Leave a Mark (14 page)

Marcelle stood up again. “If it’s okay, I’ll come by tomorrow while you’re at the hospital and get my things. I’ll leave your key on the back porch.”

As always, she thought about things that would have never crossed his mind. Her practical plan made their break-up sink in a little more.

Lee nodded. “Thanks.”

She nodded, too. “Okay, then…" And Marcelle picked up her jacket, headed for the door, and left.

Lee stood for a moment and stared at the back door. Then he collapsed into a chair and leaned his elbows on his kitchen table. Victor circled, sniffed his right knee, and popped up on his hind legs to get closer. Reaching down, Lee scrubbed the puppy’s head. “She’s gone,” he said aloud. Victor wagged his tail, all excited. “Dude, I just broke up. You shouldn’t look so happy about it.”

The pup gave a shallow growl and a playful bark.

“It’s really your fault, you know,” Lee teased.

Again the dog barked. Lee couldn’t help but think he sounded proud.

“What? You want me to be alone so you can have me all to yourself?”

Victor jumped down and whimpered.

“Well, I don’t want to be alone, either, but that’s life.”

Again, Victor whined and pawed his leg, seeming to mime the thoughts Lee was trying not to let himself have.

“Don’t even think about it, man,” he said to them both. “Don’t you dare think about it.”

LEE HAWTHORNE LIVED
in her mind, and Wren hated him for it.

Everything reminded her of him. Agnes. Rocky. Mamaw. Fruit. Tattoos. Dogs. Joss Whedon. Granola bars. It was ridiculous.

Lying in bed at night, she could feel him all over again… the tickle of his lips along her neck… the scrape of his stubble against her chin… the demand of his tongue in her mouth. The memory haunted and hurt her.

On the third Friday that Wren showed up for work three hours early, Rocky sent her away. In fact, he told her didn’t want to see her again until she “crash-landed on top of whatever man is driving you crazy.”

Effectively banished from work and unwilling to go back to her apartment, Wren sat in her car for five minutes, wondering what the hell she’d do with herself until noon. She could picture putting Rocky’s plan into action. She couldn’t stop obsessing about driving to Lee’s house, banging on his front door, and begging him to kiss her again. But that was never going to happen. Even if she did show up in Lee’s life, it couldn’t possibly lead to anything good. He had that girlfriend.
Marcelle.
And even if she was a toad masquerading as a princess, she was obviously the kind of woman Lee chose, the kind who’d been groomed from childhood to be on the arm of a doctor. She may even be a doctor herself.

Wren wouldn’t be surprised. Marcelle’s sneer of superiority had been hard to forget, and it looked like just the sort of expression someone with a healthy God-complex would wear. A doctor or not, in the social pecking order, Marcelle was leagues above Wren Blanchard, and the woman knew it. Lee knew it. And so did Wren.

She didn’t pretend that The Kiss had meant anything else. It had been stolen, shameful. A momentary indiscretion on the part of the good doctor. Wren had ended it before he had the chance to pull away and tell her that — while he might be attracted to her — he could never leave Marcelle.

And after watching Laurie long enough, she knew that there were plenty of men out there who would be content to go one step further and keep a mistress on the side. Lee probably looked at her tattoos and her piercings and her two-toned hair and thought she’d be an exotic diversion in an otherwise predictable life on a trajectory to the top. Wren prided herself that she wanted no part of that — even though she couldn’t make herself stop wanting
him
.

Even imagining him having the worst sort of intentions couldn’t snuff out her desire. And when she really thought about it, Wren couldn’t make herself believe the worst about him. She’d only known him to be decent — more than decent — gentle, compassionate, giving, funny. The stricken look he’d worn when she pushed him aside and fled the trap of his embrace made her heart go soft.

It was too confusing. She had to stop thinking about him. She had to find something to do when she wasn’t working.

Wren was sitting in her Mustang in the parking lot of Studio Ink when she saw Curtis, her homeless hopeless case, cross in front of her, heading down Johnston Street. She honked her horn to get his attention, but Curtis kept walking.

Firing up the Mustang, Wren decided that she’d just found something to do.

“Curtis!” Wren shouted out the driver’s side window as she idled beside him. He was just passing the law office on the corner when she finally got his attention. She pulled over.

