Promise Me This

by Christina Lee

  He walked through the garage behind me and mumbled, “Gotta make this quick, picking up Anna in a couple of hours.” Anna was his latest girlfriend and I’ll admit it, their relationship made me nervous. Every time he’d bring her around, I’d check for signs of intimidation or manhandling. Anything that would give a clue that he’d finally crossed that line. I had no proof, just a niggling feeling and a mind-numbing dread that plagued me regularly.

  My mother stood in the kitchen nursing a tall glass of wine. Her blond hair was up in a messy bun, so I knew she’d been working in the garden. She loved planting fresh herbs and root vegetables.

  “Hi, Mom.” I took two strides forward and kissed her cheek. “Whatever you’re cooking smells good.”

  “It’s chicken divan.” Mom was a fantastic cook and was always trying out new recipes. Before she married my father, she’d been a chef for a catering business. I figured if she ever left this marriage she’d have no problem finding a job again.

  “You know,” I said. “There was a sign in the window at this culinary school on Front Street. They were looking for someone to teach cooking lessons to a kids’ group.”

  My mother’s back became rigid. She had never been allowed to work outside of the home. Only to volunteer for charities or women’s groups.

  “What the fuck does she need a job for?” My brother’s voice boomed a little too similarly to my father’s. Luke always seemed angry when it came to my mother. I didn’t know what the hell that was about, though I had my suspicions. I knew he saw her as weak, and probably saw all women that way.

  But I thought my mother was strong to have survived all that she had. I just wish she had that final bit of strength it would take to ultimately walk away. The problem was that she still loved my father–-at least whatever fucked-up version of love she thought she felt.

  But fear was not love, that was for damn sure.

  “What the hell, Luke? Keep your voice down,” I growled and balled my hand into a fist. “Mom used to be a chef in another life, remember? Maybe she’d enjoy doing it again.”

  “C’mon man, a cooking school?” he said as if it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “That would be like taking a step down.”

  I tasted bile in the back of my throat. Listening to my brother speak was like a precursor to the way his life would lay out before him. How in the hell had he travelled so far off course?

  “Boys, that’s enough,” my mom said in an exasperated voice laced with anxiety.

  She was always afraid we’d get in a fistfight like we used to on many occasions growing up. Dad always encouraged it, said it would toughen us up.

  I grabbed the red wine off the counter, filled up a glass, and chugged some down. If I had to spend more time with Luke, I’d need it. “When does Dad get back in town?”

  “On Thursday,” my mother said quietly, almost reverently, and that made my stomach lurch.

  I studied my mother’s tight smile, pale skin, and her light brown irises, same as mine. The little lines that had begun to form around her eyes and forehead, probably brought on early because of him. Her slightly crooked nose and forefinger, all telltale signs of how much of a monster my father had been. I knew she’d taken his wrath for us too many times to count and I wondered what deep-seated fear or need or principle kept her chained to this house and this marriage, now that we were grown.

  The rest of the dinner was peaceful. My mother liked to deflect attention from herself so she always asked tons of questions to keep us talking. My brother could go on for hours about his damn self, same as my father. So she inquired about football and classes and about Anna—definitely about Anna. And I could see the same thought process, the same questions I had about how he was treating her, how they were getting along, ticking through her brain.

  After Luke took off it was just my mother and me and we sat at the kitchen table playing a game of rummy. This was our thing. We’d play cards and talk about almost anything under the sun.

  “So what do you think of Luke’s new girlfriend?” she asked, straightaway. I could tell it was something that was concerning to her.

  “She seems nice.” I shrugged. I didn’t say what was on the tip of my tongue. That she seemed too nice for him. But my mother knew the score and probably had the same thought. “I just hope he—”

  “Honey.” She cut me off before I could get my sentence out. Maybe it would’ve been too painful for her to discuss, to admit about her own child. Which is one of the reasons I kept myself in check. I didn’t want to see that same look in her eyes. “I can’t wait for the day you bring a girl home.”

  I shook my head and smirked. “Sorry to disappoint you, Mom. I’m not sure if that’ll ever happen.”

  Sadness filtered through her eyes. She was innately attuned to me, aware of my struggles, but she rarely spoke of them out loud. “Why would you say that?”

  “Mom . . .” I laid down a pair of aces and looked her in the eye. “I think you know why.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, her hand reaching across the table to rest on mine. “If only I’d—”

  “Don’t you make any excuses for that bastard,” I said, through clenched teeth.

  She inhaled sharply and squeezed her lids closed.

  “Why do you stay?” It was a question I hadn’t asked her in years.

  When she opened her eyes, I saw moisture gathering in the corners. “Honey, lots of things happened during a very stressful time in our marriage. Raising children is tough. Your father . . . he didn’t handle it very well.”

  “C’mon, Mom,” I said, smacking my hand on the table and startling her. Shit, I needed to get my resentment under control. “Are you seriously trying to tell me it’s not still going on?”

  She shook her head adamantly. “Not in a while.”

  I didn’t know if I believed her. She might say anything not to have me worry.

