“It will be. It’s systemic. If new spots come at the rate it’s been going and if they keep getting larger, I’ll be a total disaster soon.”
“No. I mean, you could have something a lot worse than vitiligo.”
“Don’t patronize me, Mamma.”
“I’m just saying the truth.”
“How do you know what’s worse?”
“Pina! Any of those other diseases—disorders—whatever they were—any of them would have been worse.”
“How do you know?”
“Because then you’d be sick. You’re not sick, Pina.”
“I’m a mess, Mamma. I’m a fucking train wreck.”
Mamma closes her mouth and I can see her tongue pressed inside her cheek. She chews on her tongue when she’s losing it. If she says something to me about my language, I really will start screaming.
“You’re not a wreck,” she says quietly. “You don’t know whether this is it, that’s all the spots you’re going to get, or not. You don’t know.”
“Sure, Mamma. Have it your way.”
She chews on her tongue some more.
“Take me to the mall again,” I say.
She looks at me. “Why?”
“It can be our thing to do after visiting Dr. Ratner. We can go nine hundred times over the next year alone. Come on, Mamma. It’s the least you can do.”
“Don’t try to manipulate me, Pina.”
“Why not?”
She shakes her head. But she turns toward the mall. In minutes we’re parked.
“I’ll meet you back here at five thirty, okay?” I say.
“Okay.”
I head for Slinky, of course. But she’s not behind her counter. Some woman who looks utterly normal stands there. “Where’s the usual girl?” I say. It’s rude to be so abrupt, but that’s me again: zapped and rude.
“Can I help you?”
“The one who works here on Thursday afternoons. On Tuesday, too. Where is that girl?”
“You must mean Carey. She’s on break for”—she looks at her watch—“another ten minutes. Nine, actually.”
“Where’s the bathroom?”
She pulls back a little, as though offended. “Well, I don’t know if she’s in the bathroom…”
“I need to go. Fast. Can you tell me where it is? Please?”
“In the corner behind nightwear.”
“Thanks.” I practically run.
The bathroom is empty.
I wander through nightwear. Some for sleeping. Some for looking sexy. Lacy stuff that reveals too much.
I will never be able to wear any of this stuff. Who will want to look at my splotchy body? I pick up a sheer teddy and drop it casually on the floor and kick it under a rack of teddies.
And there’s Slinky, across the aisle in the kids section looking at jeans in teeny sizes.
I race up to her. “Do you have tattoos?”
She smiles at me and nods her head. “Hello to you, too.”
“Do you? On your back? Or belly maybe? Maybe around your belly button ring.”
“I don’t have a belly button ring. Or a tongue ring for that matter.” She sticks out her tongue. “See? And I don’t have tattoos.” She pulls up her shirt to reveal her creamy midriff. “So what else do you want to know about me?”
She isn’t bristling—she doesn’t seem angry—just fed up. With that hair and stuff, people must make assumptions about her all the time. What a jerk I am.
“Sorry. I wasn’t trying to pry. I’m interested in tattoos. For me.”
“You?” She feigns shock.
“I wanted your advice. I’m really sorry.”
“Apology accepted.” She warms up. “My boyfriend has four. I know a little something about them.”
“Can you make a tattoo that’s natural skin color?”
“It wouldn’t show, you little dingbat.”
“But can you?”
“You can get a tattoo any color you can find ink in, I guess. Are you developing a lip fetish? Let me tell you, you don’t want to tattoo your lips.”
“Why not?”
“For one, lips are sensitive. That’s why people kiss. The pain would make you crazy.”
“The customer is always crazy, remember?”
She flashes a grin. “Even you aren’t that crazy.”
“I want a tattoo on the back of my hand.”
“Well, that would hurt, too, but not as bad. Still, there are the other drawbacks.”
“Like what?”
“You can have a bad reaction to the ink colors. Allergic, you know.”
“They could test a little part of me first.”
