“Sadie.” I keep my tone quiet but firm. “I’m not a child. I know tattoos are permanent. I know this is out of character for me. Maybe that’s the point.”
She studies me for a few long moments, then exhales. “You’re right. Sorry.” She nods at the portfolio while pulling on latex gloves. “Have a look. Towards the back are smaller designs fromour thirty-quid days. They can be done in under an hour.”
I flick through the larger pieces first and feel a flare of pride. I’ve always been glad she’s fulfilled and successful, but I never reallylookedat her work. It’s staggering.
I’m not sure how to tell her that, so I flip to the smaller designs. Some are the size of a two pound coin, others a little larger, but all of them are quirky, imaginative, and ridiculously detailed. Tiny florals. Little constellations. Abstract shapes. Everything has personality.
And then I see it, and I know it’s the right one.
A bird in flight.
It’s realistic, all motion and lift and feathers, captured in a single moment. It looks like it could beat its wings and leave the page.
And it represents Tippi twice over: free as a bird, roaming wherever she chooses; and, as a private joke, her namesake who starred inThe Birds. No one has to know but me.
Besides, it’ll remind me thatIcan spreadmywings, too.
“That one.”
Sadie pauses in arranging her inks to lean over. She smiles. “Good choice. Any particular reason?”
I keep my explanation to myself. “I… like how it looks like a still from an ornithology documentary.”
“Why, thank you.” She grins. “Where d’you want it?”
I show her the inside of my left wrist.
“Delicate skin,” she warns. “It’s going to hurt.”
“I expected that.”
“OK.” She finishes setting up, still looking slightly conflicted, then prints the stencil on a little thermal printer. She peels the backing off and presses the design in place. “Happy with that?”
“It’s perfect.”
She gives me one last searching look, then starts the machine.
The pain is sharp but manageable, more scratch than stab. I slide that part of my awareness to the back of my mind, where I can control it, and watch her work instead.
“Not so much as a flinch,” she murmurs.
“It’s fine. Honestly.”
We let the silence stretch while she concentrates. Forty-five minutes later she wipes the ink, peels the last bit of tissue away, and I get my first clear look.
Heat flushes my skin, but not from the irritation. I did it.
The bird is beautiful. Clean lines. Perfect shading. My skin is pink and a little hot, but nothing like the agony I had braced for, that I had always assumed would be felt if I did this.
“You know,” I say slowly, “this isn’t just a reminder of my autonomy.” She glances up. “It’s also a tribute to my very talented sister, who I’m… Who I’m proud to be getting to know at last.”
Her eyes go huge. Before I fully register it, she’s wrapped me in a hug, her ponytail tickling my face. I hug her back, awkward but sincere, and freeze when I hear her sniffling.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes. Fine.” She pulls away just enough to swipe her cheeks. “Sorry. Postpartum hormones. I’m blaming them for everything right now, and no-one can gainsay me.”
If anything, she squeezes tighter for a moment. We stay like that longer than I’d usually tolerate from anyone else, and it’s actually nice.
