Tattooed

by Pamela Callow

  She was hungry.

  Desperate.

  Her sister’s shoulders relaxed as soon as she got her fix. Kenzie leaned close to her and murmured something in her ear. Imogen flung back her head and laughed. It was shrill, manic. Kenzie doubled over, tears streaming down her face. Then another girl joined in.

  The laughter grew raucous. Her sister lifted the rolled bill in the air in a victory salute. She bent over the table.

  No. Not more.

  Kate pushed Tim aside and shouldered her way onto the porch.

  “Imogen!” She grabbed her sister’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”

  Imogen shook herself out of Kate’s grasp, giving Kate a defiant look. “Go away, Kate.”

  “You’re coming with me,” Kate said. She glared at Kenzie. “I can’t believe you let my sister have this stuff!”

  “It was easy. She wanted it.” Kenzie’s gaze was cool. “Time for you to leave, big sis.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder.

  “Gennie, it’s time to go home.” Imogen’s eyes had a terrifyingly manic expression.

  Don’t let Gennie see your fear. Make her come.

  Gennie’s face flushed bright red. “I’m not leaving.”

  Kenzie patted the empty space next to her. “Come here, Immy.”

  Immy. Kate hated that nickname.

  Imogen grinned and edged toward Kenzie.

  Kate grabbed her sister’s wrist. “You are coming with me. Now.”

  Anger beat the blood in Kate’s head so hard, so fast, that she couldn’t hear what was being said, couldn’t see the faces of the kids around her. All she could focus on was the fact that Gennie, her best friend, confidante and little sister, was deserting her for something so seductive, so destructive that it terrified Kate more than anything had terrified her before.

  She had to get her away from it.

  And from the girl who supplied it to her.

  Kate snatched the phone from a side table, waving it in front of the group. “If you don’t come with me right now, Gennie, I’m calling the police!” She shook the receiver at her sister. “Now, Gennie!”

  That threat—unlike all the others—got under Kenzie’s skin. She flushed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Kate shook her head. “Just watch.”

  “Don’t, Kate. Please.” Imogen shot a terrified look at Kenzie.

  Kenzie’s lips curled. “Tell me, Kate. Why do you think the police would believe the spawn of a con?”

  Spawn of a con. The words hung in the air. Crystal Burton snickered.

  Imogen’s eyes widened.

  But she didn’t leave Kenzie’s side.

  Pain grabbed Kate’s heart, squeezing and twisting it.

  She put the receiver to her ear, her index finger hovering over the number nine. “Tell my sister to leave, Kenzie.”

  Imogen’s gaze was expectant, but uncertainty lurked beneath the bravado.

  Kenzie’s gaze flickered past Kate’s shoulder to a group of guys huddled outside. Her jaw tightened. “No. We have plans for tonight, right, Immy? And they don’t include your sister.”

  Kate punched the numbers 9-1-1.

  Kenzie shot her a look of such hate and anger that it took all of Kate’s will not to shrivel.

  She pressed the receiver against her cheek.

  “Wait!” Kenzie half rose from the bench.

  “911. What is your emergency?” the emergency response operator asked.

  Kate’s gaze locked with Kenzie’s. Finally—thank God—Kate saw fear in her terrible sky-blue gaze.

  Kenzie pushed Imogen’s shoulder. She winced. “Go home. Tell your sister to stop.” Then she lowered her voice and whispered something in Imogen’s ear, but Kate couldn’t hear because at that moment the emergency service operator repeated her question, her voice urgent: “911. What is your emergency?”

  Kate cleared her voice. “I’m sorry. Wrong number.” She hung up the phone. “Bet the police will come out to check, anyway.”

  Imogen threw her an anguished look. “I can’t believe you did that!”

  “We’re going now. And we are never coming back.”

  “I am, Kenzie,” Imogen said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “No, you won’t,” Kate said, her voice grim.

  The shocked silence in the room spoke volumes. She had crossed a line that sent her straight to pariah-ville. “Mom is going to ground you ’til the cows come home. And besides, Kenzie’s going to be sitting in jail unless she gets smart and flushes all that coke down the toilet.”

  Kenzie’s face had drained of color. “You bitch,” she hissed. “You are going to rot in hell for this.”

  “See you there,” Kate said. “Come on, Gennie.”

