Life, Love, and a Polar Bear Tattoo

by Heather Wardell

  "Thanks," I said, turning to leave the counter.

  "Take our card," she said, passing it across to me. "Just in case you decide to do it."

  I pocketed the card and smiled at her, then returned to staring at the art on the walls.

  One hundred and fifty dollars. Not a bad price for something that'd last forever. But could I really get a tattoo? What would Ian say? What if I couldn't handle the pain? I really didn't want to go through life with a polar bear nose tattooed on my back because I didn't have the guts to get the rest of the thing done.

  My reverie was interrupted by Tasha's arrival. She paid the counter woman then came over to me. She seemed to be walking reasonably well.

  "How was it?" I asked.

  "Hurt like a bitch," Tasha said succinctly.

  "Oh."

  "But as soon as she put the jewelry in, it was fine," she continued. "And it doesn't really hurt at all now."

  "Well, congrats, I guess."

  We left the shop and headed off for dinner.

  "Tasha?"

  "Hmmm?"

  "Do you think I'm the tattoo type?"

  "Nope."

  "Geez, think about it a bit first, would you?"

  "Okay."

  Tasha stared at me for about two seconds, and then said, "Definitely not."

  "Why?"

  "'Cause you're just not."

  Am too. I think.

  *****

  By the time I got home, I felt like I'd gained a thousand pounds since the morning, so tired and sluggish I could barely get up the front stairs. I tossed some food into Ninja's bowl and collapsed into the fetal position on the couch.

  I needed a good project to finish right now, something worthwhile, something to distract me and take my mind off everything. As I headed into the kitchen for a drink of water, it hit me.

  On a whim I'd bought faux-brick wallpaper for the kitchen. I'd had it hidden under the bed for ages and had never gotten around to hanging it up. I'd also never gotten around to asking Ian how he felt about brick walls. He seemed to like the kitchen wall at my parents' house, which was made of real brick, so I was sure he'd like it.

  Feeling a burst of energy, I pulled out the wallpaper rolls from where I'd stashed them under the bed. Cleaning off the dust bunnies, more the size of dust gorillas, I opened up the plastic wrapping and sat down to read the instructions. It didn't sound that difficult. I had to cut the wallpaper to the right length, roll it pattern-side-in, soak it in water, pull it out, fold it together, let it sit, and slap it on the wall. No worries.

  I wanted to paper the wall behind the fridge and the microwave, so both needed to be moved. The fridge pulled out fairly easily, leaving behind a patch of floor that made it quite clear where hairballs and bugs and cat toys went to die. The microwave, on the other hand, was on a stand that was apparently quite happy where it was. It refused to move until I took everything off it, and even then it was a tough job.

  I filled the bathtub with lukewarm water and soaked the first piece of paper for thirty seconds, then carried it down the stairs and into the kitchen. The wallpaper seemed to really like me, to be quite attached to me. Literally, since it kept peeling itself from the wall and settling delicately onto my head.

  I was wearing enough wallpaper paste that I could probably have hung myself on the wall when the paper finally made its first attempt to cling to the wall. It did, however, continue to slide gently downward whenever I let go, so I was reduced to holding the entire sheet on the wall, trying not to move a muscle, to allow it to make a bond with the kitchen wall.

  I was terrified to release the paper, in case I'd have to start the whole dreadful process again from the beginning, so I stood for fifteen minutes before I finally managed to muster up the nerve to lift my hands away. I stared, holding my breath... and the paper did not slide. Nor did it drape itself about my head and shoulders like a faux-brick shawl.

  I was elated.

  Until I remembered that there were three more (plus a bit) strips of wallpaper waiting to be hung.

  As it turned out, the other strips were actually a bit more cooperative, and the rest of the wall was finished in just over an hour. I drained the bathtub, wiped up the wallpaper paste that seemed to be dribbled throughout the house and collapsed onto the couch, from which I had a great view of my new wall.

  Gorgeous. Simply gorgeous. I was so proud of myself. The wall looked incredibly realistic, the paper hadn't come down and I'd done it all myself.

