Kindred

by Stein, Tammar

  I approach the shop with a surge of happiness and excitement. It’s hardly a cute or inviting place. The walkway is swept clean, but the plain cement is cracked. The front door is solid black. The windows on either side are tinted and impossible to see through, and the neon sign above simply says TATTOOS.

  I push open the door and the bell tinkles. The cool air feels wonderful on my damp skin.

  Emmett glances over his shoulder at the sound. He nods as I come in, his usual laconic self, but I can tell he’s glad to see me. I head to the back and place the jacket on an empty chair, then watch as he finishes up a dragonfly tattoo. It’s small, with light and delicate lines. He’s drawn it up high, near the girl’s shoulder blade, and if I look quickly, it seems like a real insect is resting there for a moment.

  “It looks really good,” I tell her.

  She smiles. She looks to be in her mid-twenties, with blond-streaked hair tousled around her pixieish face.

  “Is this your first tattoo?” I ask.

  “No, I have one on my hip.”

  “What is it?”

  Emmett’s finished, so after a quick glance at him to make sure it’s okay to move, she shifts to her side and slides down her pants. There’s a small four-leaf clover. To my untutored eye, it doesn’t look as well inked as the dragonfly.

  “It’s for good luck,” she says. “I’m Irish.”

  “How’s that worked out for you?”

  “Being Irish or my shamrock?”

  “I don’t know—both.”

  Emmett rolls his lips inward, as if trying to keep from smiling. In the meanwhile, he helps her to the long mirror so she can see the tattoo for herself. After her happy exclamations, he slathers her dragonfly in Vaseline, and then carefully tapes gauze over it. He gives her detailed instructions on how to care for the tattoo until the skin heals. She listens gravely and nods.

  “I like my shamrock,” she says, turning to me. “It keeps me grounded. But I needed another tattoo to remind me that sometimes I need to fly.”

  I really don’t know what to say to this, so I smile and nod. I still don’t understand how people believe that the drawing itself carries power. She pays for the tattoo, thanks Emmett again and leaves.

  “You ask a lot of questions,” he says.

  “Oh, come on, that wasn’t bad. I was just being friendly.”

  He wipes down the chair and starts cleaning his station, throwing away the used inks, putting the nondisposable equipment into the autoclave for sterilization.

  “You throw all this stuff away? You barely used some of it.”

  “Great way to transmit disease,” he says. “It’s why some cities near naval bases banned tattoo parlors for a long time. Too many sailors catching too many things.”

  “That’s gross.”

  “And the reason I’m throwing all these perfectly good inks away.”

  “So maybe it’s not so wasteful.”

  He grunts slightly, acknowledging my concession.

  “What brings you to my neck of the woods?” he says. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Thought you moved on to another story.”

  “Missed me?”

  “Yeah, I did,” he says.

  I pause for a second.

  “I missed you too,” I say softly, and take a deep breath. “It was kind of nice having your jacket; it reminded me of you.”

  He looks up from his cleaning, as though waiting for something.

  But there’s nothing else I’m ready to share. So after a moment, he nods and we share a smile.

  “You are right, though,” I say briskly, breaking up the suddenly intense atmosphere. “I have moved on to another story. It comes out next week; it’s about this organic farm outside of town. It’s also kind of my baby, since it’s my own story idea.”

  “Congratulations,” he says. Emmett has a way of lending the simplest words a richness and depth they don’t usually have. I squirm with pleasure at his simple felicitation.

  “But don’t worry,” I say. “Just ’cause I have a new story doesn’t mean we’re not friends anymore.” I need to get back to my more important project. “I still think you’d make a great personality profile, but Frank says we already have enough features for the next three months.”

  He gives me one of his searing, searching looks, then nods.

  “So you’re here for a tattoo?” he asks.

  “No,” I laugh. “Not yet.” I deliberately look around the shop. We’re the only ones in it. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee or something?”

  He thinks about it for a moment, then shrugs. “It’s quiet today. And what’s the point of owning my own business if I can’t take off every once in a while?”

