Page 26 of Ink & Desire

“I love you, too.”

I end the call, still smiling. As fucked up as our family was, it’s surprising that Henley and I turned out as normal as we did. I’m amazed every day at how far weboth came from where we started. Not that anyone but us knows about that journey.

I look around at the business I built with a sense of pride and a small amount of wonder. Some days I’m still not sure how I managed to get here. I know some people would scoff at a tattoo shop as a source of pride; but when I look around this building, I can see all the years of struggle and sacrifice that got me here.

I spent so many years trying to become a successful tattoo artist, working in other shops, going on the road, making a name for myself, finally opening my own shop. Then, I spent a long time building this place into what I envisioned. Then there were years where I was worried it would fail. Now, I finally have a team working with me, an extensive client base, and a waitlist that most artists would envy. It hits me that everything I’ve worked for is here, in my hands. And I’ve been too caught up in everyday life to even realize it. I keep working and striving toward the next goal or the one after that, not taking the time to enjoy where I am. The man I was 5 years ago would be ecstatic to be here now. This was the dream for so long. And I didn’t even notice when it came true.

I sit back in my chair and blink at the realization. It’s not like I didn’t know I’ve been successful for a while now. It’s not like I’ve been oblivious. It’s just that I haven’t really looked at it from the perspective of the past. I’ve been so busy trying to stay on top that I missed out on enjoying the fact that I arrived there in the first place.Maybe Jessie and Henley are right. I’ve been working too hard. I do need to start delegating more around here. Starting with my new apprentice.

Chapter 13

Avery

Cass spends Sunday morning hyping me up until I practically beg her to stop. I’m not sure if her confidence is contagious, because after I drop her off at the train station at noon, all I can think of is how little I know about tattooing. So, I spend the next few hours researching everything I can about my future career. Until my mother calls again in theafternoon.

After ignoring her call the other day, I know there’s no way I can avoid this one. So, I take a fortifying breath and answer.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, injecting a chipper note into my voice.

“Avery, finally,” she says as if it’s been years and not days since we last spoke.

“We talked 4 days ago, Mom,” I say, trying and failing to hide my exasperation.

“I know,” she says. “But you didn’t answer when I called on Friday. I was worried something had happened to you.”

The old familiar guilt seeps in, though I fight hard against it.

“Nothing happened to me,” I say. “I’m fine. Actually, I’m more than fine. I just landed a new internship with a great artist.”

I’m hoping the news will distract my mother from the ever-present worry she’s lived with since I was 11 years old. Not that she hadn’t worried about me before that, but it got so much worse after the accident. I’m once again struck by how much of my life seems to have been dictated by that one day. No matter how many times I tell my mother I’m fine and not to worry, she can’t seem to stop being overprotective. No matter how many doctors told her I would live a normal, healthy life, she can’t stop seeing me lying unconscious in a hospital bed.

Not that I can really blame her. She went through something no parent ever wants to go through. Luck,timing, and amazing medical professionals had saved my life and made sure I wasn’t permanently damaged from the car accident that claimed my father’s life that day. Sometimes I wonder how strong my mom had to be to keep going after the worst day of her life. I don’t remember much from that time or the days leading up to it. I lost several months of memories following the accident that I know I’ll never get back. It’s something I’ve learned to live with over the years. But my mom didn't have that luxury. The memory of that time is seared into her brain. And she's never gotten over the guilt and worry that’s been magnified since that day.

I try to cut her some slack when it comes to the guilt trip, but it’s not always easy. My hand goes to my head where my fingers immediately pinpoint the raised scar hidden under my hair on the left side of my skull.

“I thought you were coming home to work for the foundation,” she says, cutting into my murky memories.

“Not yet,” I say. “I want to see where this internship leads. I think it could open a lot of doors for me.”

I wince at my slight bending of the truth. It’s not a lie, exactly. Being an apprentice to Corbin James will open a lot of doors. Just not the kind of doors my mother wants me to walk through.

“Who’s the artist?” she asks. “Anyone I’ve heard of?”

“Probably not,” I say absently. “He’s big in the indie art scene.”

This is the best part about my new career goal. My mother isn’t well-versed in the art world at all. Shedoesn’t know any of the famous artists whose work I’ve worshipped for years. Aside from the classics, of course. She also hasn’t heard of some of the more obscure ones that are popular with less mainstream audiences. Which means that I can give her the name of just about any artist in Boston and she won’t know the difference. My mother is the type of art patron who believes that real art is at least 200 years old. I’ve given up on trying to convince her otherwise. The only exception she makes is that she’s always been supportive of my work, even when she didn’t understand it.

After my father died and I woke up in a hospital bed with a shaved head, a new scar, and no memory of how I got there; I had to work to regain some of my fine motor skills. One of those skills was writing. Those days had been so frustrating. Knowing the letters and how to form them, but being unable to make my hands do what I wanted them to do, had been torture. It had taken months of physical therapy and rehab. Having all the money in the world hadn’t stopped me from almost dying, but I know it’s what bought me the best rehab in the country. My mother spared no expense when it came to ‘fixing me’.

Not that she’d ever said those words. But there were times I felt like I was failing her. I withdrew inside myself. I turned to drawing. At first, it was a way to express myself without focusing on letters and numbers. I could use paint to make big, sweeping marks on the canvas. I could use charcoal to turn my thoughtless squiggles intosomething pretty. By the time my rehab was officially finished, I was obsessed with creating art from whatever medium I could find. Eventually I settled on ink and paper as my favorite. Drawing became my way of making sense of the chaos in my brain.

“Well, I don’t like the idea of you being gone for so long,” she says. “I miss you.”

More guilt piles onto the already existing layer, threatening to suffocate me.

“I know. I miss you, too,” I say. It’s not a lie. I do miss my mom.

“You’re still coming for the gala, right?” she asks. “It’s in September.”

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