Scars from a Memoir (31 page)

“I hope so.”

-36-

BY THE TIME THE DOCTOR SIGNED my discharge papers, there were no traces of heroin in my blood. My head was clear, and I was back to sleeping normal hours. I left the hospital with my purse, my jacket, an outfit Mark had brought me, and a referral for a shrink. I had made an appointment, and I was scheduled to see the therapist in a few days.

Mark and Jesse had already taken care of moving everything to Mark's house. My clothes hung in his closet, my personal items in his bathroom, and Michael's stuff went back into storage. I wished Mark had more room at his place. But even though Michael's belongings were locked away, he was still in my head. His voice came out at night, after Mark was asleep, while I lay in bed looking for answers on what I should do. Now that I was living with Mark, I wasn't sure whether I should move out of Boston, but I'd created so many nightmares here that part of me felt that I needed a fresh start to go with my sober life.

What gave me some relief was knowing Dustin wouldn't be able to hurt me again. At least not for a while. Melissa told me his appeal had been denied. In Cale's statement to the DA and judge, he'd handed over his phone records, showing the incoming calls from Dustin, and detailed their plan to kidnap me. Cale also ratted out the dealer who sold him the drugs and Martin's true identity. Melissa said Dustin was being charged with conspiracy and a few other crimes. He had been placed in solitary confinement, with no access to phone or mail, and they were probably going to move him to a maximum-security prison. In exchange for his statement, Cale received a twelve-year sentence.

Melissa's news didn't stop Mark from being overprotective. He had a security system installed at the house, drove me to my NA meetings, and even canceled my cell phone and got me a new number under his plan. He hired a manager at the new bar so he didn't have to be there at night and went in only a few hours during the day. I went with him. It gave me a chance to get out of the apartment, and I could work on my online courses there. I had missed several assignments and was behind on the lectures, but in response to the note from my doctor, the professor extended the due dates so I could get caught up. Mark even waited a week to tell me about Henry's death. He obviously thought I couldn't handle the news, based on everything that had happened.

After I filled my therapist in on the last ten years of my life, Mark was the first person I discussed with her. He was more than just my boyfriend. He was my caretaker, bank, and bodyguard. I had become one of his responsibilities, and I didn't want that to ruin our relationship. My therapist explained how Mark might be feeling and that he could be blaming himself. Even though there was nothing he could have done to stop Cale, the fact remained that I'd been taken from him. He was powerless over the way I'd been treated and felt that he had failed as the protector of our family. If Mark upping the safety was his way of healing and proving he deserved that role, then I needed to accept that. I wasn't a burden; I was someone he cared about.

At the same time, I couldn't be screened in forever, and that was also something I discussed with my therapist. Was Boston the right place for me? She said I would figure that out in time. For now, I needed to work through the issues of having been taken against my will and becoming addicted to heroin again.

And I was doing just that, discussing my relapse during my NA meetings, practicing the Steps, and continuing to open up with my therapist. Mark tried to keep us busy so we wouldn't spend too much time at home. I thought he was trying to get my mind off things, and it worked; we had picnics in the park, went to the movies, took a duck tour of the city, visited museums, and even hiked the walking trails. Before the basement, we had started having Sunday night dinners with Jesse, and we kept that up. Cooper, his new boyfriend, joined us, and the four of us spent a few weekends in the Cape.

But as we entered fall, the college students returned. Everyone was back from summer vacation, and Mark hit his busy season. He had a computer system installed at the house so he could watch all the activity at both bars, and he spent a lot more time working in the guest room. I was finishing my final assignment for school, an exam that covered the different kinds of drugs, their side effects, and how to effectively treat addiction. Maybe it was my coursework or that I'd been reminded how amazing heroin was, but I found myself thinking about it more.

Boredom is one of the biggest triggers for addicts, and there was plenty of that. I never went anywhere without Mark; he took me where I needed to go and picked me up afterward. I didn't have a chance to fear what might be hiding because I was never alone in the dark. I couldn't keep living like this. I had to regain my independence; begin taking the train by myself again; and meet my old friends from sober living, Kathy and Ashley, for lunch or dinner or to go shopping downtown.

