Part 11 (1/2)
”The court doc.u.ments?”
”Yeah. It relates to the Brian Olisky case. According to the cops, they also found a joint.”
”Is that true?”
”I don't know.”
Charlie scratched his thinning curls. ”How much time did he get?”
I explained the open-ended sentences, North River being a diversion program, parents waiving rights because the children in question were minors.
”So Dad signed off?”
”There's no dad in the picture.”
”I thought you said Mom called you because she was worried? Why would she agree to send her son there?”
”She didn't know about the pot. At least that's what she said when I called her tonight. I think they got to her.”
”They? Who's they?”
I couldn't answer that. I didn't know. The malicious they? The conspiratorial they? The they really in charge.
Charlie tried to wrap his brain around logistics, my investment, my helter-skelter reasoning.
”Sucks about the kid,” Charlie finally said, ”but, like, it's not your problem.”
”It's more complicated than that.”
I tried to explain about Nicki and what she'd uncovered, Judge Roberts' harsh sentencing practices, the recent spike in enrollment at North River. Maybe those cops had been sent to deliver a message, stop me from kicking over stones. Maybe they were all in on it. Everyone buying into the antidrug propaganda, quick to point the finger, solve problems with absolutes. Black. White. I was bouncing all over the place, talking points that made sense in my head lost in translation. Words failed me. I couldn't stay on task or follow a single thread to its proper conclusion. I knew how unhinged I sounded. Dredging up the past, fretting about the future. I circled back to Craig Olisky, Brian's dead brother. At some point in my rambling, I began b.i.t.c.hing about Adam Lombardi.
”Adam Lombardi?” Charlie said. ”What about him? You know he doesn't even live in Ashton anymore, right? Relocated his entire family down to Concord after his father died. In fact, I'm pretty sure he got out of the construction business altogether.”
”Bulls.h.i.+t. Where'd you hear that?”
”I don't know. The news? Sold the company. I think he's working full time on his brother's campaign.”
That would explain the abandoned site I'd run across last week.
”I hate to say it, Jay. Don't take this the wrong way. You sound like your brother. Everything isn't some conspiracy involving the Lombardis.” He dropped his head, muttering, ”I swear between you and Fisher . . .”
”Why do you keep saying that? Fisher. What about Fisher? I haven't spoken to Fisher since he got me in at NEI-”
”Gerry Lombardi is dead. His sons live far away. It's over, man. Your brother died because of drugs.”
”You don't think I know that?”
”No, I think you do. Up here.” Charlie pointed at his head. ”But not here.” He pointed at his heart. ”You want to hold someone responsible. The Lombardis are convenient.”
”How can you say that? You were with me last year. You were with me when I chased down Roger Paul in those mountains, with my brother a prisoner in the backseat-”
”Roger who?”
”The guy who grabbed Chris and stuffed him in back of his car! The guy who planned to cut a hole in the ice. The guy I chased down and ran off the road. The guy who died! Who do you think sent him?”
”You mean Chris' drug dealer who'd been trying to collect his money? The one who died in that car accident on Lamentation Mountain?”
”You never believed that, man. That was a bulls.h.i.+t cover story sold to the newspapers. You saw my f.u.c.king truck, busted to s.h.i.+t. I was the other vehicle involved in the accident! Come on, Charlie. You know that!”
”All I know is what Turley said. I know what I read in the Herald. I know that you ended up with a concussion in the hospital, talking crazy. And truth is, man, you must've hit your head pretty f.u.c.king hard. Because you haven't been the same since.”
Charlie sat beside me on the couch, put his arm around my shoulder. ”Maybe you should talk to that doctor you were seeing. The shrink.”
I shook my head. ”You sound like my wife.”
”Get some sleep, buddy. Everything looks better in the morning.”
I nodded, even though I didn't believe that. When nothing is right in your world, the sun coming around again to s.h.i.+ne a light on your failure is the last thing you want to see.
Whether from the whiskey or lingering internal trauma from the beating, I couldn't fully fall asleep, at least not peacefully, enduring an endless, tormented night. Straddling the line between consciousness and slumber, I felt both asleep and awake, very aware of the fact that I was dreaming. I'd read somewhere that your dreams only last a few seconds. Just feels like they go on forever. Not this night. My dreams were never-ending. And it felt like a reckoning, the past coming back to haunt. I saw them all again. High school bullies. Distant relatives. Ex-girlfriends whose hearts I'd broken because I'd only been in love with one woman my whole life. I saw Erik Bowman, Adam Lombardi's head of security, with the Star of David tattooed on his G.o.dd.a.m.n neck. Bowman, who'd done time in a motorcycle gang with Jenny's ex, Brody, whose sc.u.mbag a.s.s my scrawny, drug-addled brother had thoroughly kicked the same day he died, tapping into a secret strength from his wrestling days I didn't know he possessed anymore. I saw the entire town of Ashton, longtime residents who'd come out to pay their final respects to my dead junkie brother, collective expressions on their faces like the expressions I invited wherever I went these days, one that seemed to say, ”You poor sick sorry sonofab.i.t.c.h.” Which is what happens when you become a scourge, a pariah, a lunatic.
I lay there immobilized, paralyzed like Johnny Got His Gun, forced to relieve my mistakes, watching actors dramatize what could've been. No one else could tell me what was real and what wasn't. Because anyone who had been there was now dead. Like my brother. Like the killer sent to silence him. Like my parents who perished in a fatal car crash twenty years earlier under mysterious circ.u.mstances. Like a very real part of me. Every secret, every promise broken, every word left unsaid-my memory and my burden to carry alone. I tossed, turned, and ground my jaw until I dreamt I was chewing sawdust, mouth parched, calcium phosphate powder, narrative dissolving into nonsensical, overheated bubbling celluloid.
I split with the daybreak, leaving Charlie snoring blissfully unaware in his bedroom. Stepping outside, I embraced the overcast. I don't think I could've faced a clear blue sky right then.
I filled up my truck, grabbed a paper, a carton of cigarettes, coffee, and drove out to see her, waiting on the front steps for her to arrive.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
”JAY?” DR. SHAPIRO-WEISS said as she walked up the narrow stone pathway to her office. ”What are you doing here?”
”I needed to see you.”
”Okay. But it doesn't work like that. You can't show up at my office. You have to call and make an appointment. I have other patients scheduled. These are boundaries I need you to respect.”
”It's an emergency.” I could feel my chest tightening, breaths short and shallow, pulse irregular. I clamped the cigarette in my teeth and grabbed hold of the railing.
I waited for her to tell me to go to the emergency room, at which point I'd get in my truck and drive off. f.u.c.k it. I didn't believe in asking for help in the first place. You dig yourself in a hole, you dig yourself out. Only the weak need help. But shame was the least of my concerns. I was falling down and needed a hand up. If the doctor sent me packing to be someone else's problem, I'd take it as a sign. I wasn't asking twice.
Maybe Dr. Shapiro-Weiss recognized the crossroads too, because she said to come inside and have a seat in the waiting room.
”Let me see if I can juggle some appointments. Might take a few minutes. Don't go anywhere. Breathe.”