by Claire Cook
B.J. reached for a mint, too. “Well, when it comes to tattoos, words are the new black . . .”
“Should I be worried that I had no trouble following that?”
“So if we could find the perfect short phrase . . .”
“How about ‘No’?”
“How about ‘Never Say Never’?”
“Ha,” I said. “What about ‘Work in Progress’?”
“Hey, that’s not half bad.” B.J. opened her car door. “Another Tab?”
“No thanks. One’s my limit.”
She closed her door again and sighed. “I should pace myself, too. What about ‘Well-Behaved Women Rarely Make History’ or ‘It’s Never Too Late to Be What You Might Have Been’?”
“Way too many letters,” I said.
“We could have them start at one shoulder and go right across our back to the other one.”
“ ‘Midlife Rocks’?”
“Too perky. ‘Living Well Is the Best Revenge’?”
“Overused.” Despite myself I was kind of getting into this. “What about an expression from high school? Maybe ‘Lighten Up’?”
“People might think we’ve joined a diet cult. What about a song title? Carole King’s ‘You’ve Got a Friend’?”
“Bette Midler’s ‘Friends’ would hurt a lot less.”
“How about you get ‘Alone Again’ and I get—”
“ ‘Naturally’?”
B.J. laughed her crazy laugh. “ ‘Ball of Confusion’?”
“ ‘Comfortably Numb’?”
“Who was that?”
“I’m pretty sure it was Pink Floyd.”
“ ‘Because the Night’?” B.J. sighed. “God, I wanted to be Patti Smith. She had such balls. Madonna and everyone who followed would be nowhere today without her.”
A young couple holding hands came out of the tattoo parlor and stopped to kiss on the front steps.
“Wouldn’t you think their piercings would get all tangled up?” B.J. said, watching them. Then she giggled. “Do you remember when Mack Drummond got his lip caught on Julie Waxelbaum’s braces at that dance and his parents had to come get him and take him to the hospital for stitches?”
“Not really.” My back was starting to hurt from too much sitting, so I put one foot up on the dashboard to adjust the angle. A dusting of sand covered my toes. I started to wipe it off, then decided to keep it as a souvenir. “Well, this is fun. But maybe we should just keep pondering until the perfect tattoo comes to mind. I mean, we can always do it for the next reunion, right?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Okay, moving on to images. Do you think peace signs have been overtattooed?”
CHAPTER 17
“Wow,” I said, “that Tab goes right through you. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Nice try,” B.J. said. “Like I’m going to leave you alone for a nanosecond.” She turned to the tattooed receptionist at the desk. “Do we need to take a number or anything?”
“You mean like at the deli counter?” I laughed a little too loudly.
A mother and daughter reading magazines on the waiting room sofa looked up at me.
“Don’t mind my friend,” B.J. said. “She only acts this way when she’s nervous.”
The restroom was clean, which seemed like a good sign. Sometime between getting out of the Mustang and walking through the front door of Do Me, I’d decided I just might get done after all. I mean, my kids were grown, I was self-employed, and my husband had left me. What the hell was stopping me? It would be daring and hip, the perfect symbol of a new life, a new me.
I waited till we were standing side by side at the bathroom sinks, washing our hands.
“Hey,” I said. “Do you remember those dorky necklaces we gave each other for high school graduation? You know, the little silver heart cut into two jagged pieces. You gave me one half and I—”
“AAAAHHH!” B.J. yelled. “Brilliant!”
By the time our names were called, we had our broken heart sketched out on the back of a receipt.
B.J. jumped up. Ariel introduced herself to us.
I stayed where I was. “I don’t know. Maybe you should just get the whole heart.”
“Come on,” B.J. said, “suck it up, buttercup.”