My therapist thought I'd made a lot of progress in the months she'd been treating me. She praised my practice of the Steps and the fact that I was staying sober. During one of our sessions, she asked me to write a letter to Cale and Dustin and tell them how they had made me feel. She didn't want me to send it; she just wanted me to read it out loud at our next session. I did. In the first few paragraphs, I described the fear I had felt when I'd woken up in the basement, not knowing what was going to happen to me, and how I was worried about what my parents and boyfriend would think when they realized I was missing.

Cale injecting me for the first time was like a rape. I was helpless. I had screamed and begged him to keep the needle away from me, just as I'd yelled when Richard had dragged me over to his bed. My panic and anxiety had been the same in both situations.

“Can you forgive them?” my therapist asked once I finished reading.

“I forgave Richard, so I'll forgive them too.”

She looked up from her notebook and set down her pen. “How are you going to do that?”

“The only way I know is to apply the Steps.”

“Explain that to me.”

“Step Five is admitting to God, to ourselves, and to other human beings the exact nature of our wrongs. I've processed their wrongdoings and how they affected me. As Step Six requires, I can accept their defects of character.”

“Addiction caused their actions?”

“Selfishness, too. Dustin did what he thought would get him out of jail.”

“That took a lot of work.”

“I've had a lot of time to think about it.”

“Have you thought about what you're going to do next?”

I had just completed my classes and told her that at the beginning of our meeting, yet I still hadn't come up with a plan. What I had thought about was Mark. He protected me and kept me safe, but that wasn't why he picked me up from all my appointments, why I never went anywhere alone, or why I didn't have a chance to fear what might be hiding in the dark. I was blaming him for taking away my freedom. But it wasn't Mark who had done that. It was me. I had asked him for all these things, and he fulfilled my demands.

“I need to stop being scared of my own shadow and start living again,” I said.

“Your practicum in-field work is a perfect place to begin this process, gradually building that confidence again.”

To receive my certificate, I needed to complete over three hundred hours of in-field work. That meant I had to go to the rehab center at least five days a week, my time had to be logged, and my work supervised. I had spoken to Allison only once since the basement to let her know I'd gotten a new cell phone number, but I hadn't told her what had happened. And there was no way she could know. The police had kept my name from being mentioned in the news. Because of Dustin's connections and the way our heroin bust had been all over the media, they didn't want to draw any more attention to me.

“I have to talk to Allison about it,” I said. “By relapsing, I might have broken the contract, and there's a chance she won't want me to work there.”

“When do you plan on speaking with her?”

“I'm meeting with her tomorrow.”

Once the session was over, Mark took me out to lunch, and we discussed some of the things I had covered with my therapist. He agreed; field practicum would be a good way to build back my confidence, and he didn't think my relapse should keep me from working there. I could only hope Allison felt the same way.

*   *   *

I took my jacket off, rolled up my sleeves, and fanned my face with my hand. Sweat soaked my armpits, and the more I spoke, the hotter I got. I'd finished telling Allison about the kidnapping and moved on to Mark, the NA meetings I attended every night, and the therapist I met with twice a week. Her mouth had dropped open and her eyes widened during my story. She never interrupted me, but once I stopped, several moments of silence passed and I couldn't get a read from her. That was, until she grabbed a tissue out of the box and dabbed the corners of her lids.

“This isn't very professional of me, but I'm going to say it anyway.” She took a deep breath and reached for another tissue. She handed one to me. I didn't need it. “I've met thousands of addicts over the course of my career. None of them has experienced even the smallest percentage of what you've gone through, let alone survived to share their tale. Nicole, you continue to prove how much of a fighter you really are.”

