The Leaves 03 (Nico) (2 page)

The girl moved her mom’s arm so she could nuzzle into her side. She squeezed her, and I heard her say she loved her and to tell Gramma and Grampy, “Hi.” My mom and pop didn’t move, didn’t try to stop her at all when she sat up and kissed her mom on the cheek. I wasn’t sure why I did it. I hadn’t been prompted by my parents to do it, but I walked over to her and held out my hand.

She didn’t hesitate at all. She stood up, took one final look at her mom, and let me lead her back into the living room.

Eventually, my mom came in with a wash cloth and cleaned the girl up. She also 22/510

brought two slices of yellow cake with chocolate frosting and a glass of milk for each of us. Mom told me that when people are sad, dessert is one of the easiest foods to get them to eat. She also told me that being sad takes a lot of energy, and I had never forgotten that bit of wisdom she shared with me at the tender age of seven.

We played with my G.I. Joes and just talked. I couldn’t tell you what we spoke about, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Mom had arranged all the cushions from the couch on the floor like a bed so we could lean against them and watch T.V. I was probably too old to have a stuffed animal, but I used to get nightmares as a kid. Apparently, I would wake up screaming in the middle of the night. But Pop came home from work one day and told me he’d found someone to help.

This “someone” had to travel a great distance, and a week later, I was introduced to Georgie, a small, brown bear with a cloud on 23/510

the bottom of his right paw. Pop told me that Georgie took all my bad dreams and put them in that cloud. When they came out of the cloud again, they were good dreams. The bear did not stop the nightmares, but he did become a comfort for me.

The girl didn’t have a stuffed animal. She didn’t have anything. I had my mom and my pop, so I gave her Georgie. She thanked me and asked if I would hold her hand while she fell asleep. I never thought girls had

“cooties”. I didn’t mind girls at all, and my track record to this day showed that. But I’d never held hands with a girl outside of school fieldtrips. After Mom tucked us in and gave the girl a kiss, too, I gave her my bear and held her hand all night. That was the first time in two years I didn’t have nightmares, and after that day, I never did again.

The next morning, a couple came and took the girl with them. We didn’t say much, but I told her to keep Georgie; she needed him 24/510

more than I did. Little did I know, I should have held onto that fucking bear. Seeing that beaten and bloodied woman led me to my destiny of helping women, but also brought new nightmares to my life. For whatever reason, abuse in all its forms, grief from what was or what wasn’t… I gave those women tattoos to help them heal. So when Anika Red-ding walked in, my future had already been determined from that day when I was a kid.

Today, though, was worse than that day. It was worse than listening to Anika tell me her story, not leaving a single detail out. Today, I learned that one of the women I had given a tattoo had committed suicide.

Zack was shading dragon scales on a client’s leg. The tattoo started at the man’s back, a huge head and flaring nostrils with swirling red and orange flames that covered his back and snaked around to his ribs. What had started over a year ago was almost finished, and as Zack wiped the leg, dipped his 25/510

needle, and began again, the bell above the door rang out.

There was a certain energy in the studio that happened when you were about to finish such a huge piece like that. Zack was going to be featured with that tattoo in a magazine and its website in a few months, which was great for both of us. But when he saw the older woman standing in the doorway, he immediately stopped what he was doing and excused himself from the client.

Zack approached the woman carefully, his normal confident and cocky nature gone.

“Mrs. Lehnertz.” She shook his hand and gave him an envelope from her bag.

When Zack handed the envelope to me, I was surprised to see my name written on it. I had never seen this woman before in my life, but it was obvious Zack knew her, probably from his parents’ synagogue. He and his sister, Becca, didn’t go to temple anymore, but they had a great respect for their parents and 26/510

their elders. It was ingrained in them from birth. The two exchanged a quiet word, and Zack’s shoulders set back with a jolt. I had no idea what was going on, and I would have been happier not knowing. Ignorance was not only bliss, for me, it made my job a whole hell of a lot easier.

