Page 64 of Just Trouble

I remember Sylvia instead, following toward me down this alley. Her hand was cold in mine when she reached me and made her appeal. Her dress was peach and gauzy. All sorts offloaty layers, then beading on the front. Flowers. She looked like a fairy princess, hardly even real.

She asked me to take her away from there, so I did.

I keep going, passing behind the Legion, hoping this exercise will help me recall what is undoubtedly my worst mistake. Someone is stacking cases of empty beer bottles behind the Legion in a container that locks and again, I keep out of sight. I catch a glimpse of a raccoon doing pretty much the same thing, but it vanishes to the south in the shadows. The convenience store is quieter than it was earlier, its lights bright against the night. The salsa music is going strong.

I pause behind the Foreman place. Here. I brought her here. I’d forgotten that, but now I remember. It was empty even then and the closest place I could think of where no one would see her. I pick the lock, just the way I did that night—my misspent youth has to be good for something—and the back door creaks as I open it.

I remember that, too, as well as the sense of doing something illicit. Sylvia caught her breath, I recall now, and her grip tightened on my arm. I ease inside, thinking. The bottle of Jäger was there, on the floor, proof that I wasn’t the only one who had ever taken refuge in this place. I would have never bought something like that—I was all about beer in those days—and it felt like winning the lottery. Sylvia laughed and said Una drank that junk at Christmas.

So, we took it upstairs, exploring as we went. The old floors creaked then, just as they do now. The building is empty, filled with shadows, lit by the streetlights on Queen Street. There was an old wooden desk on that night, a creaky chair with torn upholstery. A pair of plain plastic chairs in the front room. They’re all gone, now, maybe scored by some picker because they were vintage, and my footsteps echo in the emptiness.

I climb the stairs, feeling as if I’m lost in time, neither in the now nor in the then. Sylvia was wearing perfume. I remember smelling it once we were inside. Something floral and sweet. Maybe lavender.

At the top of the stairs, the door is open. I step through and I look around. It’s an empty apartment, just the way it was then. Living room at the front, facing over the street. Bedroom at the back on one side. Kitchen at the back on the other side, with the bathroom in between front and back, opposite the top of the stairs. It’s tiled in black and white, little octagonal white tiles that seem to glow in the darkness. There’s a door in the kitchen that must have once led to a porch, but now it’s boarded over.

We went in the front room that night. Dust stirs as I walk in there, hinting that maybe no one has been here since. I sit down, back against the wall just the way we did then. I remember the herbal taste of the liqueur and how much I disliked it. It had a heat, though, and a serious kick.

No bar service tonight. There’s just me and the darkness, and the realization that I recall nothing after that first sip. I woke up on Una’s porch, so I must have left under my own steam.

How can I not remember something so important?

What am I going to do about it?

I have a daughter.Even though Sylvia never told me about her, the responsibility is real. She might have expected that I’d be like Patrick and deny the results of my own actions, but that’s one thing I’ll never do.

Sierra is my daughter. Just because I haven’t had anything to do with her life so far doesn’t mean it has to stay that way. As much as I’d like to get to know her, that might not be possible. I’d never mess with Sylvia’s custody, but some time together might be a good thing. I feel even more responsible for her financial situation than I did before, but I can make it right.

Making a mistake doesn’t mean I can’t make amends.

There is a resonance in a right answer and I hear it in this one. I’ll pay support. I’ll ask Daph or her dad how such things are arranged, what amount would be appropriate, how to orchestrate that.

There’s one cornerstone to my life, and that’s my resolve to make different choices than Patrick has made. I’ve fallen down on that here, but it isn’t my fault. I didn’t remember and Sylvia didn’t tell me.

But I’m on a quest to straighten out the past, and I’m not going to stop.

I’m thinking about this when I see the flashing red lights of the cop cars coming down Queen. I figure something is going down at the taco truck and look out the front windows with curiosity. No sirens, but the cars stop right in front of me, parking at the curb. I can hear their radios, but can’t see the taco truck from this angle.

I’m not expecting to have a light shine suddenly up at the window, much less to have someone speak from behind me.

“Hands in the air,” says the cop who has come in the back way quietly. “Let me see them.”

I do as I’m told and turn around, realizing I’ve been busted.

Just like old times.

17

DAPHNE

Ihear zip from Luke all weekend. I don’t catch a glimpse of him either.

I know I shouldn’t have expected otherwise, and I didn’t—but I did.

No doubt he’s ridden out of town when I wasn’t paying attention, content that he has set all to rights as he planned. He told me right up front that he’d leave and he’s evidently followed through on that. He’s probably forgotten all about me and Empire and Sierra by now. Maybe he’s even forgotten about the new café.

Maybe he’s calling Merrie and not me.

Maybe he’s calling Sylvia.

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