Hide: Downunder Ink Book 2

by Bronwyn Stuart

  Chapter Six

  Jen

  I’ve had people tell me what I do is the devil’s work. I’ve been called every dirty name under the sun from the time I got my first sleeve despite the prettiness of it. Going to hell. Ugly. What will you do when you’re old and saggy?

  It’s never bothered me before.

  Maybe it’s the way he said it that sets my blood to boil? I’m seething and actually thinking if he doesn’t turn around and walk out the door right now, I’m going to kick him in his pretty teeth with my bloody fake foot.

  He gets the hint and says, “I’m sorry.” He reaches into his wallet and pulls out a cardboard square which he leaves on the counter. “Call me if you want me to explain my side of this.”

  “Never will,” I tell him. “Don’t care.”

  He opens the door, says, “See ya,” over his shoulder and then he’s gone and I’m sitting there in my underwear contemplating what makes people think they can just open their mouth, leave out the filter and share their unsolicited opinions with people around them?

  Fucking arsehole. What word did Trevor use? Pious? Fucking pious arsehole.

  I know I swear too much. I mostly do it to get a rise out of my friends and sisters, especially Jo, and it’s become a nasty habit but it gets me through the day. Judgement from a do-gooder isn’t going to make me stop anytime soon. I’m abrasive. I was born this way. Not going to change now.

  “You okay, sis?”

  “Tops,” I tell Jack as I reattach my lower leg and put my jeans back on when she offers them to me from the floor.

  “Dude didn’t look very happy just now. You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine.” My hands hurt though. I’m probably going to have to cancel my appointments for the rest of the day. I don’t tell her that. Instead, I sulk. “He’s just an arsehole who hates tattoos.” And me.

  “We know they’re not for everyone,” Jack reminds me even though she doesn’t have to. We both know some people love them and some hate them.

  “He has this stick shoved up his arse so far, I just don’t get it.”

  Jack laughs. “Churchy?”

  Usually it’s the die-hard church goers who give us the most grief. In the shop, on the street, on the socials. Like they have nothing better to do than recite why God thinks tattoos are bad.

  “He says not, Maybe it’s his age? But even then, how many guys in their thirties treat us with this bullshit?” Usually it’s the boomers.

  “None,” she says, offering me a steadying hand as I move away from the bed. I don’t need it but I learned not to push her away when she wants to help. Even if it makes her feel better and me like an invalid.

  “Exactly. None. I reckon he’s in a cult or something.”

  “Or he’s a medical professional offering his learned opinion?” She says learn-ed like it’s got two syllables.

  I snort. “He’s a therapist. Leg exercises and teaching people to walk on prosthetics isn’t the same as a doctor. He can’t keep dissing what I do with every amputee he rolls through the door.”

  “Maybe now he knows you are one, he’ll lay off?”

  Or join the pity party, I want to say to her. “Maybe,” I offer instead. “Or maybe he’ll stop coming in and just send the guys in a taxi? Anyway, who gives a crap what he thinks? Don’t like tattoos, don’t get one.”

  A motto we throw out at least once a day.

  Jack heaves a dramatic sigh. “He’s hot though. Like melt your panties hot. Speaking of, what the hell are you wearing today? Downstairs?”

  I groan. “Don’t remind me. What a day to wear cottontails.”

  “Why do you even own cottontails? What twenty-five-year-old even knows what they are?”

  “Online order. They were sent by accident. The company replaced the pairs I was supposed to get and told me to keep these. I need to do some washing.”

  “Want me to come round and help out a bit?”

  I resist the urge to bite. “I got it.”

  “Ugh, I hate that tone,” Jack tells me. “Accepting help from family doesn’t make you weak.”

  “Letting my sister wash my undies is the definition of can’t-live-on-your-own weak.”

  “It’s okay to need help now and then, even if it’s washing undies.”

  “I said I got it.”

  “Okey dokey. You know where I am if you change your mind.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m outta sorts today. Can you ask Jo to reschedule my appointments please? I think I’ll head home.”