  I grin widely and we set off into the heavy heat.

  At the café, we settle at a small side table with our drinks, chatting about the Blank Pages—they have an album coming out. But then, as the small talk winds down, I take a deep breath and ease into the subject I’ve been waiting to touch on.

  “I was wondering if you wanted to visit the office sometime,” I say.

  “At the newspaper?”

  “Yeah. You know, I’m always hanging where you work; I thought you might want to see where I earn my honest wages.”

  He looks at me for a moment. “You are a strange one, Miriam.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t think that’s kind of a weird thing to ask?”

  “Well, first of all, no. I don’t think so. I’m a naturally curious person; forgive me for assuming you were as well. But if you want to know the rest of the story, there’s someone there I want you to meet.”

  “Trying to set me up?”

  “No!” I’m ridiculously insulted and stung. Doesn’t he remember that I like him?

  He relaxes a fraction at my response.

  “There’s this kid, okay? An intern. I think he’s got some issues—maybe his home life, maybe something at school. I don’t know. I want to help him, but I can’t get through to him. We started off on the wrong foot, and I think no matter what I do, I’m not ‘cool enough,’ ” I say, making air quotes. “And … not to give you a big head, but you’re the coolest person I know. In Hamilton.”

  He snorts at the qualification.

  “I thought if I brought you in, maybe the three of us could hang out for a bit, get to know each other, and then maybe he’d loosen up around me.”

  “Why do you even care about this dude? He sounds like a loser.”

  I shrug. It’s hard to put into words. “It’s just this feeling that I’m supposed to help him. He acts like he’s all bad, but I think there’s something else going on underneath.” At least there’d better be.

  Emmett tips back his cup and finishes the last of his coffee.

  “I need to get back to the shop.” He puts down his mug and rises. I stay in my seat, waiting for the rest of it. “Call me,” he says. “I’ll meet your boy.”

  “Sweet,” I say, grinning up from my seat. “Thank you so much.”

  “Don’t expect too much,” he says darkly. “People have to want to be helped before you can help them.”

  He walks out and the door jangles loudly behind him.

  The next day, I waste no time. As soon as I know for sure Jason’s at the office, I call Emmett. He has a buddy visiting who can mind the shop while he takes off.

  “I can give you an hour,” he says. “But that’s all.”

  We agree to meet at the coffee shop.

  Getting Jason there is not easy.

  He’s hunched over the conference room table, his arm curved around a notebook as he furiously writes. His hair looks greasy, like he hasn’t bathed in a while, but he doesn’t smell bad. I wonder if he’s using a weird kind of hair gel.

  “Hey,” I say casually. “I’m heading out to Higher Grounds for a break. You want to come?”

  Warily, he looks up from his notebook.

  “I’m Miriam,” I remind him, but his closed expression doesn’t change. “My treat,
” I offer.

  Talking to him is like holding a tidbit of fish out to a feral cat, trying to lure him closer. As he shifts, I see a little of the notebook and realize he’s been sketching, not writing. “You draw?” I ask, motioning toward the paper.

  “No,” he says flatly, closing the book.

  I want to walk away so badly. He’s rude; he’s not interested. It feels masochistic to keep pounding my head against the wall.

  “Come on,” I wheedle. “First of all, it’s a free drink. Second, I’ve got someone I want you to meet. And third, besides the fact that it’s totally rude to turn down a co-worker who asks you out for a coffee, it looks like there’s nothing for you to do here today.”

  He sighs deeply. “Fine,” he says.

  “A man of few words. You’re going to have to work on that if you want to be a reporter.”

  “I don’t.”

  I stop for a second, but he brushes past me out the door. I follow, more perplexed than ever about what I’m supposed to do for him. And why him?

  Jason perks up a bit at the sight of Emmett’s tattoos and black motorcycle boots. But I don’t know why I imagined the three of us chatting away and having a great ol’ time. In fact, it’s incredibly awkward as Emmett and I try to ask Jason about himself and he answers in monosyllables.

