by Kira Saito
“New Orleans? You never mentioned that.”
“It’s not worth mentioning.”
“Hmmm, why is she out there?”
“She’s investigating the Dubois case like the rest of the reporters in this country.”
“The Dubois case? I am rather close to them. I suppose we should go and lend our support, maybe hit two birds with one stone. Those papers need to be signed or we can’t move forward with the restaurant’s expansion plans.”
“Or we can wait until she gets back …”
“Richard, when have I ever waited for something I want?” she asked teasingly.
I grinned. “Never.”
“So what makes you think I’m going to wait any longer to marry you? We have to think about Sara, don’t we? You can’t keep living in the past, can you?”
“You’re right. When do you want to head out?”
“I’ll ask them to fuel up the jet, and we can head out first thing in the morning.” Her tone was firm, there was no way I could get out of going even if I wanted to.
“That’s fine. I’ll see you in a bit. Give Sara a kiss from me.” I hung up, and the past unwillingly crept back.
When I had first seen her, the thing that caught my attention was how utterly fragile and delicate she appeared. “What can I get you?” I asked trying not to stare at her longer than necessary. Her hair was dark and slightly matted as if she had rushed out of bed. Her blue eyes were gigantic compared to her thin, oval face.
“A double espresso,” she hesitated. “No make that a triple, no, a quadruple.”
“Bad day?” I asked attempting to make small talk even though I wasn’t any good at it.
“It was the worst of times and the worser of times,” she said.
I raised an eyebrow. “Is worser a word?”
She rolled her eyes. “If it’s good enough for Shakespeare, it should be good enough for you.”
“Interesting … Are there any other words that Shakespeare would have approved of?”
She pursed her lips. “Dotard.”
“Dotard?”
“Yes, Baptista Minola famously said ‘away with the dotard; to the goal with him!’”
“Hmmm, I have a feeling that word is going to make a comeback.”
“You heard it here first.”
“Yeah, hey, my break is coming up, how about I bring over your fix, and you can teach me new words that were good enough for dead old scribes.”
She flinched at the word fix. “Why not? I have a few hours to kill before my next class.”
I gave her a smile. “Take a seat; I’ll bring over the goods.”
“Thanks, I’m Kate by the way.”
“Kate by the way, I’m Richard. I have a feeling that you’re going to be bad for business.”
“Don’t tell me you’re trying to pick me up using lines from Moulin Rouge.”
“Is it working?”
“Sorry, I’m already taken,” she said.
“That won’t deter me.”
She smiled. “You sure are full of yourself, aren’t you?”
“No, just determined. I know what I want.”
“Are you always this arrogant?”
“Only when I’m convicted.”
She gave me a small grin. “I’ll be at that table over there.”
I couldn’t help but stare at her as she sat down. I whipped up the espresso and took it over as soon as the next barista came to cover my break. “Here, I even stole a blueberry muffin for you,” I said as I placed the goods on the table.
“Why a blueberry muffin?” she asked. “Why not a brownie? Or a cupcake or …”
“Are you seriously complaining about free food? Aren’t starving students supposed to be thankful for the crumbs that are thrown at them?” I asked teasingly.
“Touché,” she said taking a bite of the muffin.
“I could tell you were a muffin top type of girl.”
“That’s where all the flavor is. It’s where the muffin breaks free of the pan.”
“I didn’t realize that snotty university students were into Seinfeld.”
She snorted. “You’re painting a picture of me. First, I’m starving, now I’m snotty. Besides, Seinfeld is writing at its finest. A show about nothing yet so entertaining. They don’t write stuff like that anymore.”
“Well, anyone who has the dough to pay for college these days isn’t too bad off, so I guess you can’t be that hungry and since you haven’t thrown your coffee in my face and left the shop, I guess you aren’t that snotty.”
A stream of blood gushed from her nostrils. “Oh shit, I’m sorry,” she said reaching for a napkin. “Allergies,” she explained.
“Yeah, it is that time of year,” I said casually. I knew that they weren’t actual allergies. She was a coke addict. I had been around enough of them to automatically pick up the signs. The dilated pupils, runny nose, sudden nose bleed, and the nervous twitches that were subtle enough to miss if you weren’t paying attention. I wasn’t going to judge. “So what are you studying?”
“Journalism and literature.”
“Planning on penning the next great American novel, are you?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not,” she said taking another bite from the muffin top. “I’m more into magical realism and gothic literature, you know authors like Salman Rushdie, Isabel Allende, Alejo Carpentier, Anne Rice, Toni Morrison. I find most great American novels boring. Gatsby is so overrated. Does the American Dream even exist anymore?”
I pretended to know the list of names she rattled off; however, the truth was I barely knew the alphabet or how to write my own name. School wasn’t on the list of priorities when you didn’t have a roof over your head or had no clue where or when you would get your next meal from. “I believe the American Dream is stronger than ever and I want to be a part of it.”
She stared at me carefully. “It sounds like you’ve got lofty ideals.”
“That is the perfect way to describe my plans.”
“Let me guess, you want to be a rock star.”