  “Good idea. You want tomorrow off too?”

  I mutter a FFS under my breath, grab my bag and head out the back door before anyone else can ask me if I’m okay. I should have started counting this one specific question because once you aren’t whole anymore, it’s all anyone wants to know. It’s all encompassing from have you pooped, to can you walk, to, are you still alive. There’s no replacement question though, to set them at ease, I know that.

  I walk home like I usually do since I only live around the corner in a ground floor apartment. Close to everything, no stairs. For the days I’m not okay. They all mean well and I’m glad they care but how long will it be before they remember I’m still the same Jennifer, just not as boozy. Or good-natured.

  I grin as I let myself in through my front door. But they’re right. I am different. It’s like I have this pressure valve inside me and it’s always in the red zone for she’s-gonna-blow these days.

  My mind drifts back to my conversation with Jo and Ash from this morning. I need to blow. Or be blown. Maybe if I let off a little steam, my mood might be more manageable? But Tinder isn’t the answer. How would I change my profile to ‘wants to get fucked up, missing a leg, not into fetish or amputee jokes, no bum stuff’?

  Maybe if I get super stoned it won’t bother me that it will bother the guy who has to look at me? But I don’t do that anymore. I have the occasional toke at parties but I don’t get smashed and I don’t get legless anymore.

  Boom-boom.

  I groan into the silence of my kitchen slash dining room. I need to find a way to keep my pants on. Then he won’t have to know. Or be repulsed. Or ask the questions.

  I fall onto my couch and pull out my phone. I pass over Tinder and wonder if there isn’t a more not-as-able friendly app I can sign up to. My butt cheek hurts a little as I try to get comfortable. I must have fallen harder than I realised at the time.

  My finger hovers over an app that promises friendship as well as fuck buddies so I install it, create a profile and then spend about twenty minutes just staring at a screen gone black.

  Once upon a time I’d have no trouble, or shame, walking up to a hot guy in a bar to tell him exactly what I want. And exactly how I want it. For a while after the accident I’d get booty calls from those same guys but I ignored every phone call and text. I don’t want to say most of them are shallow but they are and I knew they wouldn’t accept me this way, especially not in the beginning when the scars were fresh and the stump was working itself out.

  Ben didn’t shy away, my subconscious whispers to me. I tell her to piss off too. Ben didn’t shy away because that’s his job. It’s like a gynaecologist not shying away from a droopy vagina during an examination, doesn’t mean he’d want one in his bed.

  Anyway, Ben hates me. He made that more than clear. “I just don’t like what you do. Or the way you do it.”

  It doesn’t get clearer than that does it?

  Chapter Seven

  Ben

  No one could have been more shocked than me when my phone pings with a message around 9pm. It’s from her.

  - i’m not saying i’m sorry about today but i definitely could have done things different. coffee? u can explain and then i can figure out if iou an apology? jen. ur fave tattoo grl.

  I read the message twice but it’s no less cringeworthy the second time. Would it kill her to use a capital?

  - Sure. Bonobo’s around lunchtime? You’re buying.

  I’
m grinning and I shouldn’t be. She’s obnoxious but in the way that even though she could be in the wrong, she’s never going to see it like that. So much attitude for a package the size of a small teen. It’s like she’s still seventeen and has something to prove to the world.

  My grin disappears. Trevor could have been seriously hurt today. She has to accept that now since he’d been taken away in an ambulance. He’s going to be fine. Regained consciousness in the hospital but they still don’t know what caused it. When allergic reaction was thrown into the chaos, Trevor had frowned and then shook his head, glared at me like it was my fault. I left soon after that. He’s in good hands.

  Not mine and certainly not hers.

  I really didn’t mean to hammer her so hard but I also don’t know how to call a truce. How can someone who knows amputation firsthand still have the kind of attitude that the scars should be covered up? Hidden? Like the injury is something to be ashamed of. Maybe it’s her age? Her generation of instant gratification and doing what feels good at the time without much thought to the future?