After she left, Zack sat on the two-seater, olive green leather couch that served as a waiting area. Between Zack, Becca, and myself, that couch had seen a lot of bodily fluids, nerves, and tears. Now it would have a new memory. I opened the envelope to an obituary for a woman whose name I never even knew. Sometimes, they didn’t tell me.

They didn’t tell me anything. I went through the same ritual with each woman that I did that very first day with Anika; I told them they were in a safe place, and they could speak freely without worry of their secrets ever being exposed. My job was not to judge.

My job was to give them what they needed to 27/510

heal or to cope with whatever fucked-up scenario they found themselves in. I would kiss them on the cheek, hold them, and when they were ready to begin, I would sketch out whatever they had in mind, make a stencil, and get to work. If we had to stop because they were too upset, they just needed a minute to feel whatever they were going through, I let them guide me.

Also in the envelope was a handwritten phrase in Hebrew. I had a large portfolio for these women, and I knew the phrase would be identical to one I had kept in its pages.

Zack would be able to read it perfectly, but to share it with him would mean to break the confidence I shared with my client. Still, I had to know.

I handed him the paper and asked, “What does it say?”

“Dude, do you want me to rip off the band aide or give you the slow burn?” Zack, whose 28/510

hands were still gloved, held the two papers in front of him.

“Just fuckin’ tell me.” His client waited patiently and listened. I didn’t really care about the audience. I needed to know.

“The girl you put this phrase on?” He angled his head toward it. “She went to my parents’ temple. Her dad was one of the youth leaders, and a few years ago, he raped a thirteen-year-old girl. He was well respected and so was his wife… that was her just now. The girl you gave the tattoo, their daughter, was totally cast out by her friends after it happened. My mom was one of the few people who went to see them. The dad was already in jail by then, awaiting trial.”

“So they pressed charges. That’s a good thing. I mean, it sucks that it’s her dad, but he’s a sick fuck.” I momentarily felt some relief. I thought, shit, poor girl was probably tortured by gossip, and to think her own 29/510

father had done something like that, holy fuck.

But it was worse.

“No man. That’s not all. That rape resulted in that young girl getting pregnant. She was so scared she was going to get in trouble, she didn’t say anything to anyone, and when she started bleeding one morning… I guess they couldn’t wake the girl up, and when they moved the blankets… it was pretty fuckin’

bad. She had miscarried probably days before. They tried everything, but the infection was just too bad and… she died, man. Thirteen, life gone all because of your woman’s sick-fuck father. Now he’s in prison; didn’t even try to fight it. His wife, Mrs. Lefhertz, just told me she’s moving back east with her sister.”

I knew before he told me, but had to ask,

“And my client?”

“They found her last week, Nico. Overdose.

But she left this for you.” 30/510

He handed me the small note written in Hebrew. The symbols written larger at the bottom were the same I had put on her back.

“What’s it say, Zack?” I held my fingers flat against my lips, keeping whatever might escape from my mouth held there.

“Okay, man,” he started softly, maybe so the other guy couldn’t hear or maybe because he knew it was gonna be the final blow.

I know what you do. You help women get
the hate out. As much as I had hoped that
you could help me, too, the blood of a monster runs through my veins. My life was
tainted before it even began, because I am
my father’s daughter. I know it may be hard
to understand, but I think this is the only
way I will ever bring atonement to my
family.

An eye for an eye.

I pushed my hands back from my mouth and through my hair, pulling it as hard as I could.

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“Nico, man. You can’t help them all. This was a totally fucked up situation,” he said, folding the papers and returning them to the envelope.

“Nah, man. I left something out.” I began to pace. “I have to start giving them my cell.

I’ll give them my number and tell them to call. Anytime. Day or night. I could have found her someone to talk to. My parents would have helped organize it. Fuck!” I yelled out across the small space of the studio.

“Here, friend.” The dragon man handed me a flask of I-didn’t-give-a-fuck-what. I took a drink and let the liquid burn my eyes and throat.