  Absolutely awesome.

  Damn, I hoped Ian would like it.

  To: ianw@buildaid.com

  From: ninjacatrocks@hotmail.com

  Subject: Hypothetical question

  Do you like bricks?

  I went out with Tasha after work tonight. She got something pierced. I can't tell you what, but if she offers to show it to you, you're both in big trouble! Do you think I'm the tattoo type?

  I'm glad to hear you're settling in. Phoning me at nine my time on Sunday should be fine. I'm having dinner with my parents but I'll make sure I'm home by nine.

  Have a good day. :)

  Me

  Before I sent off the email, I read it over a few times. I'd never really had an answer from Ian about whether he 'forgave' me for working with Kegan. I thought about pushing the issue, but decided against it. That wasn't how Ian and I operated.

  Not any more, at least. At the beginning we'd been able to tell each other anything, but now we were far better at shoving problems under the rug than we were at examining them. And being thousands of kilometers apart wasn't likely to improve our examining skills.

  Email sent, I headed off to bed. Again, I hadn't spent any time thinking about my marriage, and Ian would be calling me on Sunday. Not that I'd planned to say anything about any decisions I might have made, but I'd expected to be at least a little closer to knowing what I wanted out of life and love by then. Tomorrow. Definitely.

  My last thought before I fell asleep was of the tear on Kegan's cheek and how badly I'd wanted to hug him.

  Saturday, August 6th

  I woke up hungry. Starving, really. Must have been all the calories I burned off hanging the wallpaper. I stuffed in a quick banana and headed to the gym. I was doing so well with going every day, and I didn't want to break the tradition. Besides, my muscles weren't that sore.

  I was on my elliptical machine, and doing quite well, when I got the idea to try to lift some weights. Using the machine's poles for support, I looked around the gym and saw two possibilities. There were the loose weights, in an area populated by large sweaty men who were grunting so loudly I could hear them over my MP3 player. At the other side of the gym, a small group of women in perfectly coordinated outfits were using machines that would ensure they didn't end up swinging the weights everywhere.

  I opted to be a fashion victim instead of a grunter.

  After a few more minutes of elliptical work, I climbed off and headed for the weight machines. They were arranged in a circle, and everyone shuffled one machine to the left after a minute or two. I found an open machine, set the weight to what looked like a reasonable level, and gave its instructions a quick read. It seemed easy enough, so I settled myself on the seat facing the machine, grabbed the handles, and pulled out and backwards.

  Absolutely nothing happened.

  I stood up partway and skimmed the instructions again. I'd been doing it right. I tried again. Still nothing. I lowered the weight a notch and gave another effort. This time the weights lifted about an inch but I couldn't move them any further.

  I set the machine to not add any weight at all. I managed to complete the movement eight times and then my arms started to shake and I couldn't do it again. I rested for a few seconds, and did five more before the little old lady to my right moved over and said, "Off you go, love." I went to the next machine as she increased the weight on the back fly to more than I'd started with.

  I went around the entire circuit that way, lowering the weight on each machin
e to zero. A few times it was actually too light, but I decided to treat those machines as a rest instead of adding more weight.

  When I was finished, my arms and legs shaking, I left the circle of machines and walked for a little on the treadmill to cool down then took a quick shower and went home hungry enough to eat Ninja.

  I made myself a huge breakfast. Pancakes, scrambled eggs, and a fruit salad. Stuffed nearly rigid, I lounged on the couch watching cartoons until I began to feel a strange sensation. Very strange. What was it? I'd never felt this before, this... this urge to...

  Urge to clean! I actually wanted to clean up the house. Stunning. I did usually keep the place reasonably tidy, but I didn't enjoy cleaning. I did what I had to do to keep me and Ian and Ninja alive and healthy, and I'd never had more enthusiasm for the process than that.