  Horrific injuries happen. Amputation happens in war, accidents, even birth defects where children are missing limbs, cancer, diabetes, it’s more common that the average person probably thinks it is and by attempting to hide them away from the public only does more damage. It brings about that sense of shame and I hate it.

  Even though my job is to help rehabilitate the body, there’s a lot of mind work that goes into the process. I’m responsible for some of it, the psych team the rest. It’s a long, hard journey and tattoos like Jen does should be years down the road, not months. Not even one year. It’s not enough time to heal the mind even if the body is quick to respond.

  I get a good night’s sleep and then move through my morning routine fairly quickly so I can hit the surf before the waves are crowded with clueless amateurs. Summers are hot on the north-east coast of Australia so I don’t need a wetsuit. Just me and my board. There’s a decent swell and I stay out longer than planned so I can work off some of the nervous energy building in my insides. We’re meeting for coffee and it was her idea, but I plan to keep it civil today. Talk out our differences in the hopes she’ll see some of where I’m coming from, rather than just thinking I’m the bad guy. The churchy bad guy. Not that there’s anything wrong with churchies. I’m just not one of them.

  As I shake off the salty water and head towards the carpark, I slow and then stop. As terrifying as it is, I’m probably going to have to tell her about Ian. He’s the reason I became an OT. He’s the reason I hate tattoos. He’s the reason I push so hard for my patients to wait a little bit longer. It’s not just the lifelong commitment a tattoo brings, it’s definitely not that you’re going to hell for getting one, it’s the risk of infection and the chance you’ll regret it all in the months and years after. That kind of regret can lead to deeper depression.

  She can say she’s all about infection control until she’s blue in the face and that’s great in the tattoo studio but what about when the client goes home? How can she be sure they will be on top of infection control? And what happens a few years down the track when they decide they don’t like the ink either? They’re stuck with it all. Hating themselves that much more.

  I stow my surfboard on the racks of my Jeep and do a quick nude shimmy out of my boardies and into shorts and a button up shirt between cars in the carpark. A wolf whistle, close, loud, ear-piercing, means I’ve had an audience. I turn to find Jen watching me with the cheekiest grin on pink, painted lips. She’s wearing another low-cut top that shows lots of cleavage above and a strip of flat belly below. It’s another forty-degree day and she’s wearing high-waisted retro style jeans with buttons on the front and embroidery on the long, wide legs. She’s probably wearing her hot pink sneakers too but I can’t see her feet from here.

  “Enjoy the show?” I call up to her while towelling off my hair. She’s on the boardwalk across the street from the row of shops and it’s slightly elevated to minimise flood and storm damage when the weather turns once or twice a year or there’s a king tide. Down where I am, there’s only carpark, sand and endless water to the horizon. New Zealand is out there somewhere too. I almost I wish I was there and not here, about to face her.

  “The highlight of my morning so far,” she laughs back. “You’ve got a nice arse.”

  Warmth floods me for a moment and I’m embarrassed. Not that she’s seen my bum, more that she liked what she saw. I’m not ashamed of my body or being naked (not that I should be nude in public though) but it’s not like I flaunt around asking people to look at me. She’s still eying me appreciatively and from the distance between us, I can’t tell if there’s a gleam in her eye or the sun. “Thanks.” It’s the only reply I can think of.

  I slip on a pair of deck shoes and jog up to the esplanade. “How did you know I’d be here? Coffee isn’t for a while.”

  “I like to watch the surfers and when I saw on the weather report there’d be a swell here, I thought I’d come down for a walk.”

  We don’t often get surfable waves on this beach but there are plenty of other beaches close by that do. “You don’t drive do you?” The words tumble from my mouth before my brain can catch up.

  Jen shakes her head. “Lost my licence for three years but even when I get it back, there will be restrictions and I have to jump a heap of hoops with this.” She points down to her prosthetic leg. “I’m not sure it’s worth it.”