That was the day I really became an asshole. I knew I couldn’t stop helping the women I had been helping. They needed me, but I couldn’t find any other way to cope with my own emotion. So I went out, got drunk, and fucked whatever equally drunk 32/510

slut was hanging off of me. I gave everything to those thirty-three women, and the list was growing every month. My pop had raised me to respect nature, respect the land, and respect my fellow man. He said life was all about balance, and my job as a man was to do everything possible to maintain it. At that moment, I lacked calm, and I definitely lacked balance—something I’d only felt once in my life, lying next to a little girl with dishwater-blonde hair.

Chapter 2

September 2006

It had been eight weeks since I got the news about my client, whose name I now knew was Sarah. I had gone through all kinds of emotions. I was pissed at her for fucking killing herself. The more I thought about it, she had her mind made up before she came to me. To put that phrase on her body, she already knew what she was going to do.

Maybe she was looking for some hope, I didn’t know, but I hated that I wasn’t able to do anything to help her now. I didn’t take money from these women. It wasn’t about that. I felt like a Priest listening to people’s confessions, but I had totally failed her.

34/510

Three days ago, I got a new client named Deanna. I guessed she was in her forties, but she told me she was about to turn forty and wanted to begin a larger tattoo that she would complete, “When it ends,” she said cryptically.

She began to lift up her shirt so I could see her back then shook her head, “Do you have somewhere more private?”

“Sure.” I led her to the back and immediately knew she was going to have a story.

I leaned back against the wall, one hand held out to offer her a seat on the small, rolling stool I used to work, the other holding a sketch pad.

Then it all came pouring out of her like she was trying to sell me something. Her emotion was more enthusiastic than sad, so I guessed she thought I would say ‘no’. “I’ve been married for ten years. I have a six year old and a nine year old. Both boys. My husband and I were so in love, but there was 35/510

always this other side to his personality. I do whatever I can not to antagonize him. Most of the time, our household and our lives run smoothly.” She turned around and lifted her shirt to show me scars, some old and some new. “When I’m bad, he punishes me. I know this is going to be hard to understand, but it started out…
differently
. He has needs… specific needs and… well…”

I decided to save her from explaining, since I assumed what she was getting at. “So this was like… a sex thing?” She let out the breath she’d been holding,

“It started that way, but then it became something else. It was about him having control.” She let her head hang down, and tears fell onto her jeans, leaving a darker patch. “I would

have

done

anything

for

him.

Anything. And I thought this would make him happy, but now he’s… different. I have a plan, but it’ll take me five years to get there…

my five year plan.” She laughed awkwardly.

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“I’m taking classes online, in secret, and in five years I will have enough saved from my job to leave and take my children with me.

He’s never touched the kids,” she quickly added. “Just me. He shows me no love.” Her voice changed as she said roughly, “Only hate. Every time he tells me it’s time for bed, the kids long asleep, he locks the door behind him, and I know what I have to do. If I don’t, it’s worse. Every last bit of rage goes into every hit. But if I can do it for at least three, maybe four more years, I can get away. The only difference my boys will notice is the absence of their father. Until then, I want you to give me this,” she handed me a small copy of a picture I recognized. Plenty of people had Giger tattoos, but mostly men.

“He loves that picture. When he’s releasing all that anger, I want him to see something else he loved when he was the man I met. I know it’s silly, to think that maybe seeing this on me will change him, remind him, but 37/510

I have to try something.” She lifted her head and wiped her eyes, “Will you do it? I can pay you.”

Fuck.

“You can put your shirt down.” She rolled it back to her waist and sat there, closing her purse, ready to hear my rejection.

“Please stand up,” I said softly and offered my hand once again.

I tossed the sketch pad and picture onto a reclining chair. She brushed her shirt free of wrinkles and stood, only coming up to my chest. She couldn’t have been more than five-foot- two. I put my arms around her slowly and pulled her to my body. When I felt her relax, I pushed her back a bit and kissed her on the cheek.

“You’re safe here,” I said. “You come in whenever you need me. You need to add to your tattoo, you call me or come in, any time.