Ariel tapped the toe of one of her knee-high gladiator sandals as if it might make us pick up our pace. She was about Trevor or Troy’s age, with long shiny hair and a sweet face, and she was wearing a tank top and short shorts. An entire paragraph had been tattooed on her left thigh. I wondered if it would be rude to put on my reading glasses so I could make out the words. A series of dates looped around both of her wrists like bracelets. There was an intricate design on one side of her neck, maybe some kind of Celtic thing, and she had a bright green shamrock on the upper arm facing me. I tried to imagine what her tattoos would look like when she got to be our age. Would her shamrock have sagged into a pool of green slime?
B.J. reached for my hand and pulled.
We followed Ariel into a tattoo room and signed our release forms.
The room was small. A chaise-like thing that looked like a cross between a massage table and a dentist’s chair was taking up most of the limited space. A fresh sheet of white paper had been pulled out from a roll and stretched across the length of it. A box of non-latex disposable gloves sat on the counter next to an autoclave that looked like a small microwave oven. There was antibacterial soap on the sink, and next to that a bottle of antiseptic spray, a box of sterile pads, and a tube of maximum-strength Dr. Numb. Tiny disposable bottles of ink were displayed artfully on a shelf above the counter adjacent to a box of Skin Skribe sterile surgical markers.
I squinted at some boxes of disposable needles: round liners, round shaders, flat needles, mag stack needles, curved mag needles. What appeared to be a tattoo machine was sitting on the floor, tucked partially out of sight behind the tattoo chaise. The walls were painted a soothing sage and the trim a crisp, clean white.
I couldn’t find a single germy excuse to get us out of here.
Ariel gestured to two chairs pushed up against the wall. B.J. and I sat down, our hands folded in our laps, as if we’d been called into the principal’s office.
When Ariel stood directly in front of us, the room was so small our knees almost touched hers.
“The word tattoo,” she began, “comes from the Tahitian tattau, which means ‘to mark.’ ”
My hand shot up of its own free will.
“Yes?” Ariel said.
“Is there going to be a test on this?” I asked.
Nobody laughed. When I sneaked a peek at B.J., under the bright fluorescent lights she looked like a poster child for the old Procol Harum song “A Whiter Shade of Pale.”
“Tattoos,” Ariel continued, “have also been found on Egyptian mummies dating as far back as 2000 BC.”
I elbowed B.J. “See, we won’t be the oldest tattooed mummies in the world after all.”
B.J. didn’t even look over at me. She was staring straight ahead and making a funny dry-mouth sound as she separated her tongue from the roof of her mouth repeatedly.
Ariel cleared her throat. “According to Harris Interactive via Wikipedia, thirty-four percent of Americans with tattoos feel sexier, and twenty-six percent feel more attractive. However, forty-two percent of people who don’t have tattoos think people who do have them are less attractive, fifty-seven percent think they’re more rebellious, and thirty-one percent think they’re less intelligent.”
I was starting to get a math headache so I kept my mouth shut.
“And finally, seventeen percent of Americans with tattoos regret them, most often because they include a person’s name.”
I took a moment to appreciate the fact that even though I’d made a lot of mistakes in my marriage, at least I hadn’t had Kurt’s name tattooed on my butt. Not that I expected to sleep with anyone in the near future, but just in case things went really, really well with Finn, there’d be one less thing to have to explain. O
ut of nowhere, sadness washed over me like a hot flash. How did people find the energy to pick up the pieces of their lives and try again?
Ariel handed us each a shiny brochure titled How Tattoo Removal Works. “I’ll give you a minute to look these over.”
B.J. was still strangely silent. I skimmed the first few lines of the brochure but didn’t bother reading the whole thing because, honestly, if the tattoo didn’t work out, I’d probably just pretend it wasn’t there. I’d gotten through most of my adult life that way.
We gave the brochures back to Ariel. B.J. was still clutching our receipt drawing, so I peeled it away from her sweaty hand and gave that to Ariel, too.
Ariel looked at it carefully, as if our broken heart doodle were a blueprint by Frank Lloyd Wright.
Ariel looked up. “Half for each?”
I nodded.
“Where?”
I pointed to the back of my right shoulder.
“Okay, let’s do this.” Ariel made a practice drawing on a sheet of paper, then held it up for our approval.
