“How’d you get started?”
“Fluke thing. I had just joined AA. One of the women was struggling with the disappearance of her daughter. The police thought she’d run away. Margaret didn’t believe, but couldn’t argue. I asked a few questions, which led to a few more, then a few more. Addicts are prone to obsession. I ended up tracking the daughter to a flophouse where she was holed up with her abusive boyfriend. The girl was underage, so I called the cops. They closed in for the arrest, but not before the boyfriend shot her, then himself. Classic murder-suicide.”
“Not a happy story.”
“No, but maybe that’s why I keep coming back for more. I don’t trust happy. These cases, these situations, I understand.”
Stoney nods, sips more coffee.
“Thank you,” I say at last.
No comment.
“You know your cat is crazy, right? And/or a serial killer?”
No comment.
“But she does have a nice purr,” I allow.
Stoney smiles. We both drain our mugs. Then, together, we restack the chairs, wash out our cups, rinse the coffeepot.
Stoney goes home. And, no bottle in hand, I head upstairs.
* * *
—
In my dreams, Angelique appears. She is running down a long, dark alley that gets longer and darker with every step. She is a blur of frantically pounding limbs, dark hair bouncing beneath a bright red ball cap.
“Help me,” she screams, disappearing around a corner. Except when I get there, she’s already flying around the next sharp turn. So I run left, then right, zigging and zagging, zagging and zigging but never gaining any ground. I can just hear the echo of her footsteps, the sound of her breathing as she races ahead.
“Help me help me help me.”
Abruptly, the dark alley is gone and I’m standing at the grassy edge of a road, peering at the crumpled remains of my parents’ car, their bloody faces slammed wide-eyed into the crackled windshield.
No, I’m underwater, fighting to get away from Lani Whitehorse’s skeletal grasp, as she pulls me down, down, down.
I try to pinch my skin. I try to scream at myself to wake up, but it doesn’t work. I remain trapped in a nightmarish slideshow, where the scenes go from bad to awful to terrifying to . . .
Paul. His head on my lap, his body bathed in blood.
“What did you do, Frankie?” he screams at me, his fingers reaching out like talons. “Dear God, what did you do?”
Shh, I want to tell him. Save your strength.
But it’s too late. A kid is screaming, a gun is booming. No place to go, nothing we can do. I reach for his hand.
“What did you do?” he asks me one last time as the life drains out of him. So much blood. Too much. And yet still he grips my hand. Still he looks to me.
“I loved you.”
Then I close my eyes, as light explodes around us, brilliant, excruciating, searing. I scream. In my dream. In my sleep.
I pray the pain will be quick.
Now, as then, it isn’t.
CHAPTER 15
Morning disorients me. I wake up with a feeling of dread and a pit in my stomach. For a moment, I lie still. I drank. That must be it. I caved, I gave in to the beast, and now I have to start my sobriety all over again.
Tears are already leaking out of the corners of my eyes before my mental fog lifts and I remember I didn’t break. Stoney pulling down the chair. Stoney talking to me. And then I do cry, from sheer relief, because my sobriety is my one and only accomplishment in my whole fucking miserable life and to lose that . . .
I will go to a meeting today. Before work, I promise myself. There must be a noontime gathering somewhere. There always is.
I sit up and swing my legs over the bed. Then I realize what’s different. No claws slash my bare skin. No rodent carcasses decorate the floor. For that matter, I have no memory of a comforting rumble easing my chronic nightmares.
I peer beneath the mattress. No glowing green eyes. I check the water bowl. It appears untouched.
Apparently, my roommate never returned home last night. Given we’ve only been together a matter of days, that shouldn’t bother me, but it does. I brush my teeth, shower, pick out the day’s wardrobe, all with half an ear listening for sounds from the cat door. By the time I’m ready to go, there’s still no sign of Piper. I feel like I should leave some food out for her, but I haven’t gone grocery shopping and there’s not a scrap of sustenance in my kitchen.
I head down to the kitchen, where I rummage till I find the brick of cheese. I peel off a slice. I don’t think Stoney or Viv will mind. I shred the cheese into smaller bits, then return to my apartment, where I place the cat snack next to her water bowl.
I’m not sure what else I can do, so even though I still feel unsettled, I get on with the day’s business.
I don’t know much about the rec center. It’s on my printed map, a large structure to the north in a sea of green. Once again, the presence of such a large park in the middle of inner-city urban density surprises me. But yeah, if I were a bored teen, I’d probably go there.
It’s a far walk, which means I should take a bus. Which means I have to once again figure out Boston’s mass transit system. I feel overwhelmed already. What elderly lady is going to save me today?
I head for Dunkin’ Donuts first. I need the coffee as well as the advice.
Given the late-morning hour, I’m the only customer, the shocking white woman passing through the glass doors. I recognize the crew of older Black women behind the counter from before, including the manager who’d helped me with directions to Le Foyer. Most of them appear to remember me, too. It makes it easy to order a large coffee, then plunk down my map and request assistance.
This time they all gather round, and I get bus routes and pickup times.
“Where you living now, girl?” the manager, Charadee, asks me. She is tall and round and somehow impressive despite the brown-and-fuchsia uniform.
“I’m working at Stoney’s, live above the bar.”
“You a bartender?” Arched brow. A silver star winks at the end. Stud or sticker, I can’t decide.
“I make an excellent mojito,” I inform her. “You should come by some time. I owe you for the help with directions.”
Charadee nods at me. The other women appear pleased.
“Why the rec center, hun? You got kids?”
“No, but I’ve heard good things and want to learn more. I’m an alcoholic,” I volunteer, having learned that in many situations it helps break the ice. “I was wondering if there was something I could do to help. You know, having been there, done that, myself.”