He looked soggy. It was a mild day, but it had rained earlier that morning, and Curtis’s denim jacket was darkened with wet. He stared at Wren with unseeing eyes, arms hanging at his sides. She pulled over and jumped out of the Mustang.

“Curtis, you look awful." His mouth hung open, his bottom lip slick with saliva. Wren couldn’t tell if he was high, jonesing, or just plain sick. “It’s Wren, Curtis. Do you know who I am?”

He gave a nod of his head. The movement was exaggerated, robotic, and Wren considered for a moment that her newly hatched plan might not actually be safe. She stared back at Curtis for a minute before making up her mind.

I can’t very well leave him like this.

“Curtis, do you want me to take you to the recovery center today? I can give you a ride, and I can stay with you until you are admitted.”

He nodded again, but Wren doubted he knew what he was agreeing to.

“Would you like to get in?” Her heart started to pound as she made herself walk around the front of the Mustang and open the passenger side door. As soon as it swung wide, Curtis shuffled his way over. The smell of him hit her while he was still several feet away.

Oh my God. What am I doing? Lee Hawthorne, if this addict kills me, it’ll be your fault.

Curtis placed a hand on the roof of the Mustang and raised his bloodshot eyes to her.

“I can get in, Song Bird?” His voice was paper thin, and some of Wren’s fears vanished at the helpless sound of it. He recognized her, and Wren felt relief.

“Yes, Curtis. Please get in. I want to help you." At her words, his body listed against the car as if he’d reached the last of his strength.

“Thank you, Song Bird. I’m awful tired.” He lowered himself down onto the seat and closed his eyes before Wren could even shut the door. When she did, she let it click home gently, pausing a moment to work down the lump in her throat. The look of suffering in his eyes reminded her of Laurie’s at the end.

She ran back to the driver’s side and got in. Curtis might be agreeing to get help now in a moment of weakness, but he could come around and change his mind any second. And if he came around, she doubted he’d know where he was.

Wren kept the window rolled down. The smell rising off him almost choked her, so she drove with a knuckle pressed to her nose. She made a right onto Johnston Street, and, from the seat next to her, Curtis groaned, and then, to her horror, a belch squished through his lips.

“Oh, Curtis, please don’t puke in my car,” she whispered. “Lee Hawthorne, if this guy pukes in my car, it’ll be your fault.”

Trying to strike a balance between speed and stability, she took the corner onto Vermilion with care so that the movements of the car wouldn’t make Curtis feel worse. Still he moaned.

“Four more blocks, Curtis. Hang tight." The light in front of Don’s Seafood was green, so she sailed through it, passing Agave and Parc Sans Souci. Wren hoped that Cherise hadn’t spotted her from the patio of the restaurant. She’d know for certain that Wren had lost her mind if she did.

She came to a stop for the light on Jefferson, and as she waited for it to turn, Curtis raised a hand as if to signal a halt. His eyes were still closed, and Wren had no idea if he was trying to stop her or trying to stop his world from spinning. On impulse, she reached up and took his hand in hers. To her surprise, he held on tight.

“We’re almost there."

She pulled up to a parking spot directly in front of the building, but when she killed the engine, Wren had no idea how she’d get Curtis out of the car. He was much bigger than she was, and in his state, she didn’t think he could make it on his own. She was also more than a little worried he’d get out and wander off if she left him in the car to go in search of help.

His eyes were closed still, so she tested the waters. She watched him while she opened her door. He didn’t move. Didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t make a sound. She gently shut the door, but forty-eight-year-old car doors didn’t close as noiselessly as one might hope, and Curtis’s shoulders jumped a fraction at the sound, but he didn’t wake.

Releasing a breath in relief, Wren watched him for another second before readying herself to sprint. Halfway to the entrance, she learned that ankle boots and a full-length skirt weren’t the best clothing options for sprinting, but she made it inside without falling on her face.

A young woman in pink scrubs smiled at her from behind the reception desk.

“Welcome to ARC. How can I help you?”

A little breathless from the sprint and her rescue mission, Wren panted. “My… friend needs help. I’ve been trying to get him to come… for a while, and he finally agreed.”

