Page 78 of Wicked Proposal
I smile at my son, my arm held out like a coloring book. “How about blue?” I suggest.
Eli beams, picking up a cornflower shade eye pencil. “Look, Mommy, it’s like your eyes.”
“Then I’d say it’s perfect.”
Happy with his choice, Eli starts coloring in the petals on my tattoos. They’re small, insignificant drawings, but for some reason, my kid loves them. Loves turning them into little works of art with my makeup bag.
“We watched Bluey today at daycare,” he says. “It was that episode where…”
As he starts chattering off, I fix my gaze on my arm. There are tiny flowers on them, with leaves popping in between. A couple of stars, too, and suns and moons to match. The center of the suns and the flowers is blacked in, but the rest is just line art,which makes them the perfect canvas for a child with artistic pursuits.
Underneath the ink, the scars have almost faded.
When I went to the tattoo shop, I’d just stopped breastfeeding. I was barely making it through with what I had, but a friend of a friend got me a discount.
It was a patient’s idea, actually. A young woman, no older than eighteen, who’d been admitted after a neighbor called the cops on her deadbeat live-in boyfriend. She kept insisting she was fine.
But I knew the signs.
So I opened up to her. With domestic violence victims, it helps to show them they’re not alone, that it’s okay to ask for help. I showed her my scars, told her their story, convinced her it didn’t have to be hers. That she could be free of her abuser the way I was now free of mine.
I hate that he gave you these scars,she told me later, as I was drawing her blood in preparation for the kind of kit no one ever wants to give.I hate that, one day, your kid’s gonna ask how you got them.
I’d already decided not to lie to my son then. He was only two years old, but soon, he’d grow.
Soon, he’d start asking questions.
So I went to this friend of a friend’s tattoo shop. I explained what I needed, why I needed it. She suggested this design: flowers, stars, suns, moons.
Good, happy things to hide the ugliness beneath.
The first time Eli asked about my arm, it was to know if he could color in the lines. I knew then that I’d made the right choice.
“Are you listening?” Eli scolds me, bringing me back to the present.
“Sorry.” I wince. “Might’ve gotten a bit distracted. Start again from the top, please?”
He gives me a full pout. “Maybe you should get tested for ADHD, too.”
I gasp. “Eli Joshua Winters, did you just sass me?” I tickle him until he squeals.
“I’m sorry, Mommy! Please, no more!”
“Fine,” I harrumph. “I’ll grant you mercy. But only because you might be right. After all, they do say ADHD is hereditary.”
“What does that mean?” he frowns. “Her—haradi?—”
“Hereditary?” I laugh. “Just that it’s a trait you get from your parents. Or grandparents.”
He pauses, lost in thought. “Did Daddy have it, then?”
Bang.Shot to the solar plexus. My heart aches the same way it always does. At times like this, the one lie between us weighs on me like a thousand of them.
“I don’t know, honey,” I say, and it makes me feel horrible. Even if it’s the truth. Even if it’s the best I can do for him.
He accepts my answer. When it comes to his dad, he always does.
“I wish I could ask him.”