“Okay, sure. That makes sense. But you can get infections, too. Make sure the tattoo artist wears surgical gloves and uses disposable sterile needles. Even if you do it in someone’s garage. Really.”
“AIDS, you mean?”
“That, too. But I was thinking about just regular infections. Tattooing goes under the skin.”
“Okay, I’ll make sure.”
“And then there are the diseases. Make sure you’re up to date on your hepatitis and tetanus shots.”
“You sound like a mom.”
“I am a mom.”
Right. It’s hard to remember, the way she looks. “Okay, okay. I will.”
“And don’t just make sure, be sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“Removal isn’t guaranteed. Tattoos are like kids—most of them are forever. If you try to get it taken off, like with a laser, that can be painful, like really screaming painful, and it can leave a big messy scar, and it costs a ton. So be sure you want it, even when you’re old and your skin sags and your fat ripples.”
“You’re sure the cheery one. I thought you’d be more encouraging.”
“Why would you think that?”
“I don’t know.” My eyes sting. “I just hoped it. I just hoped you’d be different. I need encouragement.”
She puts her hand on my shoulder. “You going to go all feminine and get a big yellow butterfly? Or a blue fairy?”
I think of Melanie’s butterfly. It’s yellow. But at least it’s not big. “No.”
“Good. Get a symbol. Something abstract no one else understands. Because tattoos are their own language, and if you get something common, you’ll wind up sending messages you don’t want to send.” She shoots a teasing smile at me and wags her finger in the no-no gesture. “You could wind up a member of a gang.”
I slap my hands on my throat and look aghast.
“Laugh, but it’s true. Whatever. Draw the symbol yourself and ask the tattoo artist to copy it. There are great Celtic symbols on the Internet. You could get ideas from them.”
“Are you Irish?”
“My dad is.”
I look at my watch. “How long does it take?”
“A tattoo? How big do you want it?”
I look at the spot on my hand. It’s bigger all the time. “The whole back of my hand.”
“Maybe an hour with an experienced tattoo artist. I don’t think much more.”
“Then I can’t do it by five thirty. That’s only ten minutes away.”
“Ack! It’s already five twenty? I’ve got to get back to the cosmetics counter.”
I trail behind her.
The woman who was covering for her leaves with a thin smile and not a single word.
“Do you like her?” I ask.
“She’s okay. I don’t really know her.”
“Should I get the tattoo? Should I cover my body in tattoos?”
“I don’t know you, either. I don’t know if you should get a tattoo. But I’m almost sure you shouldn’t cover your body in them.”
“Why not? Look at you. Look at your hair and your nails. You decorate yourself. Why shouldn’t I?”
“Hair and nails are dead. But your skin is alive. Live things have a dignity. They demand respect.”
“What about your boyfriend?”
“What about him? He makes up his own mind. I don’t like his tattoos. He likes them. He does it for himself. I like ordinary skin.”
“I don’t have ordinary skin.”
“It looks ordinary to me.”
“You haven’t seen all of it.”
“Whatever kind of skin you have, it’s better than a tattoo. It’s alive. It’s good. Love it.”
“Not everything alive is good.”
“You’re right. But you got to love them anyway.”
“Like Jesus would?”
“Why not? Any other choice sucks.”
Sometimes religious people do make sense.
“MAMMA!” I RUN THROUGH the house looking for her. And there she is, on her knees, straightening the books in Dad’s study. They don’t need straightening. I can see by her cheek that she’s chewing on her tongue.
“What is it, Pina?” She sits back on her heels and studies the bookshelf as though it matters. And it dawns on me: having something go wrong for her child mystifies her. She’s helpless, and Mamma hates being helpless. I feel sorry for her, which surprises me, because feeling sorry for myself just about saturates me—there’s hardly room for anyone else.
“I’m taking Rattle for a walk.”
That makes her head turn toward me. “You never take Rattle for a walk without being asked.”
