“Please take a seat,” he says as he hands me a few flip files.
“My designs, love, take a look. Can I get you a drink, tea, coffee?”
“You don’t happen to have a beer do you?”
This gets me a raised brow.
“I’m sorry, I’m being rude. A coffee would be good thanks.”
“It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s an honest request. I’ll grab you a cold one.”
I don’t want the sympathy that’s etched across this man’s features.
“Thanks, Evan.”
While he disappears to get me a drink, I page through his display of artwork samples. They are stunning. From symbols and tribal designs, to intricately crafted birds’ wings. I know my end result will be worth the pain and any amount of money he may charge.
Having returned with my beer, Evan busies himself with preparations. My eyes sweep over his dark brown hair that looks soft to the touch. The cut and style reminds me of Danny’s hair, causing me to retreat back into to my head to just a week prior. Blissfully happy: death from a natural disaster the furthest thing from my mind.
As residents of Christchurch, we considered ourselves lucky to have escaped any loss of life in the September quakes. Like many others, I too had been lulled into a false sense of security ever since, thinking that was the end of the spate of earthquakes. Look at me now. Broken and scarred on the outside, on the inside, shattered, left with just an aching chasm where my heart once was.
Evan’s voice cuts through to me. “I’ll need to take a look at the bruising I’ll be working over, then I’ll give you a few options as to what I can work with to closely replicate the imprints. Sound okay, love?”
I mentally calculate that he’s called me “love” three times, and “sweetheart” twice. So easy to notice the inconsequential when numb with grief.
“Yep.”
Due to my cast, he has to help me remove my shirt so that he can take a look at my back. I manage to unclasp my strapless bra, but the thought of sitting in a tattoo artist’s chair, the man a total stranger, completely naked from the waist up, is a first for me and makes me uneasy. I think Evan senses this as he immediately passes me a pillow to hold up against my chest once my bra is off.
I pass him the photograph of Daniel’s hand that I’d taken three weeks ago while hunting for the perfect anniversary ring for him. When Danny questioned me as to why I wanted to take photographs of his hands, I brushed off his questioning with an excuse about wanting them for a scrapbooking project I was busy with.
Having a stranger look over the fading bruises that bear testament to Dan’s last few moments alive, feels like a violation in some way, and is extremely intimate. Tears rise and sting the back of my eyelids.
“I love what I do, but this is one tattoo I wish to God I’d not have to design.”
The emotion in Evan’s voice startles me. Looking over my shoulder at him, I’m shocked to see the disconsolate look in his eyes as they flit between the photograph in his hand and the markings on my back. I hadn’t given any thought to how my request could possibly affect the artist giving the tattoo. Gripping Danny’s ring hanging from a chain around my neck, holding it up, my eyes move to Evan’s, as my chin starts trembling.
“He was wearing this when he died. D-do you think you could include it in the design?” I ask on a shaky exhale.
Evan flinches at the sight of the ring.
“Yeah, I can do that for you, love,” he answers in a very tight voice. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
At his words, a tear falls. I swallow hard as Evan quickly schools his expression. His apology is a voicing of his empathy, an acknowledgement of the tragic circumstances. And as much as I now appreciate the words, I just wish I didn’t have to hear them, almost daily, from complete strangers. Each time somebody offers me kind words and sympathy, my burden of guilt becomes more heavily laden.
“This is going to be extremely painful. Your skin will still be very tender with all that bruising. Are you sure you don’t want me to take a photo of the bruising, so that I can work from in a few weeks when—”
“No. Please. Just go ahead, it’s very important to me that it’s done now while the bruising is still there, I’ll be fine.”
He hesitates momentarily, then seems to come to a decision, offering me an understanding nod.
“Sure, love. I’ll make you as comfortable as possible, but I won’t sugar-coat anything; you’re going to be sore. The whole process will be a good few hours as discussed.”
“I’m ready as I’ll ever be. Please…go ahead.”