The woman looked over Wren’s shoulder in confusion. “Your friend?”

“Yes… he’s… well, he’s in the car. I’m not sure if he’s sober or not. He might just be sick,” she stammered. “But he needs in-patient care. Can you take him?”

The receptionist, whose nametag read
Lily
, gave her a patient smile. “Does he have insurance?”

Wren froze.

“Um… no, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t,” she said, her heart sinking. “Do you have a program for someone who can’t pay?”

This time Lily’s smile was genuine. “Actually, we have five beds for indigent patients, and one of them just came available this morning. If your friend consents, he can be enrolled in our thirty-day inpatient program.”

Thirty days.

It didn’t seem like much, but it was probably the best offer Curtis could receive. And thirty days with a bed and three squares a day would at least make him stronger.

“Let’s hope he consents,” Wren said.

Lily picked up her phone and called someone named Carl to report to the admitting desk. When Carl arrived, he filled the doorway. He looked like a defensive tackle, but his eyes smiled, and Wren liked the way his curling eyelashes gave him a boyish look.

She led Carl to her Mustang, and, to her relief, Curtis still snoozed in the front seat. It was something of an effort to get him to understand what was happening, but once he gave his verbal approval that he wanted to check in, Carl had no trouble hoisting Curtis out of the car and up the steps of the recovery center.

As promised, Wren stayed with him while they admitted him, and she learned a lot about Curtis in the process. He was forty-seven, even though he looked to be about seventy. He had a sister named Doris who lived in Opelousas. He’d tried AA before, but he’d never done an in-patient program. His drugs of choice were alcohol and crack.

The part that made Wren’s heart ache was when Curtis answered the question about occupation.

“I used to work for the university in the student union,” he said sadly. “I was a fry cook in the Cypress Lake Dining Room. Fried fish. Fried chicken. Fried okra. You name it, I fried it.”

“I’ve eaten there before,” Wren blurted, unable to help herself. “Awesome fried catfish.”

Curtis gave her an amused frown. “When was you there?”

His surprise didn’t faze her. Wren never looked much like a co-ed — even when she had been one.

“About four years ago.”

Curtis’s eyebrows bobbed. He was becoming more alert as the conversation progressed, and Wren hoped that he wouldn’t have a change of heart before he was officially admitted.

“I was still there four years ago…”

“Really?”
Now, she was the one surprised. She’d met Curtis on the streets three years ago. How had he gone from a steady job as a cook at the university to homeless and addicted to crack in such a short time?

Laurie had been a mess her whole life, and Wren found a strange comfort in that. If Curtis could become an addict virtually overnight, did that mean it could happen to anyone? To her? Wren shuddered and pushed the questions from her mind.

When it came time for Carl and another man to escort him toward the dormitory, Curtis turned to Wren and offered his trembling hand. She took it.

“Thank you, Song Bird…” His voice seemed to get lost on her nickname. “Nobody’s kept after Old Curtis the way you have… I don’t know if this gonna work, but I’ll try not to let you down.”

Wren squeezed his hand, but no words came. Let her down? Curtis owed her nothing, and yet he worried about letting her down. Laurie hadn’t even done that — not until it was too late. She managed a nod, but before he disappeared around the corner, she whispered, “Good luck." And then she was left standing in the lobby as Lily-with-the-pink-scrubs watched.

She looked down at her phone. It was only 10:45. What was she supposed to do for the next hour and fifteen minutes?

Lee Hawthorne, I can’t have a moment’s peace, and it’s all your fault.

Rather than think about him again — and, strangely, she yearned to tell him about her triumph with Curtis — Wren turned to the receptionist.

“Do you have a program for volunteers?” Yes. Volunteer work. That would keep her busy.

Lily beamed again. “Yes, we have Safe Play.”

“Safe Play?" The name sounded weird. What did that have to do with recovery?

“It’s a childcare program for outpatient parents,” Lily explained. “While parents attend meetings or have appointments with their counselors, their kids stay in Safe Play with our volunteers.”

Wren felt stunned. “Parents bring their kids to the recovery center?”

Lily nodded. “Addiction affects everyone in the family. Especially kids. They know the recovery center is a safe place. A lot of them have suffered neglect and abuse.”