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“I’m proud of my Greek heritage. I have tattoos depicting the Trojan War,” he points to two warriors, “This is Achilles, and this is Hector. My Mama would read us stories from the Iliad as we were growing up and I became fascinated by these two warriors. My Mama also made us go to Greece every summer to get in touch with our roots, and I still go, with or without them.”
“You fly every summer?” My eyebrows shoot up my forehead.
He nods sheepishly. “And isn’t it a shame that I’m still terrified of flying after all that?”
I nudge him with my hip. “I think you’re amazing.”
Theo nudges me back with a wicked grin. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
The tattoo he has on the inside of his elbow of roman numerals catches my eye. I brush my fingers against it. “And this one? What is this one for?”
He tenses and I worry I might have overstepped, that I might have asked one too many questions. But after a moment’s hesitation he says, “It’s the day my Uncle Benjamin died.”
I suck in a breath. “I… I’m so sorry. If I had known…”
Theo squeezes my hand. “It’s ok. I actually never met him. He died a few hours before I was born. He was my dad’s twin. He had been battling pancreatic cancer for about a year. My dad was by his side when he passed and then made his way up three floors to hold my Mama’s hand and watch my birth.”
I rub his arm with my free hand. “Is that why Benjamin is your middle name?”
He nods with a sad smile. “One life lost. One life gained. The circle of life.” He rolls his shoulders back. “My dad always says it was the best and worst day of his life.”
We walk another block in silence. I want to wrap my arms around him and never let go. To let him know I understand what losing a loved one feels like.
Theo knows I was ten when I lost my parents in a car accident. But he doesn’t know I was also in that car and survived. A broken leg. That’s all I physically suffered from the crash that stole my parents from me.
I was bounced from foster home to foster home. No one wanted to adopt an “emotionally traumatized” child. And no one wanted to adopt a girl who spoke better Spanish than English. No one wanted me at ten. No one wanted me at thirteen. No one wanted me at seventeen. And then I was out on my own, left to figure out how to live the rest of my life.
I was born Catalina, but whether the foster care workers didn’t care enough to remember, or were too lazy to try harder, they claimed my name was just too difficult to pronounce or recall. So, they asked if they could call me Cate. I fought it at first, but they called me Cate regardless.
“It’s easier to pronounce.”
“It’s easier to remember.”
“It’s easier to spell.”
And I gave up fighting. I was broken in more ways than a child should be and left to heal on my own.
I know loss. I know loss better than anyone I have ever known. I still mourn the loss of my parents as well as the loss of myself. I gave up my identity to please people who didn’t even want me.
“Only people in our family know that story,” Theo slices through my thoughts. “I’ve never shared it with anyone before.”
Theo’s smile brings me back from the nightmare of my past. He warms me body and soul. I flash him my best smile and lean the side of my face against his shoulder. “Thank you for sharing your story with me.”
He kisses the top of my head as we reach the door to the tattoo shop. He swings the door open and motions for me to walk in first.
I step inside and immediately feel like puking. Needles. Needles everywhere. I can hear them buzzing as clients sit stoically in chairs as ink is permanently etched into their skin. Some of them grimace. Some of them are biting their fingers. Some of them don’t look bothered at all.
This might be a huge mistake. I take a step back from the check in counter and bump into Theo who is now standing behind me. I look up at his face and he is smiling down at me.
“You don’t have to do this, you know.” His voice soothes me.
“Can I help you?” A girl covered head to toe in tattoos asks from the other side of the counter.
I glance over at her and nod my head. “I would like to get a tattoo, if you have an opening.”
She flicks at her nose where she has at least six piercings and checks some paperwork. She bobs her head, smacking on her gum. “The Professor has an opening now. I’ll let him know you’re here. What’s the name?”
“Catalina Ortega.” I might have had my name taken from me as a child, but I’ll be damned if I don’t try to reclaim it now as an adult.