Ten minutes later, all set and ready to go, but due to my arm injury, Evan is going to attempt to do the tattoo while I’m partially upright, propped up by a few cushions, leaning against the backrest of an adjustable massage bed.
This is it.
As the needle pierces my skin, I have to suck in a breath. I had been warned that the outline would be an uncomfortable start. As the biting needle painfully delivers incremental amounts of ink that slowly leeches into my skin, I try to embrace the pain as some sort of penance.
Thirty minutes in, I’m now trying deep breathing exercises, which are proving futile. The needle is adding to the throbbing pain coursing through my broken arm and tears are threatening. The pain feels deserving though. Gritting my teeth and squeezing my eyes shut, I let it wash over me. This physical pain is a distraction from the seething cauldron of emotions that are ravaging me from the inside out. The pain in my arm will fade. The piercing of the tattoo needle will stop. The heartache and accompanying guilt won’t.
After an hour, Evan asks, “How you doing there, sweetheart?”
“I’m okay, Evan.”
I need to take my mind off the buzzing needle as it continues on its path of torture. I’ve already had to change positions a few times, and have taken some ibuprofen.
“What made you choose the name, ‘Manic Ink’ for your studio?” I ask, speaking into the small pillow I’m clutching, through a tightly clenched jaw.
“I’m bi-polar. Accident induced,” he answers candidly. “Yeah, as a teenager I was in an accident and went through the windshield of a friend’s car. Young, dumb, and under the influence, the moron that I was, I got into a car with my drunk friend. He was so hammered, he could barely stand, let alone drive and I was too wasted at the time to realise this.
“My friend miraculously survived, but had every charge in the book thrown at him. I was hospitalised for two weeks with multiple injuries, most serious being the head trauma. I healed well and all appeared to be relatively normal, but I went from being a quiet and easy going kid prior to the accident, to this angry, rebellious boy. From then on I couldn’t keep up academically. Started getting into trouble with the law, ran rings around the folks.
“My problem wasn’t diagnosed properly until I hit my late teens and had done a stint in juvie where my mood swings had become severe enough for the folks to drag me off to a Doctor who suspected my earlier accident had something to do with my inability to control my moods and emotions. He referred me to a surgeon who specialised in TBI: Traumatic Brain Injury. MRI’s, psychological probing and numerous tests later, turns out that frontal lobe damage was the culprit.”
“Oh. That must’ve been rough,” was all I could offer.
“It was, but finding the right medication for me was the hardest part. Anyway, the accident didn’t rob me of my creativity. In fact, if anything it was heightened after my recovery. I’d always been a kid who loved to sketch and draw, it was something I was good at, so the progression to a having a tattoo studio of my own one day was kind of inevitable.”
I was impressed with his willingness to admit to having a depressive illness that sadly often carries a stigma, and is all too often swept under the carpet. There is definitely more to this man than meets the eye.
Another hour later, and we were done.
Assisting me to get into a position that unveils the result of nearly three hours of needle t
orture, Evan swivels me around so that my back now faces a large wall-mounted mirror, and passes me a smaller hand held one. I can’t stop the tears, and my breath catches, as my eyes sweep over a tattoo that is a beautifully crafted replica of Daniel’s hands. Just magnificent. The intricate detailing on both hands and the ring is incredible. Daniel’s name and the date of his death are elegantly scripted between the two hands. The angle of the design causing them to resemble two wings of an angel, which Daniel is. Was. He was my guardian angel.
I have great difficulty forming words to express how much this tattoo means to me.
“It’s beautiful, p-perfect, Evan. Thank you so much, you have no idea….” My chest hitches, my voice too choked with tears to continue.
“That’s alright, sweetheart. It was a hard one to do, but seeing how much it means to you, is so worth it. I’ll help you dress, grab you a care kit, and then you’re good to be on your way.”
After helping me get into a light-fitting cotton sport vest, minus the bra, I slip on a sequinned blouse over it, so as to avoid having my nipples on display on the bus ride home. I am opening my handbag when Evan re-emerges with my care kit.
“You can put that away, love. There’s no charge.”
