Something Like Normal(49)

When I get back upstairs, breakfast is on the table and Harper is telling Jenny and Ellen about her plans for college. “I’m starting second semester, so I can save up a little more money,” Harper says. “I qualify for financial aid, but I want to have some extra cash and maybe buy a car.”

I always thought that her dad probably did okay as the host of a morning radio show—they’re local celebrities—so I’m surprised that she needs financial aid.

“My dad and his on-air partner, Joe, offered to take a syndication deal so I’d have the money for tuition,” Harper says, reading my mind. “And, God, you have no idea how badly I wanted to say yes, but I’d hate myself if they did it just so I don’t have to pay back college loans, you know? My dad put himself through college, so I guess I can do it, too.”

Charlie’s mom claps. “I applaud your industry, Harper, and for taking responsibility for your future.”

Harper blushes. “I, um—thanks.”

After breakfast, Jenny asks Harper to help her with the dishes, while Ellen asks me to go to the shop with her. “I want to show you something,” she says as I follow her down the stairs and through the bamboo Buddha curtain. She strips off her shirt, revealing a plain gray sports bra, and turns around so her back is to me. On her upper back, near her shoulder, is a Celtic cross with Charlie’s name woven into the knot design. Inked beneath are his birth and death dates.

Not knowing what else to say, I tell her it’s cool. I mean, it is cool—for a tattoo.

“I designed it myself.” She tugs her shirt back on. “I still have the stencil if you’d like one.”

Most of the Marines I know have tattoos. Ski has a massive back piece of a Marine field cross and the names of his friends who died in Iraq. Kevlar went out right after boot camp to get the Death Before Dishonor tattoo. Even Moss has a meat tag. It’s the inked equivalent of a dog tag so in case a Marine gets his legs blown off by a roadside bomb—because we keep one dog tag in our boot—his body can still be identified. I’ve never wanted a tattoo, but Ellen’s face wears a hopefulness that makes it impossible to refuse. “Yeah, sure.”

“Take off your shirt and sit.”

I do as she says and watch while she prepares, filling tiny plastic cups with ink and putting new needles in her tattoo machine. “Music?” she asks.

“Anything but that Sufi crap.”

She smiles and presses a remote control. The Clash spills through the speakers. Nice.

“Charlie used to say that, too. He’d say, ‘Mom, why can’t you listen to normal embarrassing music like Celine Dion or Journey or something?’” She drops her voice and she almost sounds like him. It makes me laugh. She rolls her stool up behind me. “I don’t know if this will hurt, but I suspect your pain threshold is high enough that it won’t.”

“Okay.”

The tattoo machine begins to buzz and when she touches it against my skin, the sensation is like someone pulling my arm hairs over and over. It’s not pleasant, but there are many things more painful than this.

“While we’re on the subject of my son,” Ellen says. “You apologized at the memorial service for not being able to save Charlie, but please, don’t do that ever again. Not to me, or anyone. My son died out of his time, but that doesn’t mean you have to carry a lifetime of guilt.” She pats my shoulder with a latex-gloved hand. “Release it. Let it go.”

I can’t say the guilt just goes away, but I do feel as if I’ve been given permission to stop playing the endless what if… game in my head.

“And while I have you trapped here under the needle—” Charlie’s mom doesn’t wait for me to say thank you. “The other thing you need to know is how much your mother loves you. Almost every time we spoke on the phone, she was on her way to the one store in town that sells the most comfortable socks or the warmest undershirts or your favorite candy.”

The tattoo machine goes silent as she loads the needles with more ink.

“I can’t tell you that losing my son didn’t unravel me,” she says. “But the last thing he told me before he was killed was that he loved me. It brings me comfort to remember that. Travis, there is no one in this world your mother loves more than you. Not your dad. Not your brother. You. If anything were to happen, she would be—”

“I know.”

“Be gentle with her.” Again, she pats my shoulder. “And thus endeth the lecture.”

She works in silence for a while, until Harper and Jenny come downstairs. Harper stands behind me for a moment or two, watching, then sits on a second stool, pulling it up in front of me until her knees are touching mine. “I like it.”

“Good.”

“Harper, I’d be delighted if you’d let me give you a tattoo,” Charlie’s mom says. “Whatever you want.”

“I appreciate the offer,” she says. “But one is enough for me.”

Wait. What? Harper has a tattoo?

“You have a tattoo?” I ask.

“Yep.”

I’ve seen her in a pair of shorts and a bikini top, so there aren’t many places she could have hidden ink—which kind of turns me on. As much, you know, as I can be when I’m being repeatedly jabbed with needles. “Why haven’t I seen it?”