  Kate pasted a smile on her face, shaken by Kenzie’s vituperation, the crowd parting before her as news of the phone call spread.

  Someone spat on her sneaker.

  She held her head high, cheeks flaming, ignoring the sobs of frustration coming from her sister. The night air cooled her flushed cheeks and she hurried across the lawn to her car. People had begun to trickle out behind her, spooked that the police might come.

  As soon as Imogen flung herself in the front seat, Kate swung the car around and hit the gas.

  Spawn of a con.

  She clenched the wheel, her jaw tight.

  “You are going to be in big trouble, Gennie,” she said, her voice hoarse with anger. “Mom’s going to ground you for weeks.”

  The tires squealed as she made the turn onto the highway. It was dark.

  Black.

  She peered into the night. She couldn’t see a thing.

  She’d forgotten to turn on the headlights.

  She switched them on.

  “I can’t believe you humiliated me like that in front of my friends!” Gennie shouted, her face contorted with rage.

  “Friends! What kind of friends are those?”

  “Better friends than you are.”

  “Because they give you free coke?”

  Imogen flushed. “So what?”

  “You are fifteen years old, Gennie! Fifteen! You are throwing your life away!”

  “But it makes me happy.”

  Happy.

  When had they been happy?

  Maybe before the summer she turned twelve. Before her father was charged with fraud and sentenced to prison.

  Yes, they had been happy then.

  “Lying makes you happy?” Kate said, her voice bitter. Yes, she could see now, with the painful, gut-wrenching clarity of hindsight, that her sister had lied to her, over and over these past few months. And Kate, not ready to read the writing on the wall, had believed her.

  “Lay off me, Kate. I wouldn’t have lied if you weren’t breathing down my neck all the time.”

  “Ha! That’s a joke.”

  “No. The joke is you. Who do you think you are? You act like you’re in charge of me, but you aren’t. You’re not Mom!”

  “I was trying to help you—”

  “Help me? You are going to be a laughingstock on Monday at school. And so will I. Because of you!”

  Imogen’s eyes were wild. Her face had contorted. Kate had never seen her like that. Rage leapt the few feet separating them as if it were a wildfire, gobbling the oxygen of their hurt.

  Her sister’s eyes filled with tears. “I hate you, Kate—”

  The headlights caught the reflectors on the guardrail.

  Kate gasped, jerking the steering wheel.

  The tires hit the curve too fast, too wide, too everything.

  Kate slammed on the brakes.

  But it was too late.

  Kate shook her head to rid her mind of the image of Gennie’s expression just before life left it.

  God. Stop.

  Tears were perilously close. She lowered her head, aware of Frances’ sharp gaze on her face.

  Phyllis brought in a tray of tea holding a pot, and one cup. Frances could no longer safely swallow, but Phyllis poured a lit
tle into her feeding tube. “Ahh,” Frances said. “Caffeine.” Phyllis adjusted Frances’ headrest and wiped the saliva that had pooled onto the collar of her blouse.

  The doorbell rang.

  It was Nat.

  Get a grip, Kate. It’s over, it’s in the past, you’ve had your moment to wallow in it. Time to move on.

  She exhaled and rose to her feet. Her silk blouse clung to her back. She was cold and hot at the same time. “I’ll go let them in.”

  She exited the cavernous room, her heels clicking on the wooden floors, and opened the front door. Nat took one look at Kate and said, “Jeez, didn’t you get any sleep last night?”

  “Obviously not enough.” She closed the door behind Nat and the cameraman.

  Nat rooted around in her purse, and handed her a compact. “Here, put this on. All over your face. Otherwise, the audience will think you are the one with the incurable disease.”

  Then she threw Kate a stricken look. “Shit.”

  “Que sera, sera.” Kate took the compact and flipped it open. Nat was right. She looked awful. The powder was dark, but when Nat saw Kate’s skeptical look, she said, “Trust me. The light will wash you out.”

  It took Nat only a few minutes to hook them up to mics, and then they began the interview.

  It had been a year since Kate had done a television interview—she had refused all requests after Randall Barrett’s acquittal as she “wasn’t authorized to speak on behalf of her client”—and she was initially tense.