  Since it had never happened before, the odds of it re-occurring seemed slight, so I set to work with gusto. By two o'clock I'd cleaned the whole house and done four of my "I should really do this someday" most-hated tasks (and now had a perfectly organized kitchen, bathroom floors I could have eaten off if I'd been into that sort of thing, spotless windows and mirrors, and absolutely nothing under my bed) and I was exhausted. But the house really was starting to look good.

  I collapsed on the (newly fluffed) couch and let loose an enormous sigh. I was wiped out. I could sleep for hours.

  No, I couldn't. I was going out for dinner and dancing at Light with Larissa and a bunch of her fellow makeup artists. I could never tell her friends apart, all slim pretty blondes with perfect makeup, but I'd been out with them before and had a lot of fun. They were hard to keep up with, though. I'd never make it through the evening without a rest.

  I went upstairs to the bedroom and set my alarm clock for four-thirty, then slipped under the covers on my side of the bed and was asleep almost immediately.

  The alarm jarred me awake far too soon. I shut it off and staggered to the shower. The hot water pounding down on me began to bring me back to life, and a vigorous scrubbing with a towel finished the job.

  I flipped through my closet and put on a knee-length denim skirt and a cobalt blue t-shirt with a silver star on it, then found my favorite black sandals and spent a few minutes putting on some makeup. I'd never look as good as Larissa and her friends, but I figured I should at least make the effort. I put on some dangly silver star-shaped earrings and a matching necklace, pulled my hair back into a low ponytail, and waited for Larissa to arrive.

  And waited.

  Some people are famous for being on time. Larissa.... well, I love her, but...

  Eventually, we were on our way to dinner.

  Larissa had told me she'd let Angela pick the restaurant for dinner because she had the fussiest food requirements of any of us. Of any of us on the planet, probably. Most restaurants had only one thing on the menu that she could actually handle, and this one had two.

  Larissa introduced me to everyone, and I did my best to remember their names. As we clinked glasses with our first cocktails of the evening, Larissa said, "So, what's new, girls? I'll start. Nothing. Candy?"

  "How many times do I--"

  "Sorry, Candice!"

  "Well," I said, not wanting to make a huge deal about it, "My husband's away."

  "For how long?" Angela picked at her salad (organic lettuce only, no dressing, one radish).

  "Four weeks; well, closer to three now, I guess."

  Fiona was surprised. "You let him go?"

  "I didn't have a choice, it's a business trip."

  "Well, but--"

  "Just because you couldn't trust your boyfriend, doesn't mean--"

  Fiona cut Larissa off right back. "I wasn't saying he'd cheat on her. Sheesh."

  Angela stepped in. "Well, I have news, so listen for once, would you?"

  And she did have news. She'd got a tattoo last week.

  "But, Ang, isn't that an odd thing to do? To put all that stuff in your body?"

  "Oh, please, it's no worse than getting your ears pierced."

  "Which you haven't done."

  "Shut up, Larissa," Kathryn said, "and let her show us."

  Really cute. A delicate little tulip, sweetly mauve with spring green leaves, just above her ankle bone on the outside of her leg.

  "So tell the truth. How much did it hurt?" I asked, imagining a million vaccination needles at once.

  Angela smiled. "Well, think of a sunburn--"

  "That's not so bad," Kathryn interrupted.

  "Now," said Angela, regaining her audience, "imagine someone scratching your sunburn with a pin. That's about what it feels like."

  I could handle that.

  *****

  Several vodka shots later, we were dancing up a serious storm at Light. The lights were low, the dance floor was crowded, and the music was loud. Everything was perfect.

  It was my turn to buy the next round of drinks, so I made my slow, careful way to the bar. Slow because the place was absolutely packed, careful because I didn't want to trip and fall. My alcohol tolerance was so low that one liquor-filled chocolate gave me a buzz, so the vodka shots had hit me pretty hard.

  "Candy." The voice in my ear was so soft and low I barely heard it.

  I turned to find myself face to gorgeous face with Kegan. In the dim lighting of the club he was even better looking than he'd been at his restaurant, and he'd been plenty good looking enough then. Locked in his gaze, lost in his eyes, I stared at him for what seemed like forever. And he returned the favor.

