On her arm, from shoulder to elbow, I had been carefully working on a tattoo of three roses that twisted together at the stem. The roses were for her grandparents, the third rose for herself. She had been abandoned by her birth mother at a library, and was shuffled through the foster system until her grandparents found her and raised her.
Tess reached into her shirt, grabbing at a gold chain. She pulled out a small locket and popped it open, showing it to me.
"This is them," she said.
It was a really old photograph of a young man and woman.
"You should get that done on your shoulder," I said.
"Really? You can do that?"
"Not me," I said, standing up. "Max does. He's the best portrait artist you'll ever meet."
"I might just do that. Thank you for this."
Tess insisted on hugging me. I accepted it and walked her to my door. I shut it and lowered my head.
It was the first time in my life that tattooing left me feeling empty. I was unsatisfied. Like a junkie who got his high, but it wasn't the same anymore. Only I couldn't up my dosage, so to say. Because I was messing with the wrong drug. The tattoo needle and the creation of story on skin was not the same as holding and loving Lacey.
After the abandoned house burned down and we had our little spat, she was gone. Not far, but gone. I promised to take her back into town. The ride was in silence and when she got out of my truck, she simply looked at me. Her eyes were glazed over with tears. I couldn't understand what was making her hold back. I wanted to know it all. Her fear, doubts, anger, pain, everything.
My room in St. Skin suddenly felt small. I took a breath and felt like there was no air. My chest got really heavy, too. I shut my eyes and felt like I was drunk, swaying. The only other time I felt this was the first few days and nights in prison. Being put up in a building with some really tough and rough guys. But I navigated my way through that world. I made the right friends. I did what I had to do to survive.
I could do the same right now.
I opened the door and knew I had the luxury of getting fresh air. That was something I didn't always have when I was in prison.
I'd rather be in Lacey's arms, though. That would give me life. True life. A chance to break ourselves open and just let all that past shit go.
I wandered to the back of the shop and out the door. When I looked left, I saw Axel standing there. And the giant lunk of muscle and ink had a cigarette between his lips and tears in his eyes.
"Oh, shit," I whispered. "Axel. Sorry, brother."
I grabbed for the door. He turned and put a fist to his eye and groaned. "No, no, wait."
"Fuck," I said. "What's wrong?"
He glanced at me. He looked a little defeated, like his tough guy card was going to be taken away.
"Axel … "
He took a deep drag of his smoke and then flicked it through the air.
"My mother is dying," he said.
"Shit. No."
"She's been dying for a while," he said. He cleared his throat. Axel tapped his forehead. "She's got all kinds of shit wrong with her head. Can't remember things. Can't do things. She's gotten to the point where she's hurting herself. Everything is shutting down, brother. It's all going downhill fast here."
"Fuck, man," I said. "I'm really sorry about that. I wish I could say or do something for you."
"There's nothing you can do," Axel said. "Just keep this between us. Okay? I don't need my tragedy spread through St. Skin. This is my church here, okay? It's where I come to feel human."
"I had no clue you were going through this stuff."
"It happens," Axel said. "You know, it's been a wild road for me, River. Divorce. Now my mother. It's been hard. But I'll make it through."
"I don't mean to ask dumb questions … but when is she … "
"Who knows," Axel said. "I just had to make the call for hospice care. They'll come and check on her and spend time with her. Monitor her. They showed me the box of shit I keep in the back of her fridge with all the heavy stuff that will ease her when she goes. It just got really real, you know? I don't know, man. I'm just standing here, thinking about shit. You know, I drew my first picture when I was in kindergarten. I brought it home and showed it to my mother. She rubbed her fingers into my hair and told me how beautiful it was. Then my old man came home from the bar and ripped it up. Smacked me across the mouth and said that drawing was for guys who had a pussy. I had no clue what that meant at the time. My mother took all the pieces and taped them back together. I found that artwork last week up in her attic."