My eyes shoot up to meet his, my brows raised.
“What? Why? Evan I appreciate the gesture, but I can’t accept, that’s at least three hours worth of your time and inks. Please tell me what I owe you.”
“I’m not accepting payment for this. No way. You’ve…you’ve had enough taken from you. I want to give something back, love….donate that, okay? I insist.”
I tear up immediately, bringing my fingers up to my quivering mouth.
“Oh, Evan, thank you so, so much. This so wasn’t my intention to come out here and expect to be offered a discount on the work—”
He raises both hands, smiling softly as he cuts me off.
“I know that, love. No need to explain. It’s okay. That smile on your face, right there, is worth way more than the cost of a day’s work to me.”
I can’t help myself. I launch across the few feet between us, and barrel into him. A man I’ve only known for three hours, who has just given me a priceless gift, one that I’ll have indelibly branded on my skin for life. I give him a heartfelt, one-armed hug. He doesn’t reject my thanks. He allows me to hold him, as if realising I need the contact. It is as if people who have experienced grief just understand this need to be held. No words.
I had just gotten off the bus, on my way back to my apartment when Chase pulls up alongside me in his red and black Holden GTS.
“Hey, Kate. Heading out somewhere? I’ll give you a lift.”
He’s had his hair cut shorter, making the resemblance to his brother even more striking. I have to look away as I answer him. “That’s okay, Chase. I’ll walk, just on my back home anyway.”
“Kate, don’t push me away, babe. We’ve always been close. Please don’t let Danny’s death change this.”
Pain lances through my chest at his words. Looking at him now, I notice how drained and fatigued he looks. His brother’s death is taking its toll.
“I’m not pushing you away, Chase. It’s just— ”
I have to stop speaking, my throat too constricted to continue.
“What is it, Kate?” I can’t tell him how much it hurts to look at him now that Danny’s gone.
“It’s n-nothing, Chase. I just feel a bit overwhelmed today.”
“I’ve got a solution to that. I’m heading to Jimmy’s now to meet a friend who’s just arrived in town. Join me, I’ll buy you a drink, yeah?” he says.
I hesitate.
“Not quite what I had in mind, Chase.” Getting drunk isn’t what I had planned for the remainder of my afternoon.
“Just a drink or two, babe, it’ll do you good to get out and back into a normal routine.”
He levels his eyes to mine, being sincere.
Afternoon drinking at a local pub wasn’t exactly my “normal” routine, but what did it matter?
If a drink would offer a reprieve and dull the constant ache of grief in my heart, then bring it on.
“Okay,” I say, climbing into the plush interior of the car, a welcoming blast of air conditioning hitting me in the face as I sit down. I’m careful not to lean back against the seat, which is incredibly difficult to achieve, given my lack of mobility.
Chase is in construction by day and the lead guitarist for a local band, “The Crew”, at night and on weekends. His “real job” as he always jokingly says. He plays with Danny’s best friend, Travis, who is lead singer, Kyle who’s on drums, and Andy the bass guitarist and back-up vocalist. Their band has landed a more or less permanent three-nightly gig at Jimmy’s. Like Trav, Chase usually has an entourage of giggling girls around him, and he’s seldom seen dating the same girl more than once. These boys play hard and party even harder. So unlike my Dan, who’d prefer to be cuddled up in front of the TV watching movies with me than sowing his wild oats around town as these Casanova’s do.
The Holden engine growls as we peel off in the direction of Jimmy’s, heavy metal blasting through the car stereo speakers. It’s a dark and bass-heavy track, complimenting Chase’s broody and quiet mood.
We turn down a side street into a heavy stream of traffic, backed up due to diversions from earthquake-damaged areas. Each movement, each turn, each lane change, all add to the pain I’m experiencing. Stopping at a red light, Chase looks across at me. I can see he’s anything but okay, so I don’t ask the obvious. I guess we all grieve in different ways. If drinking at the pub, and mind-pulverising death-metal music help him deal with his brother’s loss, that’s okay too.