  Nat sensed Kate’s anxiety and whispered, “I promise the audience will respect you in the morning.” Then the camcorder light focused on them, and the interview began. Nat was relaxed, warm, empathetic. Kate was impressed with her questions about the disease, Frances’ desire to die with dignity, and Kate’s role in Frances’ cause.

  She gave the final word to Frances. Kate felt a surge of emotion tighten her throat as her client stared straight into the camera and asked: “How can wanting to die peacefully and with dignity be a crime? Isn’t forcing someone to die a terrible death a crime? Where has our humanity gone?”

  Nat let the question hang in the air. Then she said, “What is your next step, Mrs. Sloane?”

  “I want to start a discussion in the public forum about this issue. Please contact my lawyer, Kate Lange, or my member of Parliament, Harry Owen, with your views. Death happens to everyone. But we should be able to choose how we end our lives.”

  After a second, the cameraman turned off the light on his camcorder.

  Nat unclipped the mics, packed them in the bag, and within minutes, she and her cameraman were heading out the door. “I’ll call you later and let you know how the footage turned out.”

  Kate nodded. “Thank you, Nat.”

  Nat squeezed her shoulder. “You did good.” Kate closed the door, and exhaled. Her skin was clammy with sweat. She pasted a smile on her face and returned to the living room. Frances’ eyes were closed, but she opened them when she heard Kate approach.

  “That went well.”

  “Nat was pleased.” Kate slid her notepad into her briefcase. She hadn’t actually needed it. She had been so caught up in the interview—and Nat’s questions had been so skillful—that everything she had wanted the public to hear had been said. “This is going to be aired tonight. I expect we’ll get a lot of people responding to it. I will present the responses to Harry Owen. And we’ll go from there.”

  “Thank you, Kate,” Frances said. Her eyes were damp.

  “It’s what you hired me to do.”

  Hurt flashed so quickly through her client’s eyes that Kate wasn’t sure if she saw it. But it needed to be said.

  “I’ll call you after the interview airs,” Kate said, picking up her briefcase. She turned to leave, relief already flooding through her, when Frances’ voice slurred through the vast room.

  “One last favor.”

  Damn. Kate had learned that those were never good words to hear, especially when they were uttered as she made her exit.

  “Yes?”

  “Look under the newspaper.”

  On a side table, out of sight of the television camera, sat the newspaper. Kate approached it as if it were a snake, lifting a corner with considerable reluctance.

  Two envelopes lay under it. Kate’s stomach sank even farther when she saw the names on them.

  “The first one is for Kenzie.” Frances struggled to enunciate her words.

  “Why don’t you give it to her?” Kate asked. She did not want to be in the middle of this estranged mother-daughter relationship.

  “When I die. Please give it to her.”

  Kate started to shake her head but Frances said, “Please.” Her eyes pleaded with Kate.

  “What’s in the envelope?” She could feel paper, but also something hard.

  “It’s a key. To a storage locker. Has Kenzie’s things from her bedroom.”

  “The executor of your will should do this.”

  “It’s my son.” She swallowed. “They don’t get along. He might not give it to her. You’re my lawyer, Kate.”

  Kate exhaled. It was a slippery slope onto which she had stepped when she agreed to that first meeting with Frances. She really wanted to suggest she appoint a new executor—but had a strong suspicion that Frances would want her to do the job.

  In for a penny, in for a pound. This was small change compared to the lobbying effort. She could simply mail the envelope to Kenzie after Frances’ death and fulfill her obligation—without ever having to speak to her. “Okay.”

  She gave a questioning glance at the other envelope. It had her name written on it. “This is a small gift for you,” Frances said. “Please don’t open until I’m dead.” She gave a weak smile. “You won’t have to wait long.”

  “I hope it’s not money beyond my fees. I couldn’t accept it, Frances,” Kate said.

  “No. It’s something more precious than that.” Her gaze searched Kate’s.

  They must be photos. And if they were photos, they must be of Imogen—with Kenzie. Kate had a good collection of photos of her sister already, many of the two of them together. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to see one of her sister with Kenzie.

  “Thank you, Frances,” Kate said.

  Frances nodded, so exhausted her head barely moved. Kate slid the envelopes into her briefcase and hurried out of the house, as if by moving quickly all those terrible memories the house held would remain trapped within. The door closed with a hollow thud.