CHAPTER SIX | DESIREE
There was fresh bottle of Sauvignon Blanc chilling in the fridge, a party-size bag of Totino’s pizza rolls in the freezer, and at least five new episodes of House Hunters International waiting for me on the DVR… all the necessary components for a night of relaxation and recovery after a brutal first day of school.
But when I threw open the door of my apartment and kicked off my shoes, I didn’t make a beeline for the corkscrew or the TV remote. Instead, I padded swiftly towards my bedroom.
I was a woman on a mission, and that mission didn’t involve sweatpants or HGTV...
Bypassing the cozy clothes that I had left out for myself, I dropped onto my knees in front of the bed and thrust my arm through the plain dust ruffle. I felt around until my hand hit plastic, then I gripped onto the handle of a Rubbermaid storage bin and dragged it out from under the bed.
The plastic had gone stiff with age, and the lid was covered in a thick blanket of grey dust that tickled my nose when I inhaled.
I brushed away a patch of dust with my fingertips, revealing a strip of duct tape that had been affixed to the center of the lid. My name was written on the tape in faded Sharpie ink,
DES LEDUC
I couldn’t remember the last time somebody had called me ‘Des.’ Nowadays I was known as ‘Ms. Leduc.’ Occasionally ‘Ms. La-duck,’ or ‘Ms. L,’ or ‘bitch.’ Or sometimes simply ‘Desiree.’
But never ‘Des.’
I hadn’t been ‘Des’ in a long time…
Remembering that I was on a mission, I took a deep and dusty breath, then I pried open the lid and glanced down at the contents of the box.
The plastic vault was filled to the brim with souvenirs and mementos from a former life; my former life.
The first thing that caught my eye was the program from my father’s funeral. It had only been four years since he passed away, but the paper was already starting to yellow with age. His old Army headshot was printed on the front of the program, but I didn’t recognize the man in the photograph.
I couldn’t remember the color of my father’s eyes or what he looked like when he smiled. All I could remember was the stiff bark of his voice, and the way the whole house used to shake when he got angry.
I was a constant source of disappointment for my father. I must have been a constant reminder of the wife that left him, too, because he punctuated almost every insult with the words “...just like your mother.”
“You’re a whore just like your mother,” he had snarled when I asked for permission to attend my high school junior prom.
“You’re lazy, just like your mother,” he had grunted in disgust when I got fired from my summer job at an ice cream stand.
According to my father, my mother was the root of all evil. I never actually knew her. I was less than a year old when she left. She said she was going to the grocery store to buy milk and bread, but she never came back.
She didn’t even pack a bag or kiss me goodbye. In my father’s mind, that was proof positive that she had left him for another man. To me, the only thing it proved was that she was terrified of my father, and she felt like she had no other choice but to run.
My throat started to tighten up, and I flipped the funeral program over so I didn’t have to see my father’s face.
Maybe I could use that glass of wine, after all…
I muscled through the tough memories as I continued to dig my way through the contents of the box, the leather folder that housed my Hartford High School diploma, the keys to my first car, a felt pennant from my alma mater, a strip of faded pictures from a photobooth…
I was shuffling through a stack of papers when my fingers touched down on smooth, flat plastic.
My heart lurched in my chest as I uncovered a CD. The white label was completely blank, besides a red heart had been drawn with Sharpie around the hole in the center of the disc.
I cradled the CD between my hands, and when I blinked my eyes shut I saw that fireman’s face reflected in my rear-view mirror.
That was him… I told myself. It had to be him!
I scrambled up to my feet and reached for my laptop. I quickly tapped in my password, then I fed the CD into the disc drive. The laptop made a mechanical munching sound as it accepted the disc, and then it purred thoughtfully as it attempted to process the antiquated medium.
Finally an iTunes window popped open, displaying a queue of all fifteen tracks on the CD. Above that, in a bold font, was the name of the disc, ‘For Des.’
The Cure’s ‘Lovesong’ started playing through the tinny speakers on my laptop, and I sank down onto the floor.
I pressed my eyes shut, and I tried to remember everything about that night at the park.
I remembered how I had seen him sitting all alone on the picnic table. I remembered how he had played this song for me on his Walkman. I remembered him popping out the CD and giving it to me. I remembered him giving me a cryptic smile when I asked what it meant. I remembered how badly I wanted him to kiss me.
I remembered the cigarette burn on his arm, and then the flashing police lights. I remembered him saying that he’d be right back; that he just wanted to make sure everything was ok.
I remember waiting and waiting… but he never came back.
That night was the last time I ever saw Rory McAlister.
It took a few days for me to piece together what had happened that night. I learned that his mother and stepfather had both been arrested, but nobody could tell me where Rory went.
A few weeks later, a realtor in a black Lincoln drove by and stuck a ‘FOR SALE’ sign in front of their house.
That’s when I realized that Rory wasn’t coming back.
I didn’t realize that I was crying until I blinked open my eyes and felt the hot sting of tears clouding my vision.
When Rory left Hartford, that CD was the only piece of him that I had left. I always treated it like a clue; like a puzzle piece that would help me unravel the mystery of his disappearance.