Not saying a word to one another, the lights change, and I clench my jaw in agony as I’m sucked back into my seat as the powerful vehicle pulls away from the intersection. Chase weaves in and out of traffic with ease. I’m a nervous passenger at the best of times, but being driven anywhere by Chase ups the status to paranoid occupant. I’m certain his alter ego is a stunt driver on a meth binge.
We reach Jimmy’s in a matter of minutes, and Chase backs up and parks in the designated staff bay.
He races around to open my door before I start fumbling around with my good arm. As we head towards Jimmy’s, he speaks for the first time since having picked me up. “Kate, uh…the band guys want to have a gig in Dan’s honour next week sometime. Jimmy has offered to close the pub early so it’s just our circle and private invitation only.”
I squeeze my eyes closed briefly, about to respond to him, when a Ford SUV screeches to a halt alongside us, stirring up a cloud of dust. A man swings out of the cab. Tanned and muscular, very tall, around six foot three, with black-as-night hair, very closely cropped. He sees Chase and immediately stalks towards us. As he gets closer, I spot a tattoo on his bicep with the letters “U.S.M.C.” I have seen this before. He must be a Marine.
“Hey, Dell,” Chase says in greeting to the man approaching us. They embrace in a man hug, with much backslapping exchanged. “I’m real sorry, man, I couldn’t get here any earlier, flight delayed. God, this city is a mess. Don’t know what to say, shit. It’s rough.”
His American accent is rich with a distinctive southern twang. Interesting. Who is this guy I wonder?
Chase’s face is tight with grief. “Yeah thanks, Dell, we’re gutted. It hasn’t sunk in yet that he’s really gone.”
Chase cuts pained eyes to mine, mirroring my grief. My breath catches and I can feel my damn lip start trembling again as he pulls me into his side. I bite down on it as his arm brushes my newly created tattoo. In the presence of a stranger, I barely manage to lock down my roiling emotions. “Dominic, this is Katrina. My uh...little brother’s girlfriend. She…was with Dan when the quake struck,” he says in a voice coiled tight with emotion.
Swallowing hard, I look up into a pair of blue eyes so vibrant, they’re arresting, set against a frame of thick black lashes. A scar runs through his left eyebrow. He’s slightly
taller than Chase, more muscular, too. Dominic’s expression is warm and sympathetic as he looks deeply into my eyes. Like I somehow deserve sympathy.
“Hey, Katrina, I’m sorry for your loss,” he says softly in a deep gravelly voice, while holding his hand out to me. It’s almost twice the size of mine I realise as I slip mine into his, feeling the strength and warmth within his tight grip.
“Hi, Dominic. Just call me Kate,” I say, forcing a smile.
“Just call me Dom,” he counters, offering me a small smile in return, my hand still in his.
He lets my hand go, our eyes lock, and for a few seconds it feels as though we are the only two people on this busy street. I take a deep breath and avert my eyes, the warmth of his touch still lingering on my skin.
“We’re on our way to Jimmy’s for a drink, Dell. Join us, sure Jimbo is keen to see ya again.”
“Yeah, sounds good. I’m told we’re still waitin’ on the geotechnical engineers report on the site, any idea how long this will take?”
“Dunno, bro. These guys are in high demand right now, so I’m guessing things will start rolling some time closer to July or early August. The report will be in by then. Gives us time to secure our subcontractors. It’s a real shitty time of the year here for building, though.”
The men continue walking slightly ahead of me, catching up on site talk. Dominic holds the door open as we enter Jimmy’s tavern.
“After you,” Dominic says while stepping back to let me pass. Once again, in close proximity to him, I feel a comforting warmth trickle over my skin.
Once inside, I ignore the strange feeling that flushed through me at our introduction, and state the obvious, “So you and Chase know each other through work?”
“Yeah, we worked together on a buildin’ project in Tauranga last year and kinda kept in contact from there.”
I remembered the job well, Chase worked away for an extended time.
“Was that the Gateway Mall extension?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Lookin’ forward to workin’ with him again on this one, too.”
Fractured Page 4