That Girl (5 page)

“You have a high pain tolerance. I’ve seen soldiers with this same break crying and screaming like a baby.”

“I’m good at faking,” I say, feeling a bit faint.

“I don’t know your story, nor do I need to. Just know I came home to my wife and best friend in my bed, with my three-month-old daughter screaming from her crib in the next room. I’m not looking for anything, but I can tell you one thing; I’m a damn good set of ears.”

Tears fill my eyes. Squeezing them shut, I try to force the fuckers back.

“I want a tattoo. I wanted a cupcake and tattoo for my birthday. It’s the one day of the year I celebrate living. I want a tattoo today.”

Jeremiah smiles. “Done.”

Standing up, he hollers, “Gram, I’m taking Michelle to Cody’s tattoo shop, and then the ER. I’ll give them your insurance info.”

“What?” she asks, rounding the corner.

“It’s her birthday. She wanted a cupcake and a tattoo. I’m a fucking gentleman, what can I say?” he says, shrugging.

“Goddamn, crazy kids,” she says, waving a towel.

I reach into my pocket with my good hand. “Thank you for everything. How much do I owe you for the cupcakes?”

“Cupcake,” she reminds me with a raised eyebrow.

“Right, cupcake,” I chuckle.

“Four dollars and fifty cents, dear. It was nice meeting you, Michelle.”

Alice holds her hand out for the cash, and nothing has made me prouder than handing it over to her.

“Thank you for everything,” I say again and lean in to give her a hug.

“Not many young women break the cycle like you’re doing. You should be very proud of yourself. Keep going.”

“I will,” I whisper more to myself than to Alice.

“Let’s hit the road,” Jeremiah says.

I follow him out the door, ready to walk down three blocks, take a left, walk to the yellow building, cross the street, and then walk a half block more. That’s what I’m ready for, but Jeremiah holds the door open to an old truck.

“Well, come on,” he says. “We have a long night ahead of us, girl.”

“What is this?” I ask, hesitating.

He scratches his head and blinks. “A truck?”

“Can’t we just walk?”

“No, I have a truck. You can wear your seatbelt.”

Nervously, I climb in, buckle up, and have a slight panic attack. Trying like hell to slow my breath before Jeremiah gets to his door, I realize this is the first time in over a year I have been inside a vehicle other than a Greyhound.
What the hell am I doing, riding with a perfect stranger to get a tattoo, with a broken arm, no less?
My mind races over the last couple of hours spent with him and Alice. Nice grandson, funny, a US solider, and a heartbroken husband. These thoughts seem to calm me down a little.
But still, what in the hell am I doing?

“So, it’s your birthday, or was that a ruse to get free cupcakes?” Jeremiah breaks the silence as he fires the engine to life.

My birthday. Yes, it’s my birthday, that’s what I’m doing. Who cares about the rest? I’m going to live this day up with cupcakes and a tattoo, Oh, and a broken arm.

“No,” I reply, on the defense.

“I’m teasing you. Calm down.”

There’s something about his laugh I find easy to relax to. It reminds me of the time spent with Jazzy when we would both be off in our own little worlds working, and burst out with a random thought, action, or noise, and then both get sidetracked. Those times are my favorite to remember, and it’s ripping at my heart to feel even the slightest of those feelings with him on my birthday of all days.

“What kind of ink are you going to get?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your tattoo,” he says with a raised eyebrow.

“Some birds.”

“More specific?” he prods.

“No, I just want some birds floating and flying in their own direction. Nothing patterned or predictable.”

He nods. “I see. You have a wild heart.”

“Naw.” That’s not it at all. “So, what are you getting?”

“You’re really good at that, almost expert level, if I do say so myself.”

“At what?”

“Avoiding questions and changing the topic.”

“So, where’s this tattoo shop?”

“See, you did it again,” he points out.

“I know. I know. Trust me, I’m an expert at a lot of things one doesn’t brag about, and I’m not proud of it, but glad to leave it all behind.” I peer out the windshield, scanning the street. “Where’s the tattoo shop? I know of one on McMillan.”

He cringed. “Well, you can go there if you want herpes and gonorrhea. I’m taking you to a little classier place. Just about two more minutes, and we’ll be there.”