Mark had called me a survivor when we'd visited the aquarium, and that wasn't the only time he'd said it. Asher had written a novel about everything I'd gone through. Allison told me I was a fighter. It wasn't that I didn't hear what they were saying, or even that I disagreed. I just couldn't take all the credit. If it weren't for the three of them, I wouldn't be alive. Their support, along with that of Michael, Jesse, and my parents, made me stronger.

I didn't know how to thank someone who had mentored me through rehab, reiterated the Steps when I needed to hear them most, and given me confidence when I doubted my ability to stay clean. Sometimes words weren't important. I had to show Allison how much of a fighter I really was. And I would do that if she let me keep my job. I couldn't wait any longer.

“Have I ruined my chance of working here?”

“How long have you been sober now?”

“Five months. I know that isn't much time, but—”

“Will you still meet with your therapist and attend NA meetings?”

“Of course I will.”

She smiled. “Then the job is still yours if you want it.”

The knot that had been building in the back of my throat began to loosen. I reached for the tissue.

“When would you like to start?”

I told her I was going to Maine the following weekend for my dad's retirement party and asked if I could start on Monday. That gave me over a week to buy some extra work clothes and meet with my professor for the exit interview. The school had to get in touch with Allison and send her paperwork so that my hours could be documented and logged.

“Monday is perfect,” she said.

I met Mark in the parking lot. He was on the phone when I got in the car, but he hung up as soon as I shut the door.

“You still have a job, don't you?” he asked.

I used the tissue to wipe my eyes. “As long as I keep going to NA and therapy.”

“I told you, baby. She couldn't blame you for what happened; it wasn't your fault.”

“Just hug me.” I didn't even need to say those words. Mark's arms were already wrapped around me.

*   *   *

The next morning while Mark and I drank coffee, his phone rang. It was Jesse, asking if he and Asher could come over. I hadn't seen Asher since he'd appeared in the doorway at my one-year sobriety ceremony. Mark said he'd visited me in the hospital, but I didn't remember. He'd sent me a text once I was discharged, and one every week to hear how I was doing.

They must have been in our neighborhood because the doorbell chimed only a few minutes after Mark hung up. I met them in the living room and gave Jesse a kiss. Asher was behind him, fidgeting with his hands, and his feet stayed planted. I closed the gap and hugged him. There was no reason for there to be any awkwardness;
Asher and I had been through a lot together, and over nine months had passed since we'd broken up. I got a whiff of his scent, sunbaked sand, and some of those memories flashed through my head. He really was a good guy; Mark was just better for me.

We all went into the kitchen and took seats at the table while Mark made them some coffee. Asher and Jesse kept looking at each other. Jesse grinned, but Asher had a more serious expression. No one said anything.

“What's going on?” I asked as Mark sat down.

“Asher has a surprise for you,” Jesse said. Asher's mouth had opened; Jesse's words came out first. “I tagged along because I have to see your face when he shows it to you.”

Asher unzipped his jacket and pulled out a manila envelope from the inner pocket. He slid it over to me. “Look inside.”

I tore off the top and my hand reached in. It was Asher's novel. On the front was the profile of a young girl; knotted hair covered most of her face, her sneakers were filthy, and her clothes had holes. A train track ran though the bottom; on one side were graffiti, litter, broken bottles, and syringe caps. On the other side were trees. The top of the picture was the skyline of Boston. The girl was me. I was on the wrong side of the track. And if the cover had shown her arms, it would have revealed scars of track marks. If she had been inside the city, she would have been working the track. This cover summed up my past. It showed everything I had survived, and Boston was where it all had happened.

My eyes met Asher's.

“Flip to the first page,” he said.

Two sentences were typed under the word Dedication: “
It's not a mess, Cole. It's a beautiful mess.
”

I remembered the first time he had said that to me. It was the day after I'd found out Jesse was his brother, and we had gone for a walk. He'd told me he wasn't scared of what he knew about me, and when I called my past a mess, he said it was a beautiful mess. And any time I had said that since, he always corrected me.

“This is just a mock-up. My publisher can change the cover and—”