“Wow,” I said. “You’re good.”
She smiled and pulled two Skin Skribe sterile surgical markers out of a box. “Okay, shirts off. You can leave them dangling around your neck and hanging in the front if you want. And slide one bra strap off your shoulder and take your arm out.”
I got a little bit confused the way I always did at the doctor’s office. Did the nurse say to take off my underwear, too? Was the johnny supposed to be tied in the front or the back? Once, back in high school gym class, we were doing the climbing ropes and tumbling unit. I was hanging by all fours from big wooden rings attached to the ceiling, terrified to be up so high and trying not to let it show, when the gym teacher told me to let go of a leg and an arm. Maybe directions under pressure are always confusing, or maybe I’m one of those people who can’t think upside down, or maybe it was my fear of heights, but I let go of both arms and both legs and hit the blue vinyl mat below with a loud and painful thud.
I was older and wiser now, but just to be on the safe side I looked over at B.J. to make sure I was doing it right. Her upper lip was covered with tiny polka dots of sweat and she was staring at the boxes of disposable needles. Her white boat-neck top was hanging around her neck like a bib awaiting drool.
“Hey, Beej, are you okay?” I whispered.
She took a jagged breath between each word. “You. Go. First.”
I looked at Ariel and she patted the table. I climbed up on it, paper crinkling, and sat with my back facing her. She drew my half of the heart on the back of my shoulder and then I twisted my head while she held up a hand mirror for approval.
“Some artists use transfer paper, but I like to go freehand,” Ariel said.
I checked out the purple broken heart. “Perfect,” I said. “But do you have anything you can show me in red?”
“No worries, this is just the outline.” She held out the marker. “Keep it. We can’t use them again so we give them as souvenirs.”
“Thanks,” I said. I figured if things got bad I could always put the marker between my teeth and bite down on it like a bullet.
I heard the antiseptic spray and then Ariel rubbed something cool and wet over the whole back of my shoulder. When Dr. Numb had worked his magic, Ariel reached down for the arm of the tattoo machine. She tore the protective paper off a disposable needle. B.J. gasped.
It hurt, but not like childbirth, not like when Kurt left, not even as much as a bee sting. It felt like a long slow oven burn. The noise was a lot like a dentist’s drill, but a little bit buzzier.
The sound started and stopped, started and stopped. Ariel dabbed on some cool gel, like putting aloe on a sunburn.
“Antibacterial ointment,” Ariel explained. She ripped open a Band-Aid and put it on so gently I barely felt it.
“That’s it?” I said.
She walked around to the other side of the table. “That’s it.”
“Wow,” I said. “I feel like I should get a lollipop. Or a sticker.”
“I gave you a marker,” she said.
“Never mind,” I said. “It’s a lovely marker.” I slid down from the table.
Ariel and I both looked at B.J.
B.J.’s hands were on her knees and she was leaning forward as if she might faint. Or throw up.
“Hey,” I said. “Come on, your turn. Don’t worry, it was a piece of cake.”
B.J. looked up. Her perfectly foiled hair had started to frizz, and one long hunk was sticking to the right side of her face. Her eyes were flat.
“Do. Me. Right. Here,” my best friend said.
To Ariel’s credit, she agreed. We managed to get B.J. turned sideways in the chair, and I held her hand.
Ariel rolled the tattoo machine over and reached for a new needle. B.J. started to sob.
Ariel looked at me. “I can’t do it unless you can get her to hold still.”
I put my hands on B.J.’s shoulders. “I’ve got her.”
I pressed my chin down on B.J.’s head just to be sure. “It’s okay to cry, just don’t move.”
Ariel turned on the machine.
B.J. let out a loud, piercing scream.
“Stop that right now,” I said. “If you leave me with the only half of a broken heart, I will never, ever forgive you.”
CHAPTER 18
Ariel held a shaky B.J. by the elbow while I gave the receptionist my credit card. She ran it through the scanner and handed me a pen.
A moment later the receptionist looked up. “Do you have another card? This one’s been declined.”
