The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [80]
Settling into an armchair, Andrea takes a long sip, then stares into her wineglass as if she’s spotted a piece of dirt. “Do you remember that night years ago when everybody got so drunk in Paisley’s hot tub?” she finally asks.
Drunk as she’d been that night, Julianne remembers all too well. “My most vivid memory is of my hangover the next day,” she says cautiously.
“Me, too. But I remember you told us you couldn’t live with Bill. You also said you’d be the one we’d come to when our kids grew up and got a tattoo or needed an abortion.”
“So which is it? Tattoo or abortion?” Julianne doesn’t know the first thing about abortions.
Andrea sets her glass on the end table. “Courtney got a tattoo.”
Ah, yes. Julianne can picture it, growly-faced Courtney scowling out at the world, camouflaged by tattoos from shoulders to toes.
“On her arm.” Andrea points to a place just below her shoulder. “Sort of a bracelet of stars. I think some kid did it. It took about ten minutes to get infected.”
Julianne isn’t surprised.
“It’s all right now. For the moment. It’s half an inch deep in Neosporin,” Andrea tells her.
“Yes. As long as you get it looked at later.”
“You had a tattoo once,” Andrea says
“Not on my arm.” Julianne once thought the tattoo was her darkest secret, that tiny butterfly on the left cheek of her butt. It turned out most of her neighbors knew about it.
“You don’t still have it,” Andrea reminds her.
“No. I was afraid the boys would see it. I went to a town far enough away that I figured Bill wouldn’t hear about it through his medical buddies and had it lasered off.” No point giving her sons an excuse to disfigure their own skin when they grew up. Rebellion was one thing; irresponsible motherhood was another
“You think you could recommend your personal out-of-town tattoo-removal doctor? One phone number, and I’ll chug my wine and leave you alone.” Andrea lifts her glass.
“It’s been a long time,” Julianne says, but she heads across the room toward the computer where she stores her address book. “I’m not sure I even have the number anymore.”
“Thanks for checking, though.”
“A tattoo is an easy fix,” Julianne says. “Better than needing advice about abortion. Abortion isn’t my area of expertise. Abortion, or robbing the liquor store, or any of that. And, of course, you were always the expert on drugs.”
“Lucky to live to tell the tale, too.” Andrea swirls her wine thoughtfully. “One time I smoked some extrastrong . . . hash, I think, but I’m not sure exactly what it was . . . and was high for three days. My roommate ended up in the hospital. Me, I slept it off and took my midterms the next week. I was so lucky, for such a long time.” She stops abruptly, as if to remind both of them how quickly her luck ran out.
“You want to know what I remember about that hot tub party?” Julianne asks as she scrolls through the addresses. “I remember thinking the only thing I was the expert on was having three kids in five years. I hated that.” She lifts an eyebrow. “I pretended I was an expert on all kinds of sleaze, but it wasn’t true. I was trying to make a break.”
“Are you saying you were a fraud?”
Julianne laughs. “I guess so. Oh, look, the doctor is still in here. Benjamin Ziegler.” She writes down the information. “If you don’t find him, you could probably call any dermatologist or plastic surgeon.”
Andrea tucks the doctor’s number into her purse. “It’s a start.” Picking up her glass, she chugs her wine, exactly as promised, and stands to leave.
“You know, you never grew your hair long before that year Paisley invited us to her hot tub,” she tells Julianne as she heads for the door. “You never drank much. You never had a belly button ring. If you were a fraud, you weren’t a very good one. Everybody knew there was something going on.”
“They did? Well, of course they did. I was such an idiot.”
“No. You were restless. All of us were,” Andrea says. “Then most of us reformed, and that was worse. Look at me, I went from party girl to little gray mouse at