  “Then why are you still . . .” My eyes darted around the house. “. . . sticking around here. Not doing other things that you love?”

  Her eyes crinkled in panic. I got her there. She was still being the dutiful wife.

  “I like being married to your father,” she said sweeping her hand about the room. “This lifestyle suits me.”

  I took a deep breath and attempted to rein in my irritation. “You’re so much more than . . . all of this.”

  We were quiet, staring past each other, lost in our own thoughts. I wasn’t sure if or when she’d ever see that. That she had so much more to give. Outside of this house. This community. This marriage.

  “What about all of his out-of-town trips?” I had always suspected my father had kept other women. Maybe even took them on these business trips.

  “He works hard, Nate,” she said, avoiding my eyes. “You know that—”

  “Mom,” I squeezed her hand so she’d look at me. “Let’s be real here.”

  “I don’t think so, Nate.” Why did this woman hold her cards so close to her vest? It made me want to shake her and rescue her all at once. “You still love him?”

  “Y . . . Yes.” Her voice caught on that word and that alone told me so much. That she struggled to love him. That there was a fine line between love and hate. That she still saw some redemption in him—somewhere, somehow—and I just didn’t get it after all of this time. “Does he feel the same way?”

  Her eyes filled with shiny tears. “Of course.” But her words came out like a plea. A hope. A prayer.

  “Mom,” I said, squeezing her hands. “I hate to see you cry. I just . . . want you to be happy.”

  “Now you listen to me.” She dabbed at her eyes and straightened herself. “I want you and your brother to finish college, find decent jobs, and make it in this world.”

  “If that’s why you’re . . .” The idea that she’d stick with him even after we’d become adults made me see stars. “I’d make it on my own, Mom. I’d leave the keys in that damn car out there and walk back to school.”

  “S
top it. You’re so close,” she said, gripping my hand. “You deserve the education he’s providing you.”

  I stared into her eyes. Would she leave then—after I got my shiny diploma? Or would she find a new excuse to stay?

  “What about you?” she asked suddenly.

  I blinked slowly at her. “What do you mean?”

  “What are you so afraid of, honey?” she asked. “Why won’t you let anybody get close?”

  “Like I said before, I think you know why,” I said and she waited me out, her eyes on me. “What if I’m just like him?”

  “You’re not,” she responded immediately. Vehemently.

  “But what if I am?” I mumbled, my stomach recoiling at the words.

  “Honey, there are so many differences between the two of you.”

  It was true that my brother was the golden son. He was more like my father—more like his buddy, actually. They’d watch sports together while I was more interested in building Legos. In fact, I had an entire cityscape erected in my bedroom. I’d always loved construction and design, even back then.

  This one year, I begged my mom to take me to the Frank Lloyd Wright museum and I marveled at the blueprints and the modern lines of the houses. I always knew I wanted to do something with structures, either building or planning.

  I saw there was a program at TSU that seemed to fit my plan. I chose to attend a large university as opposed to a private college, to my father’s dismay. But by then, he was already beginning to lose me. My respect. My fear. And he knew it.

  “You dated Bethany for a long time in school,” my mother said. “You were so sweet on her. It could happen again.”

  She smiled remembering my high school girlfriend, while I cringed. The summer after graduation, we were carefree and in love, having sex whenever we could be alone. But there was that one night that ruined everything.

  We were experimenting with different positions and I got too comfortable, too in the moment. She let me handcuff her, which was so arousing, and during sex, my hand came down hard on her ass, once. Just once. But that was all that it took. She yelped and cringed and looked back at me with surprise and fear in her eyes.

  She knew about my father. She was the only one who knew.

  Our relationship ended shortly thereafter. Something had changed between us that night. I had let her get a glimpse of what was inside of me and she hated it, was terrified of it. And I knew I needed to bottle that shit up right then and there and never allow it to consume me.

  “Maybe,” I said to my mother, only to ease her mind.

  Chapter Five

  Jessie

  I had several moments of quiet at Raw Ink this afternoon, which rarely happened, so I was able to sneak in some schoolwork. I pulled out my independent study notes and laid them out on the counter.

  Between the phone ringing, customers streaming in, the artists needing supplies restocked, and the place requiring constant sanitation, I barely had a moment to breathe. But today even Cory was quiet, because he was sporting a mean hangover. Bennett wasn’t due in until later, the two female artists weren’t scheduled at all today and Dex was in one of the back rooms with a customer placing the final touches on the huge eagle he was tattooing on his lower back.

  Raw Ink was a popular shop in this town, especially on the weekends, and thankfully Oliver was a decent boss who didn’t micromanage. He allowed me the freedom to organize the schedule along with a few other shop responsibilities, like handling our website, so he was able to oversee the business and maintain the books.

  He was an artist himself, but his clientele was selective. He’d handpicked every employee for an apprenticeship, except for Cory and Dex, who had come from other shops, and was known as one of the best in the business.

