Tattoos: A Novel Page 4

  “What’s up Tazleo?” I said, appraising his appearance. It was the best way to gauge how removed from reality he was. Tazleo, whose legal name was Keith but who changed his name after a bad meth trip, probably hadn’t had a shower in a week or so. That meant he was flying high and wouldn’t come down until he’d burned through his disability check. It also said that he probably hadn’t had a decent meal in days. Even though I was dead tired, I knew I couldn’t just ignore the state he was in.

  “You know, you know, this and that, that and this,” he said like the hippie he’d once been. He scratched the blond stubble on his chin, then blew out a long breath apparently all out of small talk.

  “Catch you later,” he said.

  Before I could say anything else he’d ducked back into his apartment. The door closed soon after with a small click. Thankfully I didn’t hear the deadbolt fall into place. As expected Gran was out. It was Wednesday, the day she went out to play Bridge with her friends.

  I kicked off my shoes and rolled off my socks that smelled as if someone had died in them. I glanced down at my shriveled feet that looked positively nasty. Not wanting to brave Tazleo’s apartment with bare feet, I tugged on a new pair of socks and a spare pair of Converses. They had a hole in the sole, but would do for inside.

  Then, as if a switch had been flicked on in my body I was suddenly starving. I grabbed half a dozen eggs from the fridge, broke them into a glass bowl, added mushrooms, peppers, onions and the left over bacon from the morning. I beat it all together then tossed it into a sizzling buttered frying pan. While the omelet was cooking I toasted eight slices of bread. As I buttered the toast I noted that I’d definitely gotten my required cholesterol for the day. When the omelet was cooked I cut it into two pieces and placed each half on a plate. I laid four slices of toast beside each omelet. Deciding to play it safe I grabbed a couple of forks from the cutlery drawer and tucked a tube of Lysol antibacterial wipes under my arm.

  With my offerings in hand I stepped out into the hall and moved toward Tazleo’s door. After I’d knocked a few times with the toe of my runner and got no response, I opened the door and walked in. Tazleo sat in one of the two beat up rusty brown floral print chairs in his bachelor apartment. He was transfixed by his TV, tuned into Oprah reruns. The stench of stale cigarettes, cheap cologne with and underlying smell of unwashed body, drifted from the overheated apartment.

  Not that Tazleo would ever have won a clean apartment award at the best of times, but at least when he wasn’t on a drug binge he attempted to maintain the place and his own personal hygiene. It was abundantly clear that I’d have to make a phone call again and rat him out to Social Services. It was obvious that he definitely needed another stint in rehab. I hated to do it, but Tazleo’s problems were way bigger than anything a mushroom omelet could fix.

  Where most people would have been surprised to see someone waltz uninvited into their apartment, Tazleo just shot me a side long grin, as if I’d been there the whole time.

  “Time to eat Taz,” I said, clearing a space on the tiny dining table that was buried in balled up pieces of newspaper much like the ones that littered the whole apartment. Nobody knew why, probably not even Tazleo, but when he was using, he had a habit of crumpling newspaper into balls that literally filled every space in the apartment. It was quite dangerous considering he was a chain-smoker. Even though Gran, the only person besides me who watched out for him, had stopped the newspaper from being delivered to him every day, Tazleo always found a way to get more. When he went off to rehab again I’d have to come over and clean it all out.

  A posse of cockroaches that looked suspiciously like the same guys I’d seen in the hall, scrambled across the cleared table. Obviously I’d disturbed their living quarters.

  Like an ant to the aroma of peanut butter, Tazleo had already made his way to the table. I shoved the plates toward him. “Hold these will you,” I said

  “Damn that smells absolutely smoking,” he said, taking the plates in his shaky, nicotine stained fingers.

  I wiped as much junk off the table and chairs as I could then sat down. Though the cockroaches had tamed my appetite, it wasn’t enough for me not to eat. Tazleo, who had suddenly realized he was hungry, shoveled heaped forks of omelet into his mouth. His stained teeth worked overtime to chew it fast enough so he could cram in more. By the time I’d had a piece of toast and a few bites of egg, he was finished and eyeing my plate. Feeling sorry for him, I pushed what I had left his way. I was sorry that I hadn’t thought to cook more food.

