I hesitate. Tattoos definitely aren’t in my proper widow’s rule book. But then again, a Brontë-inspired one—that’s a different story.
This is a hard call.
Soon, I find myself sprawled on a comfortable heated massage table while Vincent, Bella’s London tattoo artist, inks two delicate heather flowers and an elegant script on my lower back. He just finished Bella’s identical flowers. She chose simply the wordsWuthering Heightsfor her lettering. I knew the quote I wanted from the minute I walked in the studio door:Whatever our souls aremade out of, his and mine are the same.
As I lay prostrate, chin resting on my hands and the vibrating sensations of the needle channeling my thoughts, a myriad of memories washes over me, as sharp as photographs. Philip stopping our canoe in the middle of Lake Marion to ask me to marry him. He’d seemed strangely shy and nervous, his hand shaking a little as he pulled the ring box from his jacket pocket. Philip standing behind a five-year-old Heathcliff, guiding his arms as he taught him how to fly-fish in an upstate creek. Philip in the bathroom with me after I miscarried our much-wanted pregnancy. He’d sat on the tub edge beside me, holding me as we both cried. Soon we found out we were expecting Heathcliff. I remember how nervous we were, clinging to each other that entire first trimester with cautious hope.
I’m not sure what stuff souls are made of, ethereal or more solid. I tried to connect to Philip the other night in Darcie’seccentric parlor. Wherever he is, he still feels so much a part of my fabric that it’s too strange not having him living and breathing at my side. Grief is so fucking disorienting.
The needle stops as Vincent begins gently cleaning the area. I wipe my eyes, embarrassed that I’d been crying. As I stand to look at the tattoo in a tall mirror, my surrounding skin still pink around the design, I feel like I’m going to cry again. The heather blooms are beautiful, the lavender hues subtle and the small lines even. The script is perfect.
“It’s gorgeous,” Bella says from beside me.
“Yes.”
“Just what you needed,” she whispers, hugging me and lightly kissing my cheek.
Later that evening, I’m sitting coloring on the floor with Heathcliff.
Bella and I parted when we left the tattoo parlor. She’d been wearing the wig and sunglasses again as she’d hurried down the street. She’s here for a few more weeks for events; she’d heard there’s a possibility they might do the film announcement’s publicity shoot in Haworth if the weather behaves, but she’s not sure. She said she’ll keep me updated.
I smile as I try to keep my red colored pencil in the lines of Superman’s cape, still disbelieving that Bella Patel and I now share matching tattoos.
Suddenly my phone rings, and Henry pops up on FaceTime.
“Hullo, Henry!” Heathcliff shouts, scribbling hard over Poison Ivy with a green crayon.
“Hello, buddy!”
“Guess what!” Heathcliff yells loudly.
“What?”
“I went to this cool museum where they hadreal torturedevices.”
“Well, nineteenth-century medical devices,” I say, winking at Henry.
“Cool!” he exclaims, and then I notice he’s outside somewhere. It’s still afternoon in the Carolinas.
Heathcliff chatters for a bit more about the gorier parts of the museum. Then he gets back to coloring.
“Hey, Lizzie! This might be kind of a weird question...”
I hear the crunch of bushes, see ivy rising up behind him over painted gray bricks. I catch a glimpse of a familiar flowerpot.
I take the phone into the dining room.
“Are youat my house?”
“Yep, I’m breaking and entering.”
“Ha, ha. No really, what are you doing there? My neighbor, Edith, watches everything, and she’ll call the police.”
“Philip told me he found a packet of old family letters in an envelope. I was hoping to wait until you got home, but I think I need them now. They’d be in the safe, right?”
“That’s where he kept everything important. Philip did have a manila envelope in there, but I always thought it just had extra hard copies of the will.”
“I need to check it out.”