  I nod but I’m processing what she said. I’m slow this morning. “The accident was your fault?”

  Her voice is real low when she says, “The whole sorry thing was my fault. No other cars involved.”

  “Speed or drugs?”

  “Alcohol.”

  “Damn.” And just like that my estimation of her character takes another nosedive. Doesn’t she have any idea how many people are killed every year drink driving?

  “Don’t look like I stabbed your puppy, dude. It’s a long story but the short version is my sister was getting the shit kicked out of her by her boyfriend. I got in the car to go save her.”

  “Whoa, that’s heavy.”

  “Yeah. Turns out I was way more drunk that I thought, lost control on the way back from picking her up.”

  “Jack?”

  “Jo.”

  “Was she hurt too?”

  Jen nods. “I copped the worst of it, thank god. We both spent a long time in hospital and then I went to rehab.”

  “It’s a wonder our paths never crossed,” I tell her. “What about the boyfriend? What happened to him?”

  “Jail. Fucker.”

  I still don’t know what to say. She’s being so brutally honest and open, it’s awkward.

  She saves me a response when she says, “Wanna get that coffee now?”

  “I should head home for a shower first but sure, why not.” Might as well get it over and done with.

  Chapter Eight

  Jen

  I didn’t expect to see Ben’s arse this morning although there’s always one or two surfers who get changed under their towels in the carpark. That isn’t why I come down here. I want to watch but I don’t want to watch.

  I always wanted to learn to surf. One of those one day things you think about but don’t get around to. Now I can’t and likely never will. My dad surfed. I don’t remember much about my parents but I remember dad smelling like sun and seawater.

  Ben smells like that now and it’s somewhere between nostalgia and sex on a stick. I want to lean into him and inhale. But that would be weird. He keeps pace with me as we cross the street and head for one of the most popular coffee shops this end of the strip. The barista, Vanessa, seems confused when she sees us, more so when we place our order and I pay for both cups. Two regulars coffeeing together obviously doesn’t happen often.

  We take seats opposite each other at an outdoor table. I put my phone and housekeys on the timber surface, he does the same with his phone, car keys and dark leather wallet.

&n
bsp; “So?” I say on an outward rush of breath. “How awkward is this?”

  Ben chuckles. “It doesn’t have to be. I am sorry though, for yesterday. I was out of line to say what I did.”

  I grin. “Just say I told you so. I know you want to.”

  “As much as it kills me to admit this, it wasn’t you and it’s not an infection either.”

  It’s a hollow victory. “How is Trevor?”

  “He’s fine now. Doctors think he had an allergic reaction to something in the ink.”

  “Wow, that’s so rare. You hear stories but I’ve never had it happen.”

  “Are you okay? You must have hit the floor pretty hard.”

  “I’m fine. A bit sore. Sometimes if I’m caught off guard, my balance is a bit shit.”

  “Do you fall often?” he asks, his green eyes narrowed at me.

  “No,” I lie.

  He must buy it because he changes the subject. “How many people do you think you’ve tattooed in your career so far?”

  I’ve never kept count and I’m wary because his tone sounds condescending. “Heading toward a thousand if I had to guess.”

  “How old were you when you started?”

  “Did my first tattoo at fourteen. It wasn’t very good.” I turn my wrist over and show him a bird. It’s still a mess but it means something to me so I’ve never covered it.

  “You tattooed yourself? How did you manage that at fourteen?”

  “I bought a machine and kit online. Hid in my room trying to get the courage to give it a go. I couldn’t exactly ask anyone if I could do it to them.”

  “What made you even want to try it in the first place? Did your parents have ink?”

  “So many questions, Ben.”

  Our coffee is set down on the table and I take a huge gulp of mine like it’s water and I’m dying of thirst. He does the same. I feel like I’m being interviewed. I love tattoos and I love art. I’m not the academic type so dropping out of school to pursue both art and ink was a no-brainer. Jack was already into it too which made it easier for me.