“Then by all means, drive,” I reply.

We travel in silence the rest of the way. His two minutes are more like fifteen, but it’s pretty scenery, and I keep mentally coaching myself everything is fine even though I’m off route. Jeremiah has been a complete gentleman this whole time. He turned up the radio a few miles back and is singing every single song that comes on. The man flat out sucks at singing, but bless him for giving it his all.

A catchy tune comes, and I find myself swaying to its beat and wanting more of it, from the words the artist is singing to the captivating rhythm.

The words leave my mouth before I even realize it. “What song is this?”

“
Hall of Fame
by The Script. It’s my favorite band.”

“I like it.”

I hear, ‘The world will never know my name… When every single piece of my past is officially so far behind, I can no longer haunt my inner core, that’s when I’ll know, I made it to my hall of fame…’

Listening to the words, I find myself tearing up. ‘I’ll reach it or die trying…’ I repeat it over and over in my head until I almost believe the mantra, and that’s when I feel the truck come to a stop and notice Jeremiah staring at me.

“You okay?” he asks, switching off the ignition.

I can only nod as the song fades out, and secretly pray my mind can continuously replay those words for the rest of my days. It may just be enough encouragement to never give up.

I reach for my door handle. “I’m fine. Let’s do this.”

“Don’t let Sledge scare you. He looks like a fucking gremlin, but he’s a great guy. Trust me.”

“Okay, if only you knew where I came from,” I say.

“Let’s get your ass inked up.”

“I’m not getting it on my ass,” I scream in horror.

“I know. Let’s roll.” He opens the door to the shop, and we step inside.

When Sledge walks around the corner, I mentally take a step back and gasp in my head. Thank the lord Jeremiah gave me the heads up. He’s definitely not a looker, but his body is covered in the most beautiful artwork I’ve ever seen. His skin is simply breathtaking, and I know it’s his story. He’s imprinted his story upon his skin for the world to see. I thought I’d witnessed true courage in the past, until now. Lost and insecure are the only two words I could have ever inked on my skin to tell my own story.

“This is my victim,” he growls, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Yeah, buddy, take it easy. She’s an ink virgin,” Jeremiah replies, protectively stepping in front me while shaking Sledge’s hand.

“You know what you want, girl?” Sledge asks, turning to me.

“I’d like some birds randomly scattered across the top of my foot.” Genuinely shocked at my own response I stand a little taller.

The artist tilts his head back and says, “More deets, girl. Outline, solid, color?”

“I have this little drawing I sketched up.” I pull a crumpled napkin from my pocket and smooth it out.

“Let me see it.”

Handing over the drawing, I feel the immediate urge to puke frosting all over the small tattoo shop. Nobody, not even Jazzy, knows about my secret obsession of drawing. It was my one coping strategy when stuck in my bedroom. These were the days there was no Jazzy or Old Man. Just me, my mom, her entertainment, and my room. It started out by drawing on the walls in my closet, then the inside of my dresser, then pretty soon I was brave enough to shoplift a dollar notebook from the store. I filled every single page of that book from cover to cover. Some pages only displayed black and white, while others were full of color.

My mom found it one day, and that was the end of drawing and sketching. I hadn’t drawn one single thing until this tattoo design on a napkin while working for Junior’s dad on a slow day at the restaurant. The birds floating on the cheap napkin made me want more for myself, and deep down I knew ‘more’ was never an option. I saved the drawing, thinking that one day if I ever got a tattoo, I would use this sketch to remind me what could have been if … Only if.

“This is fucking legit. Did you draw it?” Sledge asks, turning the napkin and examining it from different angles.

“Yes,” I say and nod, secretly just wanting him to tattoo it and run.

“A’ight,” he replies, “Give me about fifteen to get it sketched up. Jeremiah, brother, you want ink today?”

Jeremiah shakes his head ruefully. “Nah, man, I need to get my head on straight first.”

“I hear ya. Be back in a bit. I’ll get this drawn up, and I need a smoke. Have a seat.”

Sledge walks down a long hallway before disappearing into the back alley.

“What? Are you kidding me? We wait, while he smokes?” I screech.

“Sit, Michelle. It’s fine. This is the way it goes. He’ll sketch up a design, you approve it, and then he’ll smoke and ink the shit out of your skin.”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I declare, suddenly remembering the searing pain my wrist.

