Page 2 of Marked By Ink

Turning away, I force the guilt down and descend the stairs, finding mom in the kitchen. It’s mid-evening, and the sun has already set, but mom’s at the counter kneading dough with a determination I can only admire.

At fifty, Annabelle Abrams is a tall and strong woman, often wearing billowing dresses, with styled hair and a no-nonsense glint in her eye.

“Do you ever rest?” I tease.

Mom laughs. “Not if I can help it. Don’t get your hopes up, though. This isn’t for you.”

“Another charity drive?” I ask.

She nods, then glances at the door. “No Julie?”

“She’s…ill.”

Mom winces. She’s worked as a nurse for twenty-five years, and she can tell when somebody is genuinely ill, she claims, at leastmostof the time. She added themostonce when we were discussing Julie, as though she wanted to leave the option open – Julie is ill, not grieving, not looking for an excuse not to move on.

“That’s a shame,” Mom says. “Maybe next time.”

“I should get going, anyway.” Walking around the kitchen island, I give mom a hug. “See you later.”

“Be good,” Mom says. “And remember, you have to betwenty-oneto drink. That’s seven months to wait for you.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the reminder.”

She chuckles as I leave, her laughter making me smile as I walk down the driveway and climb into mom’s car. Thankfully, she agreed to loan it to me just for the party.

Sitting behind the wheel, I look over at our three-bedroom house, the house we almost lost several times during my childhood as mom struggled to make it work.

But since mom received a number of promotions and the income I get from my call-center job, we’re doing okay.

I try not to let myself think of Julie sitting next to me, in another life, a less tragic one, cracking jokes as we drive, drumming her fingers on the dashboard as her excitement rises.

It’s sad to think of theold Julieand the new one as though they’re not the same person.

But sometimes, I wish today’s Julie could have a conversation with the Julie from a few months ago.

“You can’t just mope around,” she’d say, in her characteristically blunt way. “You need totry, at least.”

But it’s only been four months. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose mom or how long it would take to piece myself together.

I drive from the suburbs into the city, hoping my heart stops thudding so dramatically when I get to the tattoo studio. But despite all the uncertainty clashing within, I know this is a good opportunity.

I really want to quit my job and start working at a tattoo studio. My mind is filled with images and artwork, all of it spinning in a tempting kaleidoscopic maelstrom, so much more appealing than handling complaints over the phone.

The closer I get to the city, the crazier this seems, rocking up to a party on my own. I’ve never been much of a party girl, even in high school, but I always had Julie with me if Ididneed to go to one.

I seem to arrive in the city in record time, parking in the lot down the street from the bar where the party’s being held.

It’s somebody’s thirtieth birthday.

But as I approach – the music getting louder, joining the drumming in my chest – I realize I can’t remember whose.

I’ve brought a gift, a voucher for an online retailer inside a birthday card. Lexi texted me the details a few days ago when I bought it, and I knew the namethen.

But it’s disappeared from my mind, along with so much else. My belly begins to swirl with nerves, and my feet try to make me turn around and walk away.

I need to relax. It’s just a party.

What’s the worst that can happen?

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