“Almost,” I tell her. Frankie chats with them while I take a few minutes to finish up and get him cleaned up.
“Do you want to see it before I cover it?” I ask Gran.
“Oh, I might as well,” she says, feigning indifference. The way she hurries across the room gives her away, though. When Pops holds his leg out for her to see, she can’t quite hide her pleased smile, or the way her cheeks tint slightly.
“Look at that beauty,” Pops says, nudging her elbow with his. “She’s a real looker, eh?”
“She’s something,” Gran laughs. She gets a faraway look on her face as she examines my work, comparing it to the photo of her that Pops wanted me to use for reference. “Feels like a lifetime ago,” she murmurs.
Pops’ face softens as he looks at his wife of more than fifty years. It’s not the pinup version of her from decades ago that he can’t quit looking at – it’s the woman standing next to him, with her gray hair, wrinkles and all.
“Time flies when you’re having fun like we have been.” Pops reaches over to squeeze her hand. “And you’re still as beautiful today as you were the day we met. Even more beautiful, I think.”
A choked sob comes from behind us and we all turn to see Frankie at the front desk, blotting her eyes with a tissue. “I’m too pregnant for this,” she whines. “You guys need to get out of here.”
We all laugh, but she’s actually right. I’d promised my mother and grandparents that we’d get dinner after Pops’ appointment, even though the shop is still open for another hour and a half. I was planning to have dinner with Sasha tonight anyway, so my evening appointment schedule was lighter than usual.
I apply a thin layer of ointment to the fresh ink on Pops’ leg and wrap it, repeating the basic care instructions I’ve already told him.
“I might be old, but I’m not senile,” he grumbles, pulling his pant leg down and swinging his legs off the chair.
“Whatever you say, old man. Let me clean up quick, then we’ll head out.”
“Hey, want to watch me pierce a bellybutton?” Eddie calls out. Sasha looks a bit queasy at the idea and shakes her head, probably thinking about the time she let her friend pierce hers when they were teenagers. I’d heard the story once or twice over the years.
Gran surprises me by taking Eddie up on his offer, and Pops goes where Gran goes, so the two of them cross the room to watch Eddie work.
My mother hovers by my work station, looking uncomfortable now that it’s just the two of us.
“This is a great place you’ve got here,” she says, gesturing around to the shop. “You’ve really done well for yourself.”
“Nah, it’s mostly Sean.” I shrug, brushing her comments off while I spray and wipe down my chair. “I’m just along for the ride.”
“I mean it,” my mom says softly. She lifts her hand like she’s going to reach out to me, then thinks better of it and lets her arm fall back down at her side. “I’m proud of you. I’m sorry you didn’t hear that more when you were growing up. But I’m really proud of the man you’ve become, despite it all.” She clears her throat and looks down at the floor. “Despite me.”
This is too heavy of a conversation to be having in the middle of a tattoo shop with Sean three feet away, pretending not to listen. At least his client is still asleep.
Though I’d prefer the floor to open up and swallow me whole right now, I make sure to look my mom in the eye when I say, “Thanks, Sasha.” I don’t miss the way she winces almost imperceptibly, just the slightest scrunching of her eyes at the corners. I’ve been calling her Sasha for longer than I ever called herMom, but apparently, the use of her first name still hurts after all these years.
Unfortunately, I don’t know that I’ll ever be comfortable giving her old title back. It was one of the first boundaries I ever set where my mother was concerned.
“I appreciate that,” I add, hoping to soften the blow just a bit. She gives me a small nod before wandering off to check out the artwork on our walls and flip through the binder full of designs.
“You good?” Sean asks, his voice low and laced with concern. He doesn’t look up from the Celtic symbol he’s working on, and I’m thankful for it. I’m feeling a bit too seen at the moment, and the urge to snap back with an asshole remark is strong. Years of therapy haven’t completely erased my base nature, that urge to lash out when things get a little too real. But at least it helps me to take a step back and think before I say something I’ll regret.
I’m a work in progress and I probably always will be, but fuck, I’m trying.
“All good,” I tell Sean. I stand, tossing my used paper towels, gloves and discarded plastic wrap in the trash.
“You want to talk about it?”
“Not even a little bit,” I tell him honestly. “Just some shit from the past that’s better off left there.”
A few minutes later, my station’s been cleaned and sanitized, the used needle has been disposed of in our sharps container in the back of the shop, and my grandmother has been absolutely delighted watching a 14-gauge needle poke through some poor girl’s bellybutton.
“She barely even flinched!” Gran exclaims as we head out onto the sidewalk. I gesture for her to head left, toward the restaurant. “Absolutely incredible.”
My mom visibly shudders.
