. Before I hit the ground, Tiffany pulled me upright and walked me over to the couch. She sat next to me. “What happened? You don't look right.”

Even though I wasn't proud of what I'd done to Mark, my counselor—Allison—had told me not to keep anything in. That was what NA meetings and a sponsor were for. I didn't want to burden Tiffany with any more of my drama, but she was my sponsor and it sounded like she wanted to hear it. I told her the whole story. Not just that Al had offered me a job but that I knew Mark and what had happened between us.

“I'm really proud of you,” Tiffany said.

“I got the job because of Mark, not because I earned it.”

“That's not why I'm proud.” She pulled my fingers into her hand and squeezed. “Mark was in your life when you first started using heroin. Those memories of being high at his bar and nodding out in his bathroom could have easily triggered you to use, Nicole. But you didn't.”

Heroin's voice woke me in the middle of every night and early in the morning. It was the silence between my breaths.

“Dope will always be there,” she said. “But maybe not in the forefront of your thoughts.”

“This is the first time it hasn't been.”

“It won't be the last.”

-3-

DURING MY SECOND INTERVIEW, the manager held my résumé up to his face, the paper clamped between his hairy fingers like a cigarette. Without putting it down, he asked why I'd been unemployed for so long. Tiffany had told me to say I'd been out of work due to health problems because she didn't think an employer was allowed to ask specifics. He didn't, but he moved the page a little, eyeing me. He started at my forehead, and when he got to my lips, he asked if I'd ever been convicted of a felony. He paused at my chest. The meeting ended when he finally noticed I was nodding my head. Before I left the coffee shop, he said he'd be in touch, but judging by the expression on his face, my boobs were the only thing he was thinking about.

What Al was offering would cover my rent and give me some extra to save. It also meant that I would still be connected to Mark, and I was trying to move on from my past. But I hadn't heard back from any of the other coffee shops. Tiffany said Al would be influential in my sobriety; he'd completed a rehab program, worked the Steps, and still attended meetings. Mark had shown he was just as supportive. Even if the job was temporary and I looked for others in the meantime, at least I'd be making money.

After my first week, I stopped checking the Internet for employment ads. I wasn't making as much money as I had at Mark's bar, but I didn't have an addiction to feed. Al let me float, helping out the pastry chef and busboy when the shop wasn't busy, and told me I could work overtime. He was impressed with all the hours I put in and said he wished his other employees were as committed. I didn't tell him he was actually doing me a favor by letting me work so much.

I hated being home. Both Ashley and Kathy always went to bed shortly after dinner because they worked really early in the morning. Diem watched TV or talked on the phone. Tiffany was finishing her bachelor's degree and was taking fifteen credits this semester. We'd go to meetings and cook together, and before she hit the books, she'd ask about my day. Eventually, the stories about our customers got repetitious and weren't funny anymore.

Heroin talked to me when no one else did.

Jami and Sada, the girls who worked the counter with me, were chattier than my roommates. Jami, a single mom of two, looked like she'd been run through a press. Her body was long and thin, and she wore gloves because she chewed her nails so short they bled. Sada was a junior at Northeastern University. This week, her long, black hair was streaked with hot pink highlights, matching her feather earrings and eyeliner. Her personality didn't demand attention; her looks just attracted it. Neither knew about my heroin addiction or that I'd spent time in jail. The only time we hung out was at work, so there wasn't a reason to bring it up. That was, until Sada invited me out on a Saturday night. She said it wasn't a party—just some friends hanging out at an apartment. She wrote down her address, said to be at her place at eight and then we'd walk to her friend's together. I told her I'd be there.

I'd been in sober living for three weeks, and I left our apartment only to go to work or NA meetings and to see my parole officer. I didn't want to spend another Saturday night alone in my room, and there was no reason I should. Alcohol wasn't tempting. Sada's friends wouldn't be doing heroin, so I was going to be just fine.

My roommates were sitting around the kitchen table when I got home from work. Other than some gravy and a few mashed carrots, their plates were empty. Tiffany must have made pot roast.

“We saved you a plate,” Kathy said. “You just need to stick it in the microwave.”

“No need, but thanks,” I said. Tiffany was sitting closest to the door, and I stood next to her. “Can I talk to you?”

“You OK?” she asked.

“Yeah, I just want to ask you something.”

She pushed out her chair and followed me to her bedroom. I took a seat on her bed, crossed my legs, and pulled one of her pillows into
my arms. Her sheets were much softer than mine. They were teal and matched her comforter.

She closed the door and sat in front of me. “What's up?”

“Do you mind if I borrow some clothes?”

I'd gotten only two paychecks. The first went toward a whole month of rent, which was my parents’ idea. I bought a cell phone and work clothes with the second and put the rest into savings. Opening a checking and savings account was another of Mom and Dad's suggestions.