Mariska

The White Lotus tattoo parlor is in a strip mall on Tom’s River. The owner is a former client of Kenny’s and as they worked out together, she learned my best friend is a licensed tattoo artist. It’s how Kenny met Patrick.

I drive over to the small shop as soon as I get off from work at the gym, my mind at home on the painting I started. As soon as we’re done here, I plan to head back and finish it. I’m ready to fill that space.

Kenny’s car is already in the lot. She only worked a half-day at the gym. When I walk in Wren, the owner, is sitting in the back with a muscular guy lying on a table. She’s in the middle of an elaborate leopard tattoo scene on his back.

“Hey!” Kenny hops out, dressed in a black mini and tank top that reveals a one-inch strip of her pale torso. “I’ve got everything all set up, and I brought the sketch you did last night. Did you want to stick with that design or change it?”

I follow her to a chair around the corner. It’s the same spot where she put the constellation of stars on my side.

“Let me see it again.” I take the napkin and study the little sketch I made at her house. “No, that’s still what I want.”

She smiles and takes it from me, putting it under transfer paper and tracing it out. “Want the year in Roman numerals like that?”

“Yep.” I sit at the chair, and pull up my light green polo shirt. It makes my eyes appear slightly green, which is unusual. They’ve always been mostly caramel with hints of gold. I remember Stuart telling me they’re like the sunset in Montana.

“I still can’t get over preppy Mariska,” Kenny laughs.

Curling my nose, I rest my head on my hand. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing! You wear it well. It’s just… different.”

I slide my short hair behind my ear and lean forward on my elbows. “I think of it as me being neutral. Nothing special.”

“Hmm,” she says, and I can hear she’s switched into focused mode. “You’re special to me.”

That makes me smile right before I wince as the needle pierces my skin. Blue eyes flash to mine, evaluating my reaction.

“Sorry. This won’t take long. It’s a small mark.”

“It’s okay. I’ve got a higher pain tolerance now.” In more ways than one.

She’s finished quickly, as she predicted. Finishing touches made on the numbers, and the swirling wings of my angel are forever with me on my skin. I stand while she cleans it and puts a strip of clear plastic over it.

“You can take this off and just put lotion on it after a few hours. It won’t need much healing time.”

I turn to the side and look at it in the mirror. “I like it. It feels right.”

“Another satisfied customer!” She grins. It’s her favorite line after finishing a tattoo, and I dig in my wallet for the cash to pay her.

“So Patrick’s driving up with Lane tomorrow. Why don’t you come over and say hello? I’m sure he wants to see you.”

My shirt’s tucked in, and I stop at the door thinking about the little boy who looks more and more like a Knight every day. “I think I can do that,” I say, giving her a little smile.

A month ago, my response would have been very different, but the more time passes, the more I can see the small steps I’m taking toward being whole again.

I’m in the car driving back to my place when my phone goes off. I glance at it in the cupholder, and it’s not a number I recognize. I don’t answer, but when I get to my apartment building, I’m frozen in the car by the stern voice on the line.

“Hello, Miss Heron, this is Dr. Endicott. I wanted to follow up on your visit.” My heart beats painfully hard in my chest, and I struggle to breathe. I hadn’t realized how desperately I’d been waiting for his call.

“After reviewing the few notes I have left from your case, I’ve determined my diagnosis was an accurate starting point for the behaviors exhibited.” My heart sinks, and I lean back in the seat as feelings of fear and shame wash over me.

“However,” he continues, and my ears perk up. “Because your grandmother removed you from my care before I was able to do a full battery of tests, whether it would have been my final diagnosis is impossible to know.”

“What?” I whisper. My heart beats faster.

“My recommendation at this point would be further evaluation and testing if you have reason to believe my original diagnosis is accurate. I would be happy to make an appointment for you with one of the doctors who have taken over my practice…”

Touching the screen, I end the call. For several moments I sit in my car in silence. Do I want further testing? Do I have reason to believe his diagnosis might have been accurate? Leaning forward, I wrap my arms around my waist and hold on tight. I’m going to make it through this. I am.

Inside the house, I drop my purse on the bar and strip out of my polo shirt and khakis. I leave them in a heap on the floor in my living room and pick up the ancient tee I was wearing this morning. The plastic on my hip itches, so I peel it carefully off my new ink. Turning to the side, I examine the little pair of infinity wings. They’re exactly what I had in my mind, a perfect memorialization for our baby.