“I’m a new girl, remember?”
“Not that new.” She stands and leans over to rub the back of her knees. “It’s Friday afternoon and you just got home from school. This is collapse time for you.”
“So what? I want to take Rattle for a walk.”
“You’re not planning on meeting up with that Joshua, are you?”
“He’s just Joshua. Not ‘that Joshua.’ You know him, Mamma. You’ve known him forever. And he came over and apologized. What more do you want? Anyway, no. He has an away football game tonight. He couldn’t see me even if I broke your rules and ran off with him for the night. And I wouldn’t run off, anyway. You know that.”
“Do I? You’re a new girl.”
“Not that new.”
She gives a sad smile. “Okay, thanks. Rattle will enjoy it. He can still smell everything, at least. Don’t let him eat anything gross.”
“I know his habits, Mamma. I love him. I’ll keep him on a short leash.”
I go into the living room. Rattle’s asleep on Nonno’s old chair. I pet his head tenderly. “Hey, old boy. Wake up. Let’s go for a walk.”
He opens his bleary eyes and turns his big head to me. And I wonder if most blind people walk around with their eyes open behind their dark glasses. Or do they close them to keep out dirt and stuff? I’ve known blind kids. But I never thought to ask. Which is good, I guess. I mean, it would seem rude to ask something like that, it could hurt someone’s feelings, though it shouldn’t. But should doesn’t matter when it comes to feelings.
I might flip out if someone saw me in the shower and asked about my breast.
“Come on, Rattle.”
He drops his head back on his paws and closes his eyes again. Does he see anything?
I stare at him, trying to detect movement under those eyelids—a hint of what might be going on—when, zap, the idea comes. This is nine hundred times better than what I’d been planning.
I take the stairs as fast as I can and open my laptop and search Google. There it is: Om. The sound of light in Hindu scriptures. To one side of the explanation is the symbol for the sound. To the other side is a statue of the Buddha with that dot on the forehead, the third eye, the door to inner perception, through which the sound of light can penetrate.
I don’t understand the inner eye and my intellect rebels against it. But Ms. Martin seems transported when she speaks to us about it during the asanas. Is she a blissed-out mystic?
I am not a mystic. I love eating steak. I love getting filthy just so I can wash off and feel squeaky clean again. I love cutting my hair and being surprised at the new me. I love kissing Joshua. God, do I love kissing Joshua. I’m as far from a mystic as anyone can be.
But I need a tattoo. And if anyone asks what it is, I can make up things that will make their jaw drop. I stifle a laugh. Dante’s in the next room, and I don’t want him hearing me laugh to myself.
I take the sheet of paper out of my pocket and unfold it. There’s the Celtic symbol I chose off the Internet last night. It’s complex: a mandala in its own right. But the symbol for Om is better. It can sit on a white background and no one will even know that the color of the background isn’t on purpose.
I draw the best Om I can on the back of the sheet and put it in my pocket. Then I race down the stairs and lean over Rattle in Nonno’s chair. “I’ll let you smell garbage cans,” I whisper in his ear. “We can walk by the college fraternities and you can smell the vomit out back.”
He snuffles in his sleep.
“All right, we’ll go by the sororities and I’ll let you smell the tampons.” That’s Rattle’s most perverse delight.
He opens those eyes and actually gets off the chair. Does he really know the word tampon?
We go straight to Devin’s house. I deceived my dog, but what could I do? I’ll make it up to him later.
I see Devin watching for me through her living room window. She waves and comes out as Rattle and I amble up to the door. “I’m not going to do it, Sep.”
I nod. “I figured you might back out. It’s okay. You don’t need to look exotic—you’re not damaged.”
She winces. “Don’t you do it, either.”
“Aw, Devin, I already made up my mind.” I take the paper out of my pocket and hold it out to her. “See? Isn’t it nice?”
“Is that Om?”
I’m crestfallen. “How do you know about Om?”