I shook my head. “A chef. Not one of those measly chefs who works at a hole in the wall either. I’m aiming for Jamie Oliver or Curtis Stone level of fame.”
She studied me for a few seconds. Her eyes lingered on my lip ring, pierced ears, and visible tattoos which covered both arms. “You look nothing like someone who aspires to take over the world via the food and beverage service industry,” she said finally.
“Don’t underestimate the power of a really amazing pizza and an ice-cold soda after a really horrible day. Hey, if you’re ever having a bad day, maybe we can go grab a slice.”
“You’re shameless, aren’t you?”
“When you’ve got nothing to lose, the biggest favor you can do for yourself is to be as shameless as you possibly can.”
“You’ve got nothing to lose?”
“I haven’t got a dime to my name or any lucid family members who remotely care about what the hell happens to me. I’m all ambition and no shame.”
“Well, I’ll give you my email Mr. Ambition, when you feel like throwing a pity party; feel free to hit me up.”
“Richard.” A voice sliced through my flashback.
“Oh, hi, Sue.” I smiled at the barista.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just enjoying my cup before heading out into that jungle.”
“Sure, I get it. Can I get you anything else?”
“No, I’m good.” She gave me another wide smile and went back to work.
I downed the last drop of coffee and wondered what happened to the person I used to be.
Chapter Eight
Kate
“Kate, you okay?” Brian asked kindly as he took in the smashed crystal glass and my mouth which was still wide open.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Thank you.” I didn’t deserve his sympathy after the manner in which I had treated him; however, I guess everyone didn’t feel the drive to be a vengeful beast.
“You sit tight, I’m going to clean up that mess for you,” he said as he headed inside the mansion.
I nodded while my eyes remained firmly fixed on the man who stood behind Brian. Time had treated him well. His salt and pepper streaked hair was saltier, the wrinkles around his eyes deeper, but he had the same secure smile and presence that held your attention whether you wanted it or not. Despite the heat, he was dressed in a stylish tweed blazer, wrinkle-free trousers, and polished black loafers.
“Kate, what a lovely surprise. It’s been what sixteen years? The gods have crossed our paths once again,” he said as he approached the table. The musky smell of his Old Spice aftershave mixed with the sweetness of the jasmine filled the space between us. Suddenly, the humidity was overwhelming and my body broke out in another cold sweat further soaking my white blouse. Knots of anxiety filled my stomach, but my body remained frozen unaware that it should do something, anything at all.
He came close and gave me a small kiss on the cheek. “Nigel, what are you doing here?” I asked forcing my mouth not only to speak but making sure the words were casual, breezy, and obscenity-free.
He took a seat across from me. “Paying my respects to the Dubois family. Mr. Dubois is an Oxford alumnus; we graduated the same year.”
“Yes, of course.” I should have known that fact if I had bothered to read the file I was supposed to.
“You my darling, look as if you have been lost in the pages of a book full of death. Is all well with you?”
My jaw unwilling clenched. He had that way of making you feel as if you were the most important specimen in the universe while at the same time squishing the last of your self-esteem into oblivion. “It’s the heat,” I muttered.
“I see. What have you been up to for the past decade and a half? I tried writing letters, calling, everything short of sending a terrorist pigeon your way, all of my efforts were met with silence. Did we part on unfriendly terms?”
“Not at all. I’ve been busy with life.”
“I’ve searched every bookstore. I was rather disappointed that I couldn’t find a single book with your name on the cover.”
“I haven’t gotten around to finishing my novel yet,” I confessed.
“Oh, that really is too bad. I was expecting a Pulitzer Prize behind your name by now, all that potential hasn’t gone to waste, has it? After all, you were my brightest student and if I may add my favorite.” I could hear a hint of sarcasm hidden beneath his pristine English accent. He gave me a small wink, and I wanted to scream.
“Life had other plans for me,” I said calmly. “Where’s Debra?” I asked conveniently changing the subject.
“Occupied in London, I’m afraid. No matter, I’m sure I’ll find a way to entertain myself here.” He gave me another wink, and I wanted to scream even louder.
“Kate?” I looked up to see a beautiful woman with shiny black curls, bright hazel eyes, and a radiant dark complexion. Clothed in a floor-length tropical print dress, she exuded confidence, charm, and the type of Southern hospitality that pasty tourists dreamed of when booking their vacations in the dead of winter.
“That’s me,” I said quickly thankful to be rescued from Nigel.
“I’ll be seeing you around, darling. We must catch up over a drink,” Nigel said before I could make a swift exit.
“That would be lovely,” I said through a stiff smile that hoped to convey that I was over the past.
“I’m Madame Queenie, I’ve been expecting you,” she said extending a delicate hand. “Is that a friend of yours?” she asked eyeing Nigel.
“He’s … He’s somebody that I used to know …” I said casually.
“Oh, one of those …” she said knowingly. “Sylvia has told me all about you.”
“Good things I hope.”