The movement in my arm drops me to the ground, and I finally cry in pain.

“That’s it. We are going to the fucking hospital.”

“No,” I wail.

“You want to know why it took me way longer than two minutes to get here? Because I turned toward the hospital about ten times while driving three blocks. I can’t stand that I’m driving around a beautiful woman in my truck who’s in excruciating pain when I’m a fucking solider who fights for his country.”

Jeremiah is down on his knees, pleading his confession, and I feel my heart falling for him. Not as a boyfriend or husband, but as a best friend. Then, in the back of my mind, I remember what I did to my best friend; I left her behind in the cesspool where we were raised. No, I don’t deserve a best friend ever again.

“It’s fine for now. We will go get it checked when I’m done here,” I say, knowing it’s a full lie.

The hospital will want identification and all sorts of information I don’t have to give.

“Are you sure?” Jeremiah asks. “I don’t like this at all.”

“I’m sure,” I reply.

Sledge walks back into the room with his hair tied back and stale cigarette smoke lingering around him. The smell reminds me way too much of home and makes me want to run like hell.

“Get your ass over here,” he says, pulling a rolling stool up to a well-organized workstation.

I listen. Sitting down in the chair I carefully watch him prep all the tools and then shave the top of my foot. I watch as he cleans my skin with several different cold liquids. Can’t say I’ve ever had my foot shaved before. Next, a transparent paper with the tattoo design is pressed down on the prepared area. It leaves behind the design, and I smile at its simple beauty and meaning.

“No going back after this. Are you ready?” Sledge asks.

I nod, and then feel Jeremiah take my hand.

“Squeeze if you need to.”

Sledge picks up the tattoo gun. “Here we go.”

The buzzing sound fills the room, the ink soaks into me, and I feel each tiny bit of my old flesh rip and tear, as my very first piece of beautiful artwork begins to fill my foot. It takes about ten minutes before my body adjusts to the pain and I can relax a little.

Bending down, Jeremiah whispers in my ear, “You’re going to run. I can tell. Take care of yourself.” I don’t tell him he’s wrong.

Jeremiah holds my hand the rest of the time and lets me go my own way after paying for the tattoo.

Goodbye, Michelle.

Chapter 5

1,035 Miles Gone

Lost in downtown Denver, Colorado. Nothing new. About three months ago, I finally decided on ending up in Colorado and looked up a larger city where I could hide out. Denver seemed to be the best answer, but after weeks of losing all sense of direction, I’ve given up. I’m calling it quits on the city. Maybe I’m destined to be a small town girl.

“Jacey, when you’re finished filling the sugars, I need you to take the trash out, please.”

I hate taking the trash out not because of the smell or nasty liquids oozing from the bag, but the sharp pain it causes in my wrist. Looking back, I should’ve gone to the hospital and somehow avoided showing my ID, because it never healed correctly, and any lifting brings me to my knees.

I ended up purchasing a brace at the grocery store and wrapping it up as tight as I possibly could. Thank goodness it’s my left hand, making all my duties at my jobs doable. The only proof of the embarrassing fall is an odd lump on the inside of my wrist, and I actually love looking at it and remembering my birthday.

I left that sleepy little town six months after my birthday. I can honestly say it was the best birthday of my life. I felt extremely guilty when preparing to leave, so I walked down to the bakery to thank Alice one more time. I’d never used that route again after leaving Jeremiah at the tattoo shop. It was too painful because my heart was pleading for a best friend, but my brain won the war. I never walked it until the night before I had to catch the Greyhound.

My heart sank when I noticed the sign that read, “CLOSED.” Upon closer inspection, I noticed the dead flowers in the hanging baskets, the dark store, and debris littering the sidewalk. Stepping closer, I peered in with both hands by the sides of my eyes, and everything was gone. On the door, two newspaper articles were taped from the inside. One read, “Hometown Solider Killed in Line of Duty” with a picture of Jeremiah’s face. The other article right next to it was Alice’s obituary. The last few lines read, “Alice, known as Gram to all, died of a broken heart after hearing of her grandson’s death. She passed three weeks following the news. The two are surely in heaven, cussing and arguing over food.”