I’m not distracting myself with thoughts of deep-fried squash blossoms because needles bother me. They don’t. But I remain prickly about the soon-to-be tattooed tracker, and my turned-away glance is one of annoyed acceptance. However, the technician—young, long hair gathered in a bun at the nape of his neck, a name tag that readsAlex R.—clearly interprets it as squeamishness.
“How are you with needles, Mrs. Crewson?” He’s getting the tracker tattoo ready, opening packages and laying things out on a sterilized pad.
“Fine,” I reply. “No problem at all. I’ve had many.”
I turn back to watch the procedure, proving I am, in fact, fine with needles.
“Okay, great! You’ll only feel a minor prick, then a touch of warmth, then all done. It’s highly tolerable.” Alex sure is enthusiastic, or enthusiastically following a training manual he’s memorized. Iwonder how he knows that it’s “highly tolerable” and how he can declare that with such confidence. I’m confident Alex here has never had a MotherWise tracker tattooed underhisskin.
“Good to know.” I glance at my disinfected forearm; the spotlight from Alex’s headband light shines a pale blue circle the size of a quarter onto my skin. This marks the spot for the tattoo, he tells me.
Alex puts on his glasses, tapping the right arm. A green light illuminates near where he’s tapped. “If you could relax your hand, Mrs. Crewson, that would be fantastic.”
It’s not intentional, but my hand has clenched into a tight fist. I release it slowly, watching the tendons and ligaments move under my skin. I know that with the glasses on, Alex can see right through my skin to the structures underneath. I consider asking to try them on, the glasses, so I can see what he’s seeing. I think back to my conversation with Ruth-Anne. To the piece of a child’s nerve bundle I sampled from the painting. Asking myself, again,Where did Charlotte Leclerc get a palmar median nerve bundle?
A crazy—truly, insane—answer comes instantly to mind:She harvested it from her own daughter, after she died. I nearly laugh at how absurd and impossible that would be. But then…Charlotte Leclerc was a renowned surgeon at the time her daughter died. She had privileges at the hospital, and maybe, somehow, obtained access to her daughter’s body.
I let the story take shape. Perhaps it was a professional kindness extended her way, granting her privacy to sit with her child alone in the morgue, post autopsy. All she would have had to do was ask the right person. Dr. Leclerc also had the skill to remove a nerve branch from a corpse, her scalpel working with quiet efficiency, the body bloodless by then. Half-mad with grief, maybe Charlotte Leclerc did something no one else could understand.
Is it possible?I wonder. I want to call Ruth-Anne back, to find out if she can narrow the age window of the nerve.Could it be from a, say, five-year-old?
I’m distracted from my thoughts by Alex, who is re-swabbing myarm with another alcohol pad. It’s unnecessary, which tells me he’s nervous, despite his steady hands and all-seeing med-tech glasses. “So, how many weeks along are you, Mrs. Crewson?”
Small talk. I’m unsure if he’s trying to distract me or himself. “Almost fourteen.”
“You must be excited. Your husband too,” he says.
I nod. “We are.”
He picks up the tattooing device. It looks like a steel ballpoint pen with two flat ends. He clicks something on the bottom of the device and a trio of quarter-inch needles pops up.
“See?” Alex says, showing me the needles. “Super tiny, right?”
If you connect the dots these needles will make on my skin, you’ll get a triangular shape.
“As promised,” I reply.
Alex smiles, and with another click on the device the needles retreat.
“All set?” he asks, looking up at me. The headband’s light hits my eyes, and I squint against the glare.
“Ready whenever you are.” I watch the blue circle reappear on my forearm, about two inches from my wrist crease. He sets the needle end of the device onto my skin, double-checks the parameters to ensure the circle lines up, then says, “Take a deep breath, Mrs. Crewson. One, two…three!”
On three he clicks the end and there’s pressure and a mild stab into my skin, like I’ve brushed against the stinging barbs of a plant. Then a brief flush of warmth to the area before he removes the device.
“That’s it?” It was fast, like Kat said it would be. Like Alex himself promised.
“That’s it!” He smiles and nods before setting a white bandage over the area.
After giving me instructions to remove the bandage the next morning, and to call if there are any issues, like ongoing pain or redness, Alex packs up and heads off to his next appointment.
As soon as he leaves, I remove the bandage, holding my arm up to the light and moving it back and forth to see how noticeable the tattoo is. It’s the same color as my skin, the three triangulated dots only visible because of a sheer, glossy finish and the lingering redness. They look like dots of the white glue we used in elementary school, which dried clear. There’s an uncomfortable ache in my forearm that reminds me of when I’ve gripped a paintbrush or solvent swab too long. But after I clench and unclench my fist a few times, the ache dissipates.
“Highly tolerable,” I murmur, gently pressing my fingertip into each of the glossy dots. Under my finger on the last dot I feel something: a barely there pulsing; it’s quick, like a fetus’s heartbeat. Then a voice fills the empty room—childlike, seemingly coming from upstairs.“You shouldn’t have done that, Mathilde.”
I hold still, barely breathing. When I raise my eyes from the tattoo to the staircase, I tense but there’s nothing there. The faint pulsing under my finger continues as I watch the stairs, eyes watering the longer I refuse to blink.
It’s a reaction to the procedure, I tell myself, finally removing my finger from the still-faintly-pulsing dot.Your inner voice, acknowledging your apprehensions about getting the tattoo.