  Tazleo practically inhaled my omelet and toast. With his belly full he sat back, licking his fingers and rubbing his stomach.

  “Thanks for that,” he said, running a hand through his greasy blonde hair.

  “You know you really should eat, like on a regular basis,” I said, cocking my head to the side.

  “You got your self some new ink,” Tazleo said as if I hadn’t said a word. I laughed a little because even at his most spaced out, Taz knew every tattoo that decorated my arms. He was right, I had just saved up enough cash for new ink.

  “What’s that one mean?” he asked. Once again it surprised me that he managed to remember that every tattoo I had, meant something very personal to me. I knew that people got tattoos for different reasons, fashion, to be cool, to remember something or other. For me my tattoos told the story of my life and of course served the more practical task of covering my track marks. Even though I was only nineteen I’d already had quite a few stories to tell.

  I gazed down at the hummingbird tattoo that I’d had done a few weeks before. It was probably one of the most expensive tats I’d had since it had so many colors. The tattoo was delicate just like a real hummingbird, with a lime green torso, and a wash of yellow down the breast. It’s outstretched wings were a mix of cerulean blue, dusty pink and had hints of ruby red, that seemed to make the bird appear to take flight from my forearm. I had to admit it was one of my best tattoos and had been worth every penny.

  “The hummingbird is a symbol of death and resurrection,” I said. Suddenly everything but the tattoo disappeared, and it was just me and the tiny bird. I drew in a deep breath, allowing myself to remember the past, and all the suffering and pain that I’d endured. It was all so much a part of my story. Then the words poured out of me, as if some part of me needed to explain, to go back in time for just a moment. As a sign of respect for what was and wasn’t anymore.

  I brought my focus back to Tazleo. For just a moment I saw the man he’d once been, before he’d become what he was now. His life played like a movie through my mind. I didn’t know if it was real or if it was my imagination. Back then he’d been Keith, fresh faced and young much like me, he’d had a world of hopes and dreams to carry him through and there’d been a girl, medium height with a rounded face and an easy smile and brown eyes that held so much love for him, her name had been…

  “Harmony,” I said as if someone else had taken my voice. It terrified me.

  Tazleo’s eyes widened. He studied me with sudden clarity, as if all of the drugs that were in his system had been purged.

  “How do you know her name?” he asked me.

  I shook my head. I didn’t know how I’d known the name, or that she’d once been pregnant with Tazleo’s child. What happened after in Taz’s life was a mystery, but I had a feeling that it wasn’t good. A mix of suffering and regret raced across his face before settling back into glazed oblivion. I knew whatever he’d remembered was locked in the recesses of his brain again.

  “The interesting thing about the hummingbird is that it has to keep in constant motion all the time, but at night it has to sleep. When it does sleep it loses heat to conserve energy. When people find a hummingbird at night it seems to be dead but in the morning the sunlight revives it.”

  Tazleo touched the image of the hummingbird tentatively. He grinned in a way that made his whole face brighten.

  “So even though everyone thought you were dead, you were just co
nserving your energy until the sun came out,” he said. The simplicity and truth of his words made my breath catch. If I hadn’t learned a while back how to suppress my emotions, I might have teared up.

  “Yeah, I think that says it all,” I whispered. I was still bowled over by how succinctly he’d put it. Maybe all those Oprah shows were helping him connect the dots of life better than even he knew.

  I glanced down at my watch, realizing that an hour had already passed since I brought the food over.

  “I need to go, I’ve got a gig tonight and I have to crash for a few hours,” I said. I gathered the plates and forks, but left the Lysol wipes for him. Hopefully he’d get the message and clean up the place a little, somehow I knew he wouldn’t.

  “Later man,” Tazleo said. He made his way back to his space on the sofa. Taz was immersed his shows in seconds as if I’d already left.

