Letter to My Daughter: A Novel - By George Bishop Page 0,47

to erase all my misgivings.

The stereo played a slow, waltzlike shuffle. The refrain, I remember, went, “Sad-eyed lady of the lowland,” the “low” drawn out in a long, lonely moan that seemed to go on forever. I tried to feel the words as he etched them into me: “I,” then “shall,” then “but.” As he worked, Greg spoke in a soft, even voice, as you might talk to calm a frightened animal.

“People ask for all kinds. Most are pretty predictable, actually. ‘Love.’ Get that a lot. A heart, a woman’s name. Some guys want the name of their unit. ‘The Twenty-fifth Infantry Division,’ ‘Tropic Lightning,’ ‘Screaming Eagles.’ Something like that. ‘Semper fi.’ That’s pretty popular….” He paused to wipe the blood. “Most people, of course, when they think of tattoos they think of sailors. What they don’t realize is that tattoos have a long history. Go way back. I’ve read up on it. The mummies had tattoos. Ancient Egyptians. Greeks. Persians, Polynesians. The Maori. Japanese. American Indians. You name it. You find them in just about any culture, any part of the world, any era. Interesting thing, though, is that different societies have used them to signify different things. As a sign of royalty, for instance. Or spirituality, like for priests, the priestly class. Shamans. They’ve been used to mark rites of passage. Scarification—you get that a lot in Africa. Same thing as a tattoo, basically. A boy becomes a man. Girls, women. You got tattoos for beauty. Or as charms, magic symbols to bring luck, or prosperity, or love. And then at the totally opposite end of the spectrum, you got your tattoos for outcasts. Criminals. Slaves. Got your Jews, of course …”

And then something quite strange happened, something that had never happened to me before and has never happened since. As his voice faded in and out with the music and the buzz of the needle, I felt myself separate from my self. I don’t know quite how to explain this. I slipped up out of my body and came to hover somewhere near the ceiling, only the ceiling wasn’t there anymore, just an infinitude of space and stars—the universe at my back. Looking down on the table, as if peering through the wrong end of a telescope, I could see a girl. A young woman, in fact. Her dark hair was spread out on either side of her head, her pale winter skin exposed and vulnerable. Her eyes were shut tight, her fists bunched. A red-haired man was bent over her, searing her skin with a needle. I saw that she was trembling, and in that moment my heart went out to her. Brave girl! I wanted to help her, to protect her from harm for the rest of her life. With all the power I could muster, I tried to signal a wish for good to her. You’ll be fine, I tried to tell her. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. You’ll be fine, I promise. I’ll take care of you….

“You’re done. It’s over,” Greg said, and in a flash I was myself again. The needle had stopped buzzing. I could hear the music again, the same song playing the same slow waltz. Below my right hip I felt only a dull burn. “You did real good. That’s a sensitive area,” Greg said, dabbing carefully at the wound. “You’re a real strong lady. Real strong.”

At that I finally broke. All the air rushed into me and I sat up with a gasp on the cot as the tears I’d avoided for a week came all at once. I folded over myself, heaving. Greg was taken aback at first. But then, somewhat awkwardly, he cradled his arms around me. He rocked back and forth with me on the cot as I cried, and cried—not out of pain, you understand, or remorse, or even self-pity, but for something more: for the beauty and brevity of life.

Below my hip, still wet with jelly, blood, and ink, was the tattoo you’ve asked me about so often, but that, until now, I’ve always put off explaining.

“But what’s it mean? Why’d you get it?” you would ask.

“Later. When you’re older,” I always answered. There seemed too much to say, and to say too little wouldn’t do it justice.

Well. Now you are older, Liz, and I hope that with this letter you’ll understand at last why it’s there and what all it means to me: “I shall but love thee better after death.”

It’s getting