I had listened to those fifteen tracks constantly, until I had committed every lyric to memory. Then I had scribbled the lyrics down in my diary and dissected them. I thought that if I could uncover the subliminal message that Rory had planted in the playlist, then maybe it would lead me back to him.
It didn’t.
After playing Nancy Drew for a year, all I had was Rory’s red Sharpie heart and a diary full of melancholy love song lyrics.
There have been a lot of things that I’ve had to reconcile in my life. I had to reconcile how my mother could leave me with an abusive father, and I had to reconcile how my father could be so viciously cruel and full of hatred.
The only thing I could never reconcile was losing Rory...
We met the summer I turned eight years old. My father had left me home alone, and I was taking full advantage of my freedom by watching Nickelodeon and eating Jello for lunch.
My wild afternoon was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. It didn’t just ring once or twice… it chimed over and over again, until I finally pulled open the door. There was a woman standing on the front porch, and she was gripping the collar of a sullen little boy. She frantically explained that she needed a babysitter, and asked if I would watch her son.
Before I could object, she shoved the boy into the house and stomped off. After a few awkward moments of silence, Rory tried to leave, too. I blocked the door and told him that I was the babysitter, and he wasn’t allowed to leave until his mom came back.
Rory was a year older than me and easily twice my size, but he didn’t object. He dutifully shadowed me for the rest of the afternoon. Neither of us said a peep, but I liked having the company. I had never had a friend before…
When dinner time rolled around and Rory’s mom still hadn’t returned to claim him, I started to panic. I knew that my dad would be home at any minute, and I knew that he would kill me if he found out that I had a friend over.
I didn’t need to explain any of that to Rory. As soon as he saw my father’s car pull up the driveway, he slipped through the back door and vanished.
I assumed that he had just gone back to his house, but that wasn’t the case. As I was getting ready for bed that night, I happened to glance through my bedroom window at the neighborhood park.
It was dark, but I could see the shadowy figure of a little boy. He was curled up on the picnic table. That’s when I realized that his mother had never come home for him. He was sleeping in the park because he had nowhere else to go.
I waited until I heard my father snoring through the walls, then I stripped the covers off of my bed and slipped out of the house.
From that moment on, we were inseparable.
He was my rock, and I was his soft spot. When kids bullied me at school, Rory stood up for me. And when his mother threw him out of the house, I comforted him.
We were--
BANG!
I jolted upright, startled by the sound of a door slamming shut.
The childhood memories that had been playing in my head suddenly dissolved into dust, replaced with a shrill sense of panic. My heart hammered in my chest, and my blood felt ice-cold. I was tense from head to toe as I listened through my bedroom wall.
I heard footsteps enter the apartment, then thud softly towards the kitchen. A deep voice rumbled something, but I couldn’t make out the words through the wall.
The refrigerator door swung open, and I heard the clatter of glass condiment jars clinking together. I gulped.
That deep voice rumbled again. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but it must have been something funny because it was followed by the squeal of a high-pitched giggle.
I blew out a sigh of relief and let my shoulder sink back against the side of my mattress. I recognized that nails-on-a-chalkboard giggle immediately; it was my roommate, Kasmine Curtis.
“Hey, is that a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc?” her muffled voice asked through the wall.
My wine!
I scrambled to pack everything back into my plastic vault of memories, then I snapped on the lid and shoved it under the bed.
I jumped up to my feet and pushed through my bedroom door, then wheeled around the corner to the kitchen--
POP.
I was too late. Kasmine slid the cork out of the bottle, then she glanced up at me.
“Oh, hey roomie!” she giggled drunkenly, then she lifted the wine bottle by its neck and waved it in front of me. “Look what I found hiding in the back of the fridge!”
“Yeah… I sorta bought that,” I said awkwardly.
“Oh...” Kasmine glanced at the bottle, then she shrugged, “Oops! So umm… do you want a glass?”
I rolled my eyes. Kasmine Curtis was living, breathing proof that you should never find a roommate on CraigsList.
We were only six months into our twelve-month lease, but Kasmine had already proven herself to be selfish, inconsiderate, and downright annoying.
Oh, and she went through men faster than I went through my annual stipend of Dry Erase markers from the school supply closet. Every other night I found a new strange man in my apartment.
Tonight’s specimen was digging through our fridge with his back to me. I gave him a dismissive once-over and was about to turn my attention back to Kasmine, then I noticed the white letters on the back of his black t-shirt,
HARTFORD FIRE DEPARTMENT, FIREHOUSE 56
I froze. My mind immediately flashed back to the firefighter that I had spotted on the side of the road.
What are the odds...
Before I could weave my far-fetched fantasy any further, the fireman straightened up and slammed the fridge door.
His arms were bare, his hair was too light… and then he turned around, and I saw his face.
“Hey,” he grinned flirtatiously at me as he cracked open a can of Hog River beer -- also mine.
It wasn’t him. It wasn’t the same fireman that I had seen earlier on the side of the road… and it definitely wasn’t Rory.