Page 40 of Tito

“It’s got so much meaning,” he replied. “People get the tattoo, and they probably don’t even realize it. The water, for instance. Japanese work often has water incorporated into it. Japan is an island, and the people rely on the ocean to bring them food. The water represents life, and the wave brings death. Life changes like the sea, and death can come at any moment. That’s the reality of life in Japan. Without words or a written description, the water in a Japanese tattoo represents that belief. Then, I’ll have some college kid come in here and get life tattooed on one forearm, and death tattooed on the other. The water and waves of a colorful sleeve has so much more depth.”

“I didn’t realize the meaning behind it,” I admitted.

He stretched a new set of gloves over his hands. “The Koi, for instance. In the winter, it attempts to swim the Yellow River, upstream. Japanese myth believes if it can overcome the challenge, it transforms into a dragon, as a reward. It makes the Koi a perfect tattoo for anyone attempting to overcome a struggle.” He tilted his head toward my forearm. “I’m sure there’s a story behind this piece. At least you didn’t come in here and have me tattoo a date on your forearm in Roman numerals.”

“How’d you know it was a date?” I asked.

He traced his gloved finger over the tattoo. “This isn’t my first tattoo. You wanted a specific number of blossoms. August eighth, 2009.” He looked up. “How’d I do?”

“You’re right.”

He picked up the tattoo machine. “Date’s got some meaning, huh?”

I saw no harm in being honest. Telling Hap and Braxton about Shelley helped matters slightly. Telling Stanley couldn’t hurt.

“A girl I knew committed suicide on that day,” I said.

He lowered the tattoo machine and shook his head. “Dude. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” I murmured.

“Suicide’s a beast,” he said. “Kit’s cousin was a Marine. He came home from Iraq and spent all his time in his bedroom, drunk. Wouldn’t talk to anyone about it. Then, one day, he hung himself. They found him at dinnertime.”

“Damn.”

“Damn is right. Suicide sucks.” He nodded toward the tattoo. “You ready?”

“Whenever you are.”

The needle dug into my flesh, which was sensitive from earlier session. I closed my eyes and took my mind to a place where pain didn’t exist.

I couldn’t say with any degree of certainty that I loved Shelley. I barely knew her. Nevertheless, the impact she made in the short time we were together was so deep that I considered a future with her.

Before her, women had been nothing more than a night or weekend of sex. My choice of work didn’t lend itself to having a woman in my life on a permanent basis. Yet. I had no more than met Shelley and I began to look at my future and how I could fit her in it.

I didn’t know if the current level of affection I felt toward her developed entirely during the time we spent together or if it blossomed after her death.

The year after her suicide was difficult for me to remember, now. I spent most of it in seclusion, attempting to process the loss. With each year that followed, her loss seemed to become more significant. I questioned everything from what we did and where we went to why I didn’t offer her into my home the morning that followed our walk along the beach.

I opened my eyes. “I didn’t invite her to come to my house.”

Braxton looked up. “What’s that?”

“Shelley,” I said. “The sun was coming up. We laughed that we’d walked around talking until morning. She said, what now? I said, I suppose I should go home and get some sleep. I didn’t invite her to come over. If I had—”

“If you had, she might have lived another day. Maybe another few hours. What she did is out of your control,” he replied. “The sooner you understand that, the quicker you’ll recover from her loss.”

I wanted him to be right, but I didn’t feel that way. He was correct in his earlier assumption that I felt guilty. In fact, the guilt was crushing me.

“I suppose,” I muttered.

“When it comes to controlling the actions of others, we have limitations,” he said.

It wasn’t the response I’d hoped for. I was wallowing in guilt, and for whatever reason, it seemed that was where I was most comfortable. I stared at a painting of a tiger on the opposite wall and brewed.

“Do you believe in God?” Braxton asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I do.”

“God loved her more than anyone,” he said. “Despite the extent of his power and the depth of his love, he was powerless over preventing her death. For you to think there was anything you could do to change the outcome is saying you’re more powerful than The Almighty. You’re an intelligent man, but you’re not God.”

As I chewed on Braxton’s statement, Stanley patted me on the shoulder. “Have a look at it.”

It seemed that he’d just started. I looked at my arm. A limb from a cherry tree forked into three much smaller branches. Gathered on each branch were delicate clusters of pink blossoms. The color against the otherwise black tattoo caused the flowers to be a definitive focal point.

“It looks awesome,” I said. “Better than I expected.”

“If you’re happy, I’m happy,” Stanley said.

After Stanley applied a dressing to protect the wound from the elements, we talked about women, basketball, tacos, the best place to surf in SoCal, motorcycles, and of the difficulties the living have in dealing with the death of a loved one, especially after suicide.

Braxton and I walked across the street. My stride was lighter. My vision, which had been limited to what was directly in front of me, now included full peripheral. Be it marking my skin permanently with recognition of my loss or Braxton’s explanation of me not being God that caused the process to begin, I’ll never know.

But I knew one thing.

A transformation was taking place.