Page 56 of Before She Disappeared

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.”

Nodding heads. Charadee flips over my map and jots down some notes. She has a large looping script that is much prettier than mine.

She murmurs some questions in what I assume is French to her companions. Various French replies produce more scrawled notes. In the end, Charadee divides my paper into three sections. The first contains numbers, the second contains names, and below the midway line dividing the page are a whole mess of names and numbers.

She walks me through it: the bus schedule, which I’d recognized; the names of her “boys” at the center, who can help me out; and a list of the best restaurants.

“Skinny girl like you needs to eat,” Charadee provides as explanation. In a culture that prides itself on curves, I must look particularly pathetic. Honestly, I’ve been begging God for breasts since the day I turned thirteen. Any time now.

I thank her sincerely. High fives to all.

There’s a chime as a car pulls up to the drive-thru. They return to their stations and I head once more for the door, armed with coffee and my new and improved local guide.

—

I get on and off the right bus. It makes me smile so brightly even the bus driver, a stoic Black man who appears to be somewhere between old and ancient, grins back. I smile larger and he shakes his head. “You take care of yourself, you hear,” he says, and the fact I got him to speak feels like my second triumph of the day.

Forget Detective Lotham. Maybe I’m growing on the entire population of Mattapan.

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