“Everybody knows about Om.”
“Oh. Well, it’s perfect. Don’t you think it’s perfect?”
She takes the paper from me. “For a Hindu.”
“Buddhists, too.”
“You’re not Buddhist, Sep.” She turns it over. “What’s this other thing? I like it.”
“That’s Celtic. It’s a mandala.”
“What’s a mandala?”
“Something you can look at for a long time, and the more you look at it, the more you see. It allows you to meditate.”
Devin gives the paper back to me. “I’d do it with you, Sep, I really would. Only this afternoon I read something important. So we can’t.”
“What did you read?”
“Tattoos should be kept out of the sun. Or covered with major sunscreen, like SPF forty-five or higher. Otherwise you might get a melanoma there. A skin cancer.”
Her words are making me dizzy. “I know what melanoma is, Devin.”
She shakes her head. “So don’t, Sep. You told me that the white spots are already super susceptible to cancer. You can’t do something that makes them even more susceptible.”
“I’ll wear gloves.”
“Like a ghoul? Everyone will think you’re Dracula. And that will cause a lot more attention than white spots.”
I glare at her.
“Okay, I take that back. That was a stupid thing to say. But if you’re going to go around with gloves anyway, then why get a tattoo?”
“For when I take the gloves off, Devin.” And tears come tumbling down my fat cheeks. I drop the leash and press the heels of my hands against my closed eyelids. Tattoos were my last chance. My only way to hide. My only way to keep things going with Joshua. Now there’s nothing.
And then Devin’s holding me, all warm and tight, and I’m crying harder. “Come on inside, Sep.”
I feel like I’m melting, nothing but bodily effluents, the things people flush away fast.
I shake her off and wipe at the tears. “Your mom doesn’t let Rattle in the house, remember?”
“She’s not home.”
“She’ll smell he was here and she’ll have an allergic reaction and you’ll be in trouble.”
“Shut up and come in, Se
p.”
We go inside to her bedroom. Rattle sniffs everything, then collapses in a heap and falls asleep.
“Tattoos were a dumb idea, anyway, even if our fake IDs had worked.” Devin sits on her bed.
I plop down beside her.
“If this vitiligo thing really does keep going, what were you planning on doing—getting more and more tattoos?”
I imagine myself with nine hundred tattoos. “God, am I an idiot.”
“No you’re not. You’re the smartest person I know. You just can’t think straight about this whole thing. No one could. Anyway, I went on the Internet. There’s a site that shows people who got tattoos years ago. Sep, they look really bad when you’re old.”
“You sound like Slinky,” I say.
“Who’s Slinky?”
“A girl who works in the department store. She’s become my mentor in life.”
“Oh yeah? How come?”
“I don’t know. I have the feeling she’s figured things out. Totally juicy.”
“You’ll figure things out, Sep. You always do.”
“I can’t! It doesn’t matter what my head does. It’s this goddamned body of mine.”
“Stop with the cursing, okay?”
I pull back and stare at her face. What a jerk I am. My best friend. The only one outside my family I’m honest with these days. I don’t want to offend her. And if I don’t want to be alone the rest of my life, I better shape up. People like me—defective people—we have to be nice, nicer than most others.
“I’m sorry, Devin.”
“I know. It’s okay.”
“Nothing’s okay. I’m afflicted. Like in medieval times. A curse has descended on my head.”
“See? I told you you were still Catholic. You always say you’re not. But only a Catholic would talk like that. Or maybe a Jew. Rachel talks like that sometimes. You’re Catholic, Sep. You can take the girl out of the church, but you can’t take the church out of the girl.”
I laugh. “Who told you that?”
“It’s a variation on something my father says.”
“You’re so smart.”
“And you’re surprised, aren’t you?” She looks at me slyly.
“I’m sorry if I treated you like a dumbo.”
“You don’t have to keep apologizing. You’re not a pariah yet.”
I blink. “You really are brilliant.”
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