Families and Other Nonreturnable Gifts (12 page)

Tom’s had my name tattooed on his arm.

   Keats

Like that.

* * *

And I had thought it was hard to pretend to be happy about the
necklace
.

He’s waiting for my reaction, his excited eyes flickering up to mine and then back down to his arm like a little kid who’s painted a picture on a wall and isn’t sure whether his mom is going to praise him or punish him.

“Wow!” I say after I’ve opened and closed my mouth a couple of times without saying anything. “This is. Incredible. I can’t. Believe it.” I sound like I’m talking in Morse code. I clear my throat and get out an entire “When did you do it?”

“Yesterday.” He beams. “Remember how I said my arm hurt? This was the real reason I didn’t want you to touch it and why I came to bed after you and was wearing that long-sleeved shirt all night. I had the bandage on underneath. It really hurt. I had to take a painkiller to get to sleep.”

I hadn’t even noticed. I think I was asleep by the time he came to bed.

“I wasn’t really having dinner with my dad,” he adds. “That was all a setup so I could sneak out and do this. But Dad knew he was supposed to cover for me.”

“Your parents knew you were getting a tattoo?” I’m surprised. The Wellses are fairly conservative people. Politically and every other way. It’s one of the reasons I’ve avoided getting them together with my parents, who are as liberal as they come. Another reason is that my parents aren’t at all interested in getting to know them.

Tom smiles sheepishly. “Not exactly. I only told them I was getting you a surprise present and didn’t want you to know.”

“So they don’t know you got a tattoo?”

“Not yet.” He wiggles his arm a little. “But they won’t mind. Dad got one when he was in the army, so he can’t really have a problem with it. Anyway, forget about them—what do
you
think?”

His face is so hopeful, so excited, so eager for assurance that he’s done something wonderful.

I feel sick.

I don’t want my name tattooed on Tom’s arm. He should have asked me first. It’s
my
name. If he had, I would have told him not to do it. But he went ahead and did it without asking, and now it can’t be undone.

“It’s such a surprise,” I say. The waiter comes by to fill our water glasses, and I see him look at Tom’s arm and his eyebrows soar. He grins at me and briefly touches his hand to his heart as he moves away again. I guess he finds the gesture touching. Which probably means
I
should. I reach across the table and squeeze Tom’s extended hand. “I can’t believe you did that for me.”

“Ten years, Keats,” he says and finally lets go of his sleeve. It shifts down so it covers the tattoo, although the fabric is still all bunched up around his elbow. “I wanted to do something really special. I mean, once you make it an entire decade, you know it’s forever. I had to do something to honor that.”

Most of the girls I know have gotten tattoos. Izzy once told me she has one—“but it’s private, just for Lou,” she said coyly and never did say exactly where on her body it was or what it looked like. I’ve thought about getting one myself—maybe a little rose or snake on the back of my shoulder.

But I’ve never thought for a second about getting Tom’s name tattooed on my body. Now, as he gazes at me hopefully, I realize that he wants me to do what he did. He wants me to get his name engraved permanently on my skin. In my flesh. He’s too nice to put me on the spot about it—and it’s probably worth more to him if I come to it on my own anyway. But he wants me to. I can see it in his eyes.

I think of all the celebrities who’ve fallen in love and gotten tattoos and later tried to get them removed.
WINO FOREVER
and all that. I always thought they were idiots.

I still do.

But it’s different for us, right? Tom and I—we really are forever. He’s right: you make it ten years, and that’s all the proof you need that you’re a couple who’ll never break up.

It would make him so happy if I showed him the kind of faith he’s showed me. I’m not scared of the pain. I’m not worried about how it will look.

I just don’t want Tom’s name in permanent ink on my body.

And I don’t want mine on his.

I take a really big sip of wine. “Did it hurt a lot?”

“Yeah. But I survived.” You can tell he’s proud of himself. He survived a painful ordeal. For me.

“You used someone reputable, right? And made sure everything was clean and sterilized?”

“No, I went to the sleaziest guy I could find and had him spit in the open wound. Come on, Keats, give me a little credit.”

“Sorry.”

He pulls the fabric up again and surveys his arm proudly. “I think I picked the best place to put it, don’t you? On weekends, when I’m wearing a T-shirt, everyone will see it. But when I’m dressed for work, it’s covered. Smart, right?”

