by Max Henry
“And?”
“I’m not going to fight him on it.” She lifts a finger. “Oo, I have something for you.” I sip my drink as she rats around in her bag and comes out with a small wrapped square. “I kept it with me in case your father saw it while I was out, and you know….” No, I don’t. “Happy birthday, sweetie.”
“Thanks.” I honestly pegged her as having forgotten in the midst of all of this.
“Open it.” She nods toward the striped paper.
I tear it along the tape, unfolding the sides to reveal the underside of a ceramic drink coaster.
“Turn it over.”
I flip it the right way up and frown at the child’s drawing glazed on the white surface. “I don’t understand.”
“Do you not remember it?”
I shake my head, spinning it around so the picture is the right way up.
“Den drew it in kindergarten as part of their arts and crafts. He had it on his set of drawers in his room.”
My mouth twitches—I don’t know if I should smile or cry.
“It’s you two, sweetheart. He drew the picture of you two.”
I swallow the lump in my throat as I trace the red lines of what I now see as a girl in the grass, and across to a boy who holds something in his hand.
Mum reaches over and points to a blue square in the background. “That’s our house. He said you two were playing Tonka at the time.”
Fuck it. She’s ruined me. I cradle my hands around it and let a lone tear slip out. “Thank you.”
“We might not see eye to eye anymore, Meg, but don’t forget there was once love.”
“Once?”
She offers a sad smile as she looks down to her hands clasped around the base of her drink. “I have no doubt that we’ll sort things out, just not right now. Don’t try and push it with your father; you’re doing more damage than you would walking away and giving both of you space to breathe.”
“He’s disowned me because I followed my heart.”
“He’s disowned you because of his own ideals.”
“That you share.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “I see both sides, but I’m afraid I agree with his more. They can’t be good for you, Meg. Just look what the life did to Brett’s mother.”
“You knew her?”
“We went to school together. I knew of her.” She frowns at her iced coffee. “She became somebody I could barely recognise, even before she fell ill.”
“Because she was a good person, trying to do the right thing even when the odds were against her.”
“Exactly.” Mum looks up, holding my gaze. “So what do you think will happen to you? Doesn’t matter how good your intentions are, the way they live their life doesn’t lean toward lenience. It’s hard and unforgiving.”
“It’s what they’re driven to do by the judgment of people like us.”
“You can only excuse so much, Meg.”
“But you can also forgive a lot more than any of you are willing to.” I down the best part of my drink and stand, ready to leave. “I take it then I can’t count on you to do the right thing and provide a statement.”
She shakes her head regretfully. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. We’re doing this with your best interest at heart.”
“Bullshit,” I say on a laugh. “You’re doing it with your reputation in mind.”
THIRTY
My hands shake as I flip through the Clearfile folders jam packed with pictures: hand drawn, clipped from magazines, and actual photos of work the artists at the tattoo parlour have done.
“Any clue yet?” Tanya asks. She leans over and jams her hand in the pages, stopping my incessant browsing. “That’s cool.”
“Yeah, I like the way it’s blended together.”
Looking at tattoos is all I’ve done the past two days since coming to terms with the fact my parents aren’t going to do a damn thing to help me on this. If a person could be worn out from browsing ink, then I’m exhausted. Still, it served its purpose: I have some idea what I want today, and also haven’t spent the better parts of my days stewing over how to get Carver’s name cleared.
“Tanya.”
We both go rigid as a deep voice quite literally commands her name from the far side of the counter. Something flips in her stunned gaze, and she springs to her feet, swinging her hips as she approaches.
“Hey, Wolf.”
“Been too long already, girl.”
I crane my neck to try and steal a look at this huge-sounding man who’s going to be leaving his mark on me, but the short wall between the waiting area and booths blocks my view.
“It was only a few nights ago,” Tanya whispers, leaning in close as though she’s discussing some conspiracy.
A thick tattooed arm shoots out from behind the desk, and his hand stops just shy of her jaw before he deftly strokes her hair off her face. It dawns on me that I’m holding my breath.
“I’ll let you both through. She here with you?” He leans forward and pokes his head and shoulders over the counter.
And what a head and shoulders they are. The guy’s massive: all muscle bulk, hardly any fat by the looks of him. A thick beard covers the lower half of his face, and by his natural blond tones and pale complexion, I’d say he has some sort of Scandinavian heritage. Probably why he’s so massive; he’s practically a Viking.
“Hey there, Meg.”
“Hi.” I wiggle my fingers in a wave.
“Come on round.”
He lets us through to where the magic happens, and gestures to a black, leather massage table-looking thing.
I jump up and sit on the side, legs swinging as I look over the beautiful drawings framed on the walls. Tanya props a hip into the bed beside me and takes my clammy hand in hers.
“You’ll be fine.”
“Don’t tell me we have a first timer,” Wolf teases in his chocolaty tones.
I nod sheepishly.
“An ink virgin.” He sucks in a breath between his teeth, making a light whistle. “I’m honoured. Any idea what you’d like, darling?”