  "Hi there," he said finally. "I'm glad it turned out you were here."

  I smiled, not sure what to say.

  "You look stunning," he said. Stunned, more likely, but it was nice of him to say it. I made the universal "oh please" face, and he said, "Not a surprise, though. You were always gorgeous."

  And then, in an instant, I was furious. "Oh, really. That's not what you used to say."

  "What did I--"

  A little voice in my head warned, "Are you sure you want to do this? Isn't it better to pretend you've forgotten all about it?"

  My alcohol-fueled anger disagreed. I moved closer to Kegan and said, "You told me you'd had a smart girl, and now you wanted a beautiful one."

  "You re-- I did not."

  "You did too. That's why I broke up with you."

  "I always thought you were beautiful, Candy." He sounded sincere but I was still raging.

  "Well, you said it. I remember. Hell, I can still hear it." Oops. That was a little more than I'd meant to reveal. Was it even true?

  And did he still think I was beautiful?

  He looked aghast, apologetic and disgusted with himself. "Candy, I--"

  "Candice. Call me Candice."

  He shook his head. "I can't do it. I always think of you as Candy." He put his hand on my shoulder and I felt my resistance begin to crumble. "I regretted it as soon as I said it, and I hoped you'd forgotten since you didn't mention it before. My only defense is that I was twenty-three and a moron. Not much of a defense, your honor, but it's all I've got. Can I at least buy you a drink to make it up to you, and to thank you for your work?"

  "No, it's all right. It's my turn to buy for my friends anyhow."

  "I insist. Just let me get my friends and we're all set."

  And somehow Kegan ended up paying for my round. I did buy the next one, so it's not like I shafted the girls or anything. Larissa filled some of them in, with whispered conversation, on who he was, and they were well ready to hate him. But a few minutes of his effortless charm turned them around.

  His friends helped too. Their eyes skimmed over me with barely a flicker of interest, but Larissa and her beautiful coworkers attracted a lot more notice. We stayed as one big group in the quietest corner we could find, but I could see furtive little glances passing between individuals, and in no time Angela was borne off to dance.

  I smiled at Larissa, busy chatting with a blond guy who'd already bought her a drink. She raised her eyebrows, then shot a glance in
Kegan's direction and made an expression like she could smell something rotten before turning back to her new man.

  It never ceased to amaze me how quickly she worked. Even when she had a boyfriend, she could always get men to talk to her.

  I'd had boyfriends between Kegan and Ian, but because they'd decided, for some unknown reason, they wanted to be with me. I had never been the pursuer, never seen a guy and set out to make him want me. Things just seemed to happen, out of my control.

  I heard a high-pitched giggle and turned to see Larissa's friend Fiona standing far too close to Kegan. He was smiling down at her and she had her head tipped to the side and was staring up into his eyes. As I watched she let her hand rest on his arm for a second before slipping it slowly away, fingers trailing along his skin.

  Was Fiona a smart girl or a beautiful one?

  Before I knew what I was doing, I'd gone right up to them. Kegan turned to me with a smile. Fiona turned to me with a glare.

  "Anything new with the restaurant?" I said, since I needed a reason to have come over.

  Kegan shook his head. "They're still trashing the place. It's hard to believe it'll ever be something good again, with the mess it's in right now." Our eyes met and he added, "You and Lou'll make sure it works out, right?"

  I swallowed hard. "Of course." Even if I had to do it all myself.

  Fiona said, "You have a restaurant?"

  He explained, and she said, "That's so neat. I never knew anyone who owned a restaurant before. Why'd you decide to do that?"

  With a shock, I realized that I didn't know why he was doing it. When we were dating, he'd just told me about it one day. If he'd given me his reasons, I didn't remember.

  "When I was a kid, my parents ate out nearly every night. My mother hates to cook, and my dad can barely make toast. They'd tell me about the restaurants, how they were decorated and how fancy the food was, and it all sounded so glamorous and fun. As I got older, I started thinking about it more seriously, and by the time I was in university I knew it was what I wanted."