“It must be a mistake,” I said. “I have plenty of credit. Can you try again?”
On the second slide through, I felt a funny little flutter in my stomach, like a first baby’s first kick, when you’re so inexperienced you’re not really sure what’s going on with your body.
On the third slide through, it hit me: Kurt.
I could feel myself blushing—my cheeks were actually burning hotter than my new tattoo. I dug through my wallet for the business-expenses credit card I used for tax purposes, the only card I had that was solely in my name. It had a tiny credit limit, but I paid it off every month.
The receptionist scanned the card and it went right through. I added on a big tip for Ariel, who certainly deserved it after all B.J. had put her through, even if I would probably only be able to afford to eat cat food by the end of the week.
B.J. was still whimpering softly as I helped her into the driver’s seat of the Mustang. She pointed to her seat belt, so I reached past her, pulled it around her, and buckled her in.
“Snug as a bug in a rug,” I said in my perkiest voice.
She kept crying.
“How about a Tab for the road?” I said. “I think it’s just what the doctor ordered.”
She let out a wail.
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll take that as a no.”
B.J. managed to put the key in the ignition. She hunched forward over the wheel like a little old lady.
I jumped in on my side and buckled up. A sobbing B.J. pulled out of the parking lot and headed slowly for the highway. This crying thing was getting old, but I figured my best strategy was to ignore it. B.J. would get bored with it soon enough. Or she’d start worrying about her eyes getting puffy. Either way, I’d have my spunky old friend back before I knew it.
B.J. put on her blinker for the entrance to Route 3. I waited until we were safely on the highway, creeping along in the slow lane, and then I reached over to turn on some music. I hit the SHUFFLE button.
The Bee Gees started singing “How Can You Mend a Broken Heart.”
B.J. let out a scream.
I hit SHUFFLE again. The Eagles broke into “Heartache Tonight.”
B.J. screamed louder.
I pushed the OFF button fast. “Sorry,” I said, “but you’re the one who made the playlist. Just saying.”
B.J. pulled into the breakdown lane and we started bumping along so slowly I cou
ld have gotten out and jogged along beside the Mustang, maybe even challenged it to a race, and won. There might be highways you can get away with doing this on, but late afternoon on the only fast road that can take you from Boston to Cape Cod is not one of them. Especially when it’s actually legal to drive in the breakdown lane of this highway between the hours of four and seven PM.
I looked out the window and into the rearview mirror on my side. A line of traffic was backed up behind us. The Mustang’s speedometer was wavering between twenty-three and twenty-five. At this rate, we’d both be another year older before we got to the Cape.
“Beej?” I said. “You might want to push down on the gas pedal a little bit more.”
She shook her head. She sniveled some more.
Without any warning, she jerked the wheel hard. We rolled off the highway and into an open field at the edge of the road.
A guy in a big white truck, who’d been directly behind us, leaned on his horn and then sped away. The woman behind him gave us the finger as she passed us.
“Come back here and try that again, you morons,” I yelled.
The old Mustang rocked as car after car whizzed by in the breakdown lane. There were probably far more dangerous places to be in the world, but at the moment I couldn’t think of any. All it would take was a single rubbernecking driver to look our way and get hit from behind to then hit us. Mustang Sally would be toast and we’d be whatever was worse than toast.
B.J. was staring straight ahead, whimpering rhythmically. I reached into my purse and handed her a tissue. She clutched it in one hand and sniffed.
There was a loud squeal of brakes to our left as one crazy driver cut off another crazy driver. My heart kicked into overdrive.
“Okay, that’s it,” I said. “We can’t stay here. Let’s just get to Veronica’s in one piece and then you can cry for as long as you want to. Or we can talk about it. Your choice.”
B.J. let out a long ragged breath. “You. Drive.”
By Atlanta standards, it was barely a highway. Just a couple of lanes going in each direction. No steep hills or death-defying drop-offs. A soft buffer of scrub pines on both sides. Not the least bit panic-worthy.