  I’m about to write off this whole experiment as a total loss when I hear my name called. I turn and see Mo striding toward us.

  “This is my brother.” I introduce him all around, and without even waiting for an invitation, Mo pulls up an extra chair and joins us. He had seemed depressed when I went for work this morning, like a puppy getting left at home. He looks so happy to see me now that I don’t have the heart to kick him under the table and tell him to leave.

  He doesn’t even bother ordering a drink at the counter. At first I’m annoyed because, in typical Mo fashion, he completely takes over the conversation. Emmett glances at me once, then keeps his eyes on Mo and Jason. I wonder what he thinks of Mo. My brother is talking so fast that the words meld into each other as he tells all of us about his lousy interviews at a couple of attorney’s offices he thought might be interested in a paid student intern position. Not surprisingly, they weren’t receptive. I’m trying to think of ways to take back the conversation—questions to ask Jason to crack through that sullen grunt he prefers—when I finally realize that Mo’s good-natured foul mouth is loosening up Jason. He smiles at Mo’s self-deprecating humor and actually laughs when Mo turns his insults toward the firms he interviewed with. There’s a gleam in Mo’s eyes that tells me he’s enjoying his own performance. He always appreciates a receptive audience. His laughter is sharp, almost a cackle. His words come fast, running into one another.

  After a few minutes, Emmett rises. “I need to get back to the shop,” he says. It hasn’t been an hour yet. I tell Mo and Jason I’ll be right back and hurry out after Emmett to thank him for coming.

  “I don’t think I was much help,” he says.

  I can see Mo and Jason through the window. Jason seems to be animated, talking about something that has Mo nodding in interest. This is the first time I’ve seen Jason speak to someone. I’m anxious to get back and hear what he’s saying.

  “You did better with him than I did. I can’t believe that Mo’s hitting it off so well with him.”

  “Your brother is …” He pauses, searching for the right word.

  “I know,” I say before he can find it. “We’re twins.”

  Emmett shakes his head. “The mysteries of the world never cease.”

  “A lot of people say we look alike.” I’m always defensive and protective of Mo. Besides, I don’t want to have a long discussion right now about my brother’s personality.

  “There is a family resemblance. But it’s not his looks I was thinking about. Though either one of you could hold a long, involved conversation with a brick wall.”

  “Hey!” I punch his arm; the muscles are flexed and hard.

  He grins and dodges the next swing. Then he catches my hand and holds it gently. “But you’re sweet,” he says, and leaves the rest of his thought unspoken.

  By the time I reenter the shop, Jason is pitching his drink into the trash can and the two of them are heading out.

  “You guys leaving?” I say stupidly.

  “Things to see, people to do,” Mo says, kissing my cheek.

  Jason doesn’t bother answering.

  I watch them leave the café, heads bent together like two old friends, talking excitedly about God knows what. Come to think of it, He probably does know what, but I have no idea. I have a feeling that when I question Mo tonight about it, he’ll be vague and I’ll be no closer to knowing what finally drew Jason out of his shell.

  I try to ignore the very bad feeling in the pit of my stomach that this was not an accidental meeting. I keep waiting for Mo to bring up the real reason he’s here. But he’s never hinted at anything about another mission. Maybe after successfully finishing his task, he’s been left alone. Maybe. But that’s only wishful thinking, and hope isn’t much of a strategy.

  Mo’s sudden rapport with Jason feels bad. I just don’t know who will suffer for it in the end: Jason, Mo or me.

  XV.

  TWO DAYS LATER, I’m prepping for my colonoscopy. I’m not supposed to eat anything and only drink clear liquids, and nothing red or purple. I stock up on Sprite, orange Gatorade, and chicken broth. That’s the extent of the hardship until the afternoon, when I’m to drink the “tidal wave,” a solution guaranteed to get my colon squeaky-clean.

  I’m so humiliated by all this that I haven’t told a soul—not Mo, not even my parents, definitely no one at work.