“I like those Day of the Dead girls.” I picture the one Carver had drawn on his bedroom wall in my mind. “Half skull, half pretty face.”
Wolf nods knowingly. “Sentiment to it? Or just something you like?”
I shrug. “I just like them, but I guess it’s a reflection of myself.”
“In what way?” He spins on his stool to start paging through a well-worn notebook.
My gaze connects with Tanya’s, and she gives me a warm smile.
“I guess,” I explain, “that people tend to look at me and see the attractive girl and think that I must have it all together, but really, I’m so screwed up that I’m pretty much dead inside.”
Wolf shoots me a concerned look before resuming his search. “Deep.”
“Babe….” Tanya’s hand squeezes mine.
Meh. It is what it is.
“What are your thoughts on this?” Wolf lifts the notebook and sets it down on the table beside me.
We spend the next forty-five minutes going back and forth, altering details on what will become my lower-arm sleeve. He bookends roses around a girl who could almost pass for me, and ties it together with a quote on my inside forearm, written within ribbons that weave through more flowers and stars. As he applies the transfer to my skin, I reread the words I’ve chosen: It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog. A reminder of my battles with depression over the years, that it’s solely my courage and mindset that can pull me through.
“It’s going to look so amazing,” Tanya gushes from where she’s now laid out on her stomach atop the table.
Wolf leans back on his stool opposite the one I now occupy, and holding my hand, twists my arm back and forth. “Looks all right. What do you think?”
I pick my arm up and check it out, how it curls around my forearm and how he’s placed a rose to finish perfectly between my wrist bones, edging onto my h
and. “I love it.”
He offered to do my other arm once it’s healed after seeing the scars forming from the burns. I hadn’t thought about how I’d feel having the pink and roughened flesh there as a constant reminder, but now he’s seeded the idea it seems only logical. Last thing I want is to look at my left arm and forever be reminded of the night I lost Den.
Wolf snaps his latex gloves on, and as he lines up his tiny plastic cups of ink, I can’t help but beam up at Tanya. “Thank you for this.”
“Don’t thank me, babe. Thank Wolf.”
“Just wait until I’m done,” he says with a chuckle. “Don’t want you praising something I haven’t finished yet.”
The gun buzzes to life, and as he tells me to relax, I close my eyes and smile.
Let the transformation from schoolgirl to woman be complete.
***
Healing is an itchy process. Funny how easy you forget trivial things like that until they’re bugging you day in, day out. My supervisors at the supermarket were none too impressed with my newest addition last night, especially considering half my arm was wrapped in plastic, but what could they do other than make it known it’s not their “preferred image.”
Tanya received word while we were at the parlour when Carver’s trial will be. It’s set for Monday, which makes it understandable that I can’t concentrate on the forms spread out before me on the hostel bed.
I got accepted—approved for late entry into the course I wanted. As of February next year, I’ll officially be a full-time Veterinary Sciences student, working toward my qualification as a nurse.
Now all I have to do is make sure Carver comes with me.
I hit redial on my phone and jam it between my ear and shoulder. The tone continues while I fill in the next four fields, and frustrated, I hit End without getting through yet again.
Every day since I spoke to Mum I’ve tried to call them to see if they changed their mind by some stroke of luck. It’s my only option, considering the police won’t let me know the details of his investigation. I haven’t made another time to visit him, either, for two reasons: one, if he sees me he’ll think I’ve followed his advice with my acceptance into the course, and two, I want the ache from missing me to be as thick in his chest as it is in mine. I want him to eat, sleep, and breathe thoughts of us, of seeing me when he returns to court. I want him to long for those carefree days we spent at the motel again, so that he hopefully thinks through what he’s giving up by trying to be the martyr, and realises it’s not worth it.
I finish up the forms and slide them into the prepaid reply envelope the Polytechnic sent out with them. My phone vibrates on the bed as I set it down beside my bag.
Tanya.
“Hey.”
“What are you wearing on Monday?”
“Odd way to start a conversation,” I tease. “Just my usual. Why?”
“I’m on my way over.” The thud of a car door closing echoes in the background. “We’re going to make that dickhead brother of mine miss the hell out of you, girl.”
I’d recounted the full conversation I had with Carver to Tanya while I got my ink done, simply needing to get it off my chest and check I was doing the right thing by walking away and leaving him hanging. What if it had backfired and he’d taken it as a cue to permanently cut me loose? What if I screwed up by taking the gamble that distance would make the heart grow not only fonder, but also more fraught with need? Maybe he wasn’t that into me after all?
One conversation with Tanya is all it took to understand that yeah, he is. Carver had told me that he wasn’t his usual self around me, and Tanya had said it once herself too, but I didn’t quite believe it until she told me what he was like before the bonfire.
Jacking cars for a guy they know who chops and deals in the parts.
Shoplifting on a daily basis to get mundane things for the kitchen cupboards.
Regularly getting drunk at the pub on weekends and picking fights with the young guys who came through on bus trips.
And keeping to himself. She told me that before I showed up she’d struggle to get him to say hello, and then all of a sudden there he was, the brother she used to know, back, alive and well.