She let out a laugh, it was light, velvety, and full of life as if it came from the depths of her belly and soul. I often wondered what kind of people laughed like they really meant it. “I know what I need to know. Let’s leave it at that. Is this your first time in the Big Easy?”
“Yeah, I’ve always wanted to come down here. My mom told me stories about it, but I’ve never had the time to check it out for myself until now.”
“I can see a Southern Belle somewhere deep down in there,” she said leading me into the mansion through the large double entry door.
“Ha, trust me the last thing I am is a Southern Belle.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Aren’t Southern Belle’s supposed to be the picture of grace, perfection, baking pies and fetching beers for their man?”
She let out another amused laugh. “Was your momma like that?”
“No, she was a fighter, tough as they came. She always told me that she was more of a New Yorker and that she had been born in the wrong city. She was the strongest person I knew until she got sick … This place is gorgeous,” I said changing the subject hoping that she wouldn’t ask any more personal questions. I took in the mansion with its stained-glass windows, large ornate ceiling medallions, heart-pine floors, grand stairway with its turned wood balustrades, 14-foot ceilings, looming crystal chandeliers and immediately thought of Interview with the Vampire. I resonated with Louis’ character and how he had wanted nothing more than death to take him after the loss of his wife and child. Was my Lestat lingering around this old place ready to liberate me from this torturous prison I found myself in? Would he devour me, so I could finally be free to join Zoe if the worst had become of her? Sadly, suicide was becoming more and more of an attractive option. Was it really selfish to put yourself out of your own misery when you knew you were essentially a waste of space and breath?
As adults we often told our children that it will get better, that things will eventually work themselves out. I was beginning to realize that perhaps that was the line we used to convince ourselves that life was worth living when deep down we often felt otherwise. Perhaps, it really didn’t get any better. Our problems only changed as we got older. However, we were told that we shouldn’t discuss them, we should suck it up and put on a brave face even if we were slowly dying inside.
Years ago, I wrote an article in which I covered the country’s growing addiction to opioids. Now, the growth had become an outright infection becoming the leading cause of death of Americans under fifty years of age, more than guns, car accidents or the H.I.V. epidemic at its height. We as a nation were now at the mercy of these pills so much that they were now classified as a public health emergency.
What was wrong with us? Would we ever get any better? How did we reach such a desperate point in time? Why were we so broken? I had never gotten to the bottom of these difficult questions. All the professionals I had interviewed had given me long-winded answers that basically made no sense yet here I was a part of this growing statistic. I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t ignorant of that fact. One in three Americans were somehow impacted by these drugs, yet so many like myself chose to put on a façade and pretend that everything was normal when the harsh reality was vastly different.
I knew what I looked like to the outside world. On the outside, people viewed me as someone who had control and being an opiate popping addict was something that I could simply choose to stop; however, most of those same people had no clue how opioids got ahold of people’s brains. The continual intake of these opioids, day after day, year after year, alters the brain on a cellular, molecular basis. These alterations aren’t a joke as they manifest as behavior directed toward the survival of the individual, which means more pills. They managed to temporarily block out the pain so that daily life was somewhat manageable again. Maybe I could stop without having to resort to rehab, but at this point in time that seemed like an impossibility and deep within, I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to see how far I could go before death called for me.
After Zoe had gone missing, I had seen a therapist. However, I wasn’t diagnosed as being officially depressed and wasn’t put on any medication. It wasn’t unti
l I sprained my ankle and had gone to my general GP for treatment that I was given some pills for the pain. Soon, I realized that these pills were useful for way more than relieving ankle pain. One pill every day quickly turned into a pill every few hours until minute to minute life with all of its messy chaos and uncertainty was bearable.
The thing most people don’t care to acknowledge about addiction is the fact that it doesn’t care about who you are or where you’re from. It’s blind to gender, race, or upbringing. It doesn’t care if you live in a small town in Idaho or have a glitzy job as a reporter at an elite New York City newspaper. Most people didn’t want to acknowledge this fact because they were secretly scared, scared that they may be next, and their life wasn’t as secure as they believed it to be. They were terrified at the prospect of not being as strong as they believed themselves to be.
I found it morbidly fascinating that despite all the technology and advancements that my generation offered, the death rate for those between the ages of twenty-five and forty-four had increased for the first time in a century. With all of my research on the subject, I should have known better, but I couldn’t help myself. I was as sick as the rest of my generation, and I didn’t have a clue as to how I could get better, how I could feel whole again.
“Good morning ladies.” A lazy Southern drawl pulled me out of my obsessive-compulsive train of thought.
“Morning, Chris.” Madame Queenie smiled brightly at the man who lounged on an antique couch with a computer on his lap. Dressed in a cowboy hat, checkered shirt, and blue jeans with a big old buckle, he was a thirty-something carbon copy of Matthew McConaughey. I stared at him two seconds longer than I should have. I recognized him from somewhere, but I couldn’t place my finger on exactly where.
“Looking lovely, Madame Queenie. Who is your friend? She looks as if she’s seen better days.” He got off of the couch and extended a large hand, flashing me a bright smile.
“This is Kate. Be kind, she’s been through some troubling times.”