“Very smart.” I feel like I need to praise him more. “I like the font you chose.”

“Oh, good. Me too.” He lets go of his shirt and picks up a fork. As he digs into the cake, he says offhandedly, “So how do you think your family would react if you got a tattoo with my name on it?”

I give a short laugh. “You’ve met them, right?”

“Meaning?”

“My father has this whole speech about tattooing. You’ve never heard it? He equates it with branding cattle and docking dogs’ ears. My mom just thinks it’s low class. And Hopkins—” I stop. “Actually, I don’t know what Hopkins would think about it.”

“My sister already has one.”

“Oh, yeah.” I’d forgotten that. We don’t hang out with Anna that much because she’s kind of hard on Tom, just like she was the first day I met them both. She’s fine with me, but for some reason, Tom seems to drive her crazy and she’s always finding fault with him. But she does have a little tattoo above her wrist that says
PEACE
, which is ironic given her personality.

“Anyway,” Tom says, pretending to be focused on the cake but surreptitiously sneaking a peek at me, “it’s not like I expect you to do this too, or anything. It was just something that felt right for me.”

“It was really, really sweet,” I say.

“You like it?”

“No, I
love
it,” I lie.

7.

W
e’ve already made three separate trips to the market on Sunday to grab things I didn’t know we didn’t have until I couldn’t find them, when I realize fifteen minutes before the guests are due to arrive that I don’t have any French bread for the artichoke dip, so I ask Tom to race out one more time.

He wonders out loud—with some justification—why we didn’t just order in. “It’s only Jacob and that girl, right? They’d probably be happy with anything we put in front of them. For graduate students, a free meal is a free meal.”

Since I’ve spent the last three hours slaving away in the kitchen, and my feet hurt, and I’m sweaty, and I still have to shower, dry my hair, and get dressed before they come, I’m not in the mood to figure out what would have been a better plan than the one we’re committed to. “It’s my birthday dinner and I wanted to make a friggin’ home-cooked meal. Do you really have a problem with that?”

He holds up his hands in surrender, tells me he’ll get a baguette, and flees.

I spoon the thick artichoke mixture into a little pan and put it in the oven to get hot and bubbly (as per the directions on my laptop—all the recipes I’m using are online, and I have to keep tabbing back and forth between them) before I race to the bathroom and stand in the shower just long enough to wet my hair and condition it (with my curly hair, actual shampooing is like a once-a-week thing) and run a razor up my legs. I’m wrapped in a towel and combing my hair when the phone rings the special intercom ring that means someone’s downstairs and needs to be let in.

I race to the phone, hit the buzzer, call down that we’re on the eighth floor and to turn right out of the elevator, then race back across the apartment to our bedroom, where I throw on some underwear, a pair of jeans (because I said it would be casual), and a glittery tank top (because I want to look nice). I’m still trying to decide what shoes to wear when the apartment doorbell rings.

I run on bare feet across the living room, prop a smile on my face, fling the door open—and gasp audibly.

Jacob’s standing there.

My dad’s at his side.

* * *

I gape at them while they both wish me a happy birthday.

“I know we’re a little early,” Jacob says, apparently misinterpreting my stunned silence. “I thought it would take longer to get here than it did. No traffic.”

He’s holding my father by the elbow, and as they move into the apartment, I see why. My father’s gait is unsteady. He lifts each foot tentatively and sets it down gingerly, like he’s not sure it will land on something solid.

I come around to his other side. I don’t actually hold his elbow, which I feel would embarrass us both, but I do keep my hand poised an inch or two below it. It’s not particularly helpful, but it’s there if he stumbles, which seems way too possible.

A shard of guilt slices into my heart at seeing him so slowed down. I should have called him this week. I should have invited him tonight in the first place. I should be paying more attention to how old he’s getting.

“Where’s Tom?” Jacob asks as we settle my father into one of the armchairs.

“Um…” I’m so thrown by my father’s appearance at my doorstep and by his overall appearance that it takes me a moment to remember. “Tom? He ran to the store for something.”

“You should have called us,” Jacob says. “We could have stopped on the way.”