  I head to the newsroom, sipping on a drink all morning. I heat a cup of broth for lunch and no one realizes I’m up to anything. I can’t decide what I’m going to do in the evening once the waves start, since I don’t want Mo to know. I told him that I have an assignment all day tomorrow and not to expect me.

  The doctor did say I wouldn’t be able to drive myself home after the procedure, but I figure I’ll call a cab, come home and crash.

  Self-pity is too close to the surface, and the less I think about it, the less I have to deal with my new reality. And there’s this abiding sense of shame. A feeling that I’m being punished for being bad. Maybe once I have a diagnosis, I’ll talk. Then again, maybe I won’t.

  Fortunately, I don’t have to make up a reason for Mo to leave the apartment. He isn’t there when I come home from work, and as the solution kicks in and I’m racing to the toilet every twenty minutes, I don’t have time or energy to wonder where he is or what he’s up to.

  After what feels like days, weeks—after everything I ever ate or ever will eat is cleared out—I realize two things. One: this would make a very effective method of torture. Two: any celebrity who voluntarily undergoes a colonic should be committed to a mental institution.

  The next morning I drive to the clinic. There’s a large waiting room, but I’m quickly called to the back by a nurse, who leads me to a changing room. I strip, placing all my clothes in a large plastic bag, put on a drafty gown and pad out in my socks. The nurse, a tired-looking middle-aged woman, takes my worldly possessions and stuffs them on a rack under the hospital gurney. I clamber onto it, holding closed my flapping gown, trying not to flash anyone. The nurse waits until I settle in place and then puts in an IV. It’s cold in the room, and I hug myself with one arm as I shiver, keeping the IV arm straight.

  “Poor little thing,” the nurse says when she notices. “I’ll see if I can find you a blanket or something. They do keep it mighty cold in here.”

  The IV is hooked up to a saline bag that drips cold, clear drops at a regular interval, chilling my whole arm. My stomach is completely empty: no solid food since the day before yesterday, nothing to drink since last night. My teeth are nearly chattering. But really, it isn’t the cold.

  I’m shaking with fear.

  After a twenty-minute wait, I’m
wheeled to a small room jammed with various machines. I’m pale, and on the monitor counting my heartbeats, I see my heart is shuddering at ninety-five beats a minute.

  Dr. Messa walks in, with two assistants close behind him. The tiny room, no bigger than a walk-in closet, is now packed. If I wasn’t on the gurney, I wouldn’t fit.

  “Well, Miss Abbot-Levy, let’s see what we’ve got here, shall we?”

  I manage to pull my lips up in a ghastly semblance of a smile.

  “Lay on your left side, sweetheart,” the nurse says. “Now pull your knees toward your chest.”

  I follow orders, gritting my teeth. I breathe through my nose, fighting to stay calm. My heart rate is now over a hundred beats a minute. Curling on my left side makes the gown fall open in the back. I fight the urge to grab for it. I fight the urge to hop off the gurney and make a break for the door. I’m completely exposed, and the position causes what my yoga teacher would call “the blossoming of the seat.”

  I see Dr. Messa take a syringe and plunge its contents into the IV line. I feel a hand on my back as the nurse pats me reassuringly and places an instrument on the bed behind me and then … a rush of static in my brain … and nothing else registers.

  An indeterminate amount of time later, I wake up in a tiny, curtained-off cell. I hear people murmuring near me, so there must be others waking up from procedures all around me. I feel very relaxed and a bit light-headed, but in a good way. I’m not hungry, just very mellow.

  After I pass a few minutes placidly staring at the stripes on the curtains, a nurse peeks in. It’s not the same one from before.

  “You’re awake,” she says. “How do you feel?”

  “Sleepy.”

  “That’s normal,” she says briskly. “The doctor will be here soon. Who’s coming to pick you up?”

  “Just take a cab,” I murmur.

  “Oh no,” she says loudly, riled up. “You can’t do that. Didn’t you read your packet?”