  I closed the door of his apartment behind me and scooted back to my place. I unlocked the door, dumped the plates in the sink and made my way to the shower. After I’d showered and changed into a clean pair of boxers, I slipped under the covers of the unmade bed and closed my eyes. As soon as I did, an image of Neil, fragile and pale, filled my mind. I had to compliment myself for being able to go almost a full day without thinking about him.

  The funny thing about Neil was that when he’d come in to the hospital his prognosis had been good, in fact his chances for survival and remission had been amazing compared to most. Yet everything that was supposed to go well hadn’t.

  If there was one thing I’d learned about cancer, it was that nothing ever quite went as planned. There were parameters but no fixed rules, sometimes treatment had astounding results, other times it was no better than having a glass of water, like it had been for Neil. It didn’t make sense because Neil had so much love, so many reasons to live, but it hadn’t worked out that way for him.

  Thinking about Neil made me remember the girl who’d checked into his room. She was cute enough, with soft blonde hair that reached the middle of her back, pale blue eyes and a medium, leaning toward skinny figure. She was pretty, in a cheerleader, prom queen kind of way, not someone I ever would have even talked to in high school. But in the hospital, where everyone was sick the playing field was even. There were no cliques, no separation of classes, cancer didn’t discriminate and it couldn’t be fixed by money. Although money certainly could give you the best treatments available, it couldn’t make the treatments heal you, that bit was pure chance.

  I hated to believe in fate and stuff, but the more I witnessed it in my own life and at St. Martins, the more I knew that nothing could be predicted. Things could change on a dime.

  That girl had money. It was easy to tell by the expensive purse she carried, the designer jeans she wore and how she’d gotten one of the best rooms on the ward. But all the money in the world hadn’t helped Neil had it? I hoped she was different from Neil, that she’d make it home again, because there had been something in her eyes that had made me want to root for her.

  I knew that look. I’d practiced it too many times not to recognize it, she’d been wearing a mask, a fake face that told the world that she had it all worked out. Only she didn’t at all. Inside she was terrified, angry, filled with too many emotions to count and she felt like she was ready to explode.

  Unlike the girl, whose parents didn’t seem to give a shit about her, Gran had been my rock when I’d needed it. She’d helped me uncork the bottle before it imploded, helped me deal. This girl was a ticking time bomb, fighting an internal battle with her emotions. In the best of times that was a bad thing, but when you needed every bit of strength you could gather to fight the big C, you needed to see the outcome of your battle. Feel your body pushing all the darkness out of your blood, shrinking the tumor, whatever it took. Cancer wasn’t a wart that you ignored, it was the fight of your life. She needed to see that, and put as much energy into getting well as she could. I hoped she would.

  5. Marilee

  I didn’t inherit much from my mother, but I was unfortunate enough to get her crappy, roll away and weak veins. Because of this Dr. Mc Claren, my oncologist suggested I get a Port-A-Cath. Just as the name suggested, it was a metal port that was under my skin and would have a line leading into a major vein. The positive side of getting a Port-A-Cath was that it would eliminate a bunch of pokes because all my blood and chemo would go into the port. When they accessed it they would have to push a needle that was bent at a ninety degree angle through my skin, and would have instant venous access. So the poke didn’t hurt, the area over the port could be frozen with a special cream, so for all intense purposes I wouldn’t feel it. The downside to getting a Port-A-Cath was that it involved what the doctors called a “little” surgery.

  In my opinion no surgery was little. Cutting my skin when I was down for the count and then shoving a piece of plastic and metal inside me was not just gross, it was damn scary. As far as Mom was concerned it wasn’t a big deal, just a tiny cut and a few stitches in my neck and chest, and I’d be back to normal. This coming from a woman who cried when she’d gotten laser hair removal on her upper lip. Harold for a change seemed to understand my reservations, but it didn’t mean he wanted me to cancel the procedure. In his opinion it seemed the smartest way to go because in the long run it would serve me well.