“He’ll be back in a sec. Do you mind if I go dry my hair really fast?”

My father waves his hand regally, dismissing me. “I was wondering if that was the new hair fashion,” he says to Jacob jovially as I move away.

In the bathroom, I set the blow-dryer to the maximum heat and power, bend over at the waist, and shoot the hot air at my roots. My hair will end up frizzy, but since my guests are here, I don’t have time to use the diffuser.

As I stand back up and flip my hair over my shoulders, I try to remember what I wrote in my original e-mail to Jacob that might have made him think the invitation included my father. Nothing. I had said almost nothing in my e-mail. Maybe that was my mistake.

Tom finds me in the bathroom just as I’m dabbing some stain onto my cheeks and lips. “You didn’t tell me you were inviting your father” is how he greets me as he enters, still holding the bag with the baguette poking out of the top.

“I didn’t invite him! I invited Jacob, and I guess he just assumed I meant he should come with Dad.”

Tom grins. “Maybe Cathy will fall in love with your dad. I mean, he’s available now, right? We’re giving her two bachelors for the price of one. She should be thrilled.”

“Very funny. This is going to be so weird. The four of us and…Dad.”

“Yup,” he says cheerfully. “Happy birthday, babe.”

* * *

The plus side is that Cathy really
is
thrilled to meet my father.

“I read your book in college,” she tells him. “It was amazing.”

I watch Dad with just a touch of anxiety. He could go either way with a statement like that: raise his eyebrows derisively and say something cutting or accept it as a compliment. To my relief, he chooses to be gracious and thanks her in a pleasantly condescending way before turning to me and asking when my mother will be arriving.

“She’s not.” I pretend not to notice the disappointment that crosses his face. “This is the party! Who wants a glass of wine?”

While Tom takes care of the drink orders, I try to get a conversation going between Jacob and Cathy about their studies, but my father interrupts almost immediately to ask why my mother isn’t there. “Did she have other plans?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know. I didn’t invite her, Dad.”

“Keats didn’t actually invite you, either,” Tom says, coming in with the wine bottle and glasses. “I mean, we’re happy as always to see you, Larry, but it’s totally a surprise.” He jerks his chin in Jacob’s direction. “We didn’t realize Jacob would be bringing a date.” And he laughs.

I picture myself bashing the wine bottle on the edge of the coffee table and twisting its jagged edge into Tom’s eye. I have to remind myself that he’s the man of my dreams and I love him a lot because right now I. Just. Want. To. Kill. Him.

Jacob is staring at Tom, a half-eaten oval of French bread halted halfway to his mouth. “I thought…” He slowly turns his head to look at me. “I just assumed you meant both of us. Since it was your birthday.”

“I did! I mean, maybe I didn’t at first, but this is great.” I awkwardly pat my father’s knee. “I’m so glad you’re here, Dad. I feel honored.” I force a smile as I look around our little group. “This is perfect. The five of us here. I’m so happy.” Could I sound any more idiotic?

Tom’s pouring wine, unconcerned, oblivious to how he just made things much more uncomfortable for everyone there—except him, apparently. He hands each of us a glass and holds his own up, saluting me. “To Keats. Happy birthday to the love of my life.”

I wonder if there’s anything more annoying than being called something like that by a guy whose death you’re still fantasizing about. “Thanks,” I say through clenched teeth as everyone raises a glass to me and we all drink, some of us more desperately than others.

I try again to get Cathy and Jacob to talk directly to each other by doing the hostessy prompting thing—“So, would you guys say that teaching freshmen is easier than seniors or vice versa?”—and they both respond, but the conversation is awkward and stilted, and eventually my dad steps in. He’s not a good listener. If he has to spend time away from his computer and in company, he wants to be the one everyone’s listening to. So he starts talking.

Once he gets going, he won’t stop unless someone or something makes him, and after half an hour of Dad’s explaining to us that the problems in the Middle East are based more on ancient and conflicting ideas of government than on the more obvious schisms of religion and ethnicity, Tom starts noticeably fidgeting and glancing at the TV, which I insisted we keep off for the dinner party. He’s missing a baseball game—the one Lou and Izzy are at. I know he’d much rather have gone with them, but he hasn’t complained about it since this is for my birthday.