My paints are all still set up in the small studio room, and that empty space in my latest abstract sits waiting for the little girl to fill it. Taking my brush out of the turpentine, I clean it on the rag before dipping the tip in a bit of purple.

White followed by green blends her into the prairie grasses the same way I saw her. Finally, I take the bright yellow and mix it with the white. Lights so bright my eyes ache…

I paint late into the evening until I’m falling asleep on my feet. It’s finished, but I can’t look at it now. It’s too fresh in my mind, and I won’t see it properly. It’s best if I go to bed and look at it in the morning.

Stripping off the comfortable old tee, I stop off in the bathroom to wash my face and brush. I’m on my way to bed when I see the text on my phone. Picking it up, I read one line from Stuart: I love you.

A tingle of warmth moves in my chest, and I feel the ice starting to melt.

---

Stuart

Patrick wakes me up early Friday morning. I’m on the couch where I fell asleep reading an article Derek sent me about the new breed of identity theft. It was about as boring as I expected, and I lost the battle with sleep around midnight. Not before I sent a text to Mariska—just making sure she knows where I stand.

“What’s up?” I say, answering the call.

“Hey, brother, I’m headed to Bayville. Kenny misses Lane, so I figured I’d drop in for the weekend, let them visit, check in at the office.”

Pushing up to a sitting position, I check the clock. It’s only nine. “You need a place to stay? You could crash here.”

“Really?” I don’t miss the shock in his voice, and I have to confess, I’m a little surprised by the offer myself. I guess losing everything has a way of softening one’s personality.

“Mariska’s back at her place. I have an extra room.”

“Yeah, I heard about that.” His voice goes quiet, and for a moment we don’t speak. I hear the sound of music and Lane’s small voice in the background. “I’m really sorry about Mariska and the baby and all.”

I wonder how long it will take for that kind sentiment to stop feeling like a sledgehammer to the guts whenever someone offers it.

“Thanks,” is all I can say.

“I’ve never experienced anything like that, but I bet it leaves you pretty raw.”

“We’re working through it.” I’m ready to change the subject. “What time do you think you’ll be in Bayville?”

“Between four and five. You know where Kenny lives?”

“Text me the address just in case.”

“Will do at my next stop.” I’m about to disconnect when I hear his last words. “Take it easy, bro.”

“You too.”

Even after our father died, Patrick and I hadn’t been able to find a common ground. I suppose it’s a good thing we’re making this step now. Signs of personal growth or something.

What I do know is I’ll be in Bayville at Kenny’s, which means I’ll also most likely see Mariska. Stopping in front of the mirror, I decide it’s time to get a haircut, shave, pick up a new shirt. Things are changing between us as well, and I want to keep the momentum moving forward.

At four, I’m headed out of the condo on my way to the ocean. Bayville is an easy half-hour drive from Princeton, but I don’t want to be too early. I don’t want to seem overly anxious.

Walt (a.k.a., the best doorman in the world), stops me in the lobby. “Got a letter for your fiancée, Mr. Knight. It looks pretty official. I thought if you were headed to see her, she might want it.”

I pause and take the thick envelope from him. Walt is such a great guy. He hasn’t mentioned Mariska’s absence in the weeks I’ve been back. He also doesn’t allow for the fact that it might be a permanent state of affairs. He’ll wait for me to let him know.

The return address is Missouri River General, and I have to fight the temptation to rip it open myself. In any event, I’ll have to see her now. She needs to have whatever this is, and I need to be there when she opens it. I won’t let her suffer another heartbreak alone if I can help it.

Looking out at the countryside on the way to Bayville, I think about all that’s happened, where we are now, and how much we’ve changed since June. Major life crises have a way of either bringing people closer together or driving them apart. I blame myself for letting this one drive Mariska and me apart.

I couldn’t handle the guilt and the pain of what had happened. I didn’t want to be in my own head, and I could only imagine Mariska didn’t want to be around me either. I realize how wrong that type of thinking was. Bill helped me see the error of my ways.

Where does that leave us? Coming back to Princeton has convinced me more than ever it’s not where I want to stay. Still, I can’t leave without Mariska. Before I didn’t talk to her about how I felt. I didn’t let her inside the war in my mind over what I wanted and what I imagined she wanted. Again, this experience has shown me how wrong-headed that approach is.

I told her I would wait, but here I am, holding this letter on the verge of making a change. I need to talk to her. I need to lay everything on the line for her and let her tell me what she wants. I can only hope it’s the same thing as me.