“He’s like a neglected dog that’s found a new home,” she’d said. “He’s remembered how to wag his tail again.”
Which only makes me wonder more why he seemed so quick to give it up? Does he really think he’s that unworthy? That he’s that much of a bad influence to me?
Boy has another thing coming if he thinks I’m going to let go without a fair fight.
“Knock, knock!”
“Shit, that was quick.” I leap up from where I’ve been lost in thought on the bed. “You break a few speed limits or something?”
“Girl, I don’t muck around when it comes to shopping.” She flits across the room to snatch up my bag. “Anything else you need?”
“Nope. My whole life pretty much is in there.”
“Good, then let’s go.”
The afternoon flies by in a blur of lightweight fabrics and shoes that defy gravity. I always thought the free parking limit of three hours at malls were pie in the sky considering I’ve always been the kind to get in, grab what I need, and get out in under two. But as it turns out, there are occasions to go over the three-hour limit, and picking a “this is your reason to be free” outfit in the Saturday rush is apparently one.
It takes us four and a half hours to settle on a pencil skirt, heels, and a cute asymmetrical, strategically slashed blouse that’s every part dressed up while still sticking with my rocker style. My brows are threaded to within an inch of their existence, and by the time we’re heading back to the car I’ve got an appointment card for professional make-up to be done Monday morning.
“Are you sure we aren’t going overboard?” I set the bags down in the back seat and get in beside Tanya.
“Positive.”
She paid for the make-up upfront when I tried to backpedal once they gave us the price. A simple twelve-dollar supermarket mascara and budget bin eyeshadow and eyebrow pencil have done me well the past few years—no need to go changing now.
Although by the light in Tanya’s eyes, she must think I have some serious potential once a professional has worked her wizardry on me.
“I hope he appreciates it,” I say with a laugh. “Nothing worse than going to this effort for him to not even notice.”
“Trust me,” she deadpans. “He’ll notice.”
***
God, I hope Tanya was right. People file into the courthouse with purpose, striding along the sidewalk with a clear direction. I run my hands down the front of my skirt, shuffling it around so it sits on my hips right. The shoes make me feel snazzy enough, but damn, when the make-up artist swung her circular mirror my way and asked me what I thought?
I took a picture for posterity before I ruined the woman’s handiwork with happy tears.
I look like one of those women on Instagram who always has impeccable make-up and perfectly styled hair. I look hot.
He’ll notice, for sure.
“I’m nervous.”
“You and me both, babe.” Tanya slips her hand in mine and pulls in a deep breath. “Let’s get this show on the road, yeah?”
We’re stepping toward the main entrance when her arm yanks against mine as she comes to an abrupt halt.
“What the…?” She’s turned toward the far end of the building, gaping at what she sees in the distance.
Or should I say whom.
We wait, sweating in the seasonal sunshine, for her father to catch up.
“I didn’t think you’d come, Dad.”
Jon gives me a tight nod, looking strangely dapper in a crisp white shirt with a black bow tie that matches his neatly pressed slacks and polished dress shoes.
“Couldn’t miss seeing the look on your faces when they call him up, girls.”
I give Tanya a curious glance, and she meets me with equal confusion.
�
��Come on. Don’t want to be fashionably late for this party.” Jon strides off ahead, leaving us to quickstep in our heels to catch up.
The hearing is being held in a larger courtroom than Whitecaps, at the main courthouse in the city. I look around at the people quietly chatting amongst themselves or staring off into the great nothing as they wait—all here for a purpose just like us, but maybe not with the same outcome.
Jon finds us seats two rows back from the divider that separates the viewing area from the actual business end of the room. The air grows hot, the need to step out gnawing at every fibre of my being, but I ignore it. No way in hell am I going to be outside fighting a mini panic attack when Carver steps through those doors.
Jon is seated to my right, Tanya to my left. I’m sandwiched between the two remaining parts of Carver’s dysfunctional family. But despite the fact we’re sitting in a courtroom, awaiting the fate of her brother his son, I can’t help but muse that this family doesn’t hold a candle to how fucked up my own is right now. Through it all, despite every hurdle they’ve had, here they still are, united, going through the trials of life together.
Three people cycle through for sentencing before Carver. Two and a half hours that I sit, fingernails picking at cuticles to keep me distracted, and watching the clock on the wall as it ticks over every agonising second.
By the time his name is called, I’m certain that the make-up Tanya paid for has gone to waste, given how flushed and in desperate need of fresh air I am.
We rise as instructed as the judge re-enters the courtroom, and before I know it, there he is again, resplendent in a green jumpsuit. My heart pulses in my throat, the pins in the side of my hair itching against my scalp. I find an end of my loosely curled hair and wind it around my finger.
He steps out in time with his accompanying guard, head down as he negotiates the step down from the holding area, and then lifts his face to search the gallery.
Tanya reaches across and takes my hand, and I hold my breath, waiting, watching, the seconds like hours as he looks around to find us.
His gaze finds Jon first, and with a firm brow he gives his old man a tight nod. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth when he shifts his gaze right and lands on me, the surprise clear in his widened eyes.