  Right then, with my stomach doing the tilt-a-whirl and my head not far behind, I wasn’t so sure I’d made the right decision. The anesthetic had been light, but I still managed to feel sick afterwards, not to mention that my neck felt stiff and the place on my chest where the port was, was quite tender.

  “One more X-ray and we’ll send you back to your room,” the recovery room nurse said. The anesthetic had made me giddy. I wanted to laugh at her bottle cap glasses that made her eyes look huge. It didn’t help that her pixie hair cut just added to the whole looking like a bug motif. I knew she’d told me her name, but there was no way I could remember it.

  Not long after, the portable X-ray was positioned over me. A lead vest was placed over my vital parts, didn’t want to ruin my ovaries and the eggs that could someday be my children. That was if I lived long enough to have children. Another giggle slipped from my lips because I was a child, thinking about having a child. It was so messed up my mind just couldn’t compute.

  “That looks just fine, we’ll take you back to your room,” the nurse said, bringing me out of my drug induced stupor. Once again time had flipped forward without me knowing because the X-ray machine was gone. I didn’t even remember it being taken away.

  I nodded feebly. I tried not to stare at her glasses because every time I did, I felt laughter gurgle in my throat. I guess what they said about the laughing gas was true, it really did make you laugh. She helped me into a wheelchair. The brief time when I was standing I felt really woozy. The nurse must have anticipated this and easily caught me before I fell. She positioned me in the wheelchair which I absolutely hated. Being in it made me feel like a helpless invalid, but I knew there was no way I could make it back to my room without it.

  It struck me as very strange that I was actually happy when I spotted my hospital room. Somewhere in the three days after I’d been admitted I’d adopted the space as my own. As expected, neither Mom nor Harold were there. Mom had only been by a handful of times, usually just for a couple of minutes. She was always too happy to tell me that she was so busy and had appointments to keep. Far be it for me to remind her that she didn’t have a job and whatever commitments she did have, consisted of either lunch dates with her self-centered friends or beauty treatments. Harold had a better excuse for not being there since he had an actual job. I had to give him props, he did make an effort to see me when he could.

  The surprising thing was, it was better when Harold came without Mom. Without his Luanne to dote over, he was fully engaged in any conversation we had. Not that we talked about anything that mattered. Usually he’d mention who’d called to ask about me, and other superficial stuff like the weather and
what Mom was up to. Still I savored his visits, appreciating every moment he spent with me. I only wished there had been more of them.

  The nurse helped me into the bed and pulled my pink and lavender fluffy duvet up and around me. My duvet from home didn’t hide the fact that I was still in the hospital, but it at least made the bed seem less stark. The oddest thing was that the duvet actually matched the colors of the room, as if it had been part of the plan the whole time. She pulled up the side rails of the bed, something I normally would have hated. But I was feeling so off, there was a good chance that I might have rolled on my butt onto the floor without them.

  I closed my eyes and visions of sugar plums danced in my head, not really I just felt really weird. I felt like the time I’d got drunk on lemon gin. It had been fun at first, downing huge swigs of the gin straight from the bottle and chasing it with 7-UP, but when I’d started puking my guts up the fun quickly vanished. And as if the memory of my encounter with lemon gin was a catalyst, my stomach started to turn. I bolted upright in bed.

  I fumbled for the nurses call button with one hand, while I used my other hand to cover my mouth, as if the action could stop me from throwing up. When my free hand made contact with the button I pushed it with strength I didn’t think I had. But from the way my stomach was doing the Harlem Shake I knew even a rocket propelled spaceship wouldn’t have been quick enough to get to me. I was going to barf all over myself and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

  Then out of nowhere, Jax, like a rock star in coveralls was there. His hair was all methodically mussed and his eyes, as blue as the sapphire in the ring Mom sported at dinner parties, were staring straight at me. And all I could think was this couldn’t be happening to me. I was not only about to vomit all over myself, but I was going to do it in front of a guy who was more than a little hot. I couldn’t speak but that didn’t stop the string of obscenities that played through my mind. It was like a foul mouthed sailor had taken residence in my brain.