  As I jotted down a couple more notes for my photography assignment, Emmy arrived early for her shift. Her vibrant red hair was pulled high in a ponytail as she bounced inside the door. She was sweet and bubbly and smart as a whip. Continuously on the move, she always had a story to tell, and she’d easily become one of my closest confidantes.

  “You’re here early.”

  “Cooper was adopted out today,” she said, her eyes shiny with emotion. “I just . . . needed to get my mind off of it.”

  Emmy also volunteered with animals in a no-kill shelter and had created her own dog-walking business. She was hardworking and extremely compassionate and I could see this bit of news had gutted her. Problem was, she always became too attached to the animals.

  I’d never seen her with a boyfriend, even though she checked plenty of guys out. She lived with her grandmother, and like me, she couldn’t always afford to take a full load of classes toward her veterinary degree.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie,” I said, reaching out and squeezing her shoulder.

  “It’ll be a good home for him,” she mumbled and then got busy by pulling out the Windex and moving over to the large front window. I could’ve told her that I’d already cleaned the glass but I think she was just looking for something to keep her hands occupied.

  Besides me and Emmy, there was also another receptionist named Holly who had worked at Raw Ink from the beginning. But she just had a baby and only took one or two shifts a week now. The shop used to be a tanning salon before Oliver bought it, so it contained several private rooms and a couple of open cubicles up front for smaller jobs. The thing was, most costumers chose privacy when the option was afforded them, so the rooms in back allowed for that and were always booked solid.

  While I took a phone call, Emmy reached for the disinfectant and began wiping down the seats and armrests up front. Even though this task was done daily, it was something that bore repeating so I just watched her go, like she was our own little Energizer Bunny. Much of the equipment in the shop was single use for sanitation purposes, such as the needles, but other more static items required hospital grade cleaning. We even placed certain equipment through our spore-test machine on a monthly basis.

  Yeah, this shop was clean, no doubt about it. So clean that my skin took the brunt of it. I was forever putting lotion on my hands to keep them soft.

  I focused on the customer’s question on the phone about how to decide on the best kind of tattoo. By this time, I’d heard it all. I directed the woman to our website, because if there was one thing I encouraged patrons to do, it was to have a good idea of what you wanted when you stepped inside the shop. If you still couldn’t decide, setting up a consult with an artist was best because they were on a tight schedule.

  “Newbie?” Emmy said, when I hung up.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Wanted to memorialize someone. I figure she could see Cory or Bennett.”

  “Good choices,” Emmy said.

  Bennett was hands down the most compassionate artist in this shop. After doing this for so long, these guys didn’t really care why you were getting your ink. Some customers felt they needed to explain and sure, these guys were decent and would lend their ear. We were all pretty good listeners. After bartenders, tattoo artists were probably second in line for hearing people’s sob stories.

  But what most of the virgin inkers didn’t understand was that some people got a tattoo simply because they liked the look of it, not because it was symbolic. Sure, some were meaningful, like the replica I had of my father’s camera. But I’d also gotten other things inked, like my feminine Día de Muertos mask, purely because it looked cool.

  The door swung open and in stepped two tall university kids with kappa something or another emblazoned across their shirts. Emmy gave me a look without rolling her eyes that said exactly what I thinking. She strode to the counter to replace the spray bottle that was in her hand.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  The tall guy with the blond surfer hair eyed Emmy up and down and then said, “You an artist here or just the person who answers the phone?”

  Emmy raised her eyebrow and I worked to keep the scowl off my face. If there was one thing you didn’t want to do, it was insu
lt the front desk staff. We were the gatekeepers, the eyes and ears of the shop, and so much more.

  Instead of answering him directly, I said, “What do you need?”

  “Some tattoos,” the other dude said, stepping up. “Do you take walk-ins?”

  “Depends,” I said. “What do you want done?”

  As soon as I asked, a group of girls yanked open the door and rushed inside, squealing and surrounding these two clowns like they were celebrities. Great, they had brought their own entourage. Hell no. There was nothing so nerve-wracking as when customers brought friends or family members who were there for the sole purpose of shooting pictures, taking videos, and running their mouths throughout the whole process.

  They got in the way, created a disturbance, and didn’t appreciate that the artist had a job to do. These guys were highly skilled, had high-pressure tasks, and were in the business of modifying a person’s appearance for the rest of their life. I got that customers required moral support, but they needed to respect the workspace.

  After greeting the girls, the tall guy said, “We want our Greek letters tattooed.”

  No shit, Sherlock.

  “Got it,” I said. “Well, our letter specialist has back-to-backs today, but I could set you up for another appointment this week. Unless you want to come back later today with another artist.”

  “That’s cool,” the blond dude said, almost looking relieved. “We’ll come back another day.”

  The girls immediately began pouting. They apparently were raring to go, given the tipsy state of one of them.

  “First tattoos?”

  “Yeah,” they both said at practically the same time.

  I nodded and then gave them their new time and date.

  “I recommend you come in sober and ready for a little bit of pain. But you guys are tough enough to handle it,” I said with a smile, trying to ease their minds a bit. “You can look on our website for some other Greek inspired tattoos. Or come in early and search through some portfolios.”