Tatoo

"Robbie, I'm home." Thank god it was cool inside. My high-heels sunk into the foyer rug, then clicked over the dark parquet floor on my way into the bedroom to change from a white summer business suit into my favorite tennis dress.

Light pink with spaghetti-straps, the white underpants with lacey edge detail like on the dress. It looked girly with a tan. I grabbed my racket and keys, and glanced at a picture of him leaning in a park with our then toddler son.

Always those kind blue eyes, and there was a small heart tattooed with my name in a banner across it, hidden beneath the blue shirt in the photo. He'd gotten it at 19 over my 16 year old's mild objections. We'd driven an hour without a bit of daylight between us to a seaside amusement park, singing along to our favorite Elvis song, "I'll Remember You." Like young lovers everywhere, and especially in that first big love of your life, every second apart is an anticipation of how soon you'll be together again.

I could still see us jumping out of his car and into that fresh sea air. We kissed on the Ferris wheel, laughed as we strolled arm-in-arm on the wharf, and shared hot dogs and cotton candy with our heads together at a picnic table as if nothing else existed in the world, at least nothing else as wonderful as our just being together.

Then he spotted a tatoo parlor, and like a man on a mission, dragged me inside where he eagerly leafed through hundreds of designs. I whispered, "What if you find someone new?" He looked deep into my eyes, and shook his head, "Never." Then pointed out the heart to the beefy man holding dyes and an electric needle.

Now, I smiled at the memory of us as inseparable teenagers, and rushed into the kitchen to check on our son, the same age as I'd been then, and so much like his dad with his easy going, responsible nature.

Rob was in his Catholic boy's college prep-uniform with his head in the fridge, pulling out leftover steak and sandwich fixings. I gave him a kiss on the cheek, and reached around him for bottled water.

"How was your day, sweetie?"

"Great. I have a lot of homework, and I need a check for the prom, and a tux," he said, clattering jars and a plate down on the counter, and opening a drawer for a knife. "And Grandma says for you to call her." I took a chilly swig from the bottle, screwed its lid back on, and dropped it into my aluminum basket of neon yellow tennis balls.

"My friend Rachel is outside waiting in the car, I'll call grandma later."

"Grandma said for me to make sure you called right away."

"We'll talk too long, while Rachel burns up in the car, in more ways than one," I answered, adding a folded napkin to the tray Rob was about to take to his room.

"Mom, she said it was important," Robbie handed me the phone off the high butcher-block table that held a massive-arrangement of sunflowers.

She answered on the first ring. "Hi Mom, Robbie told me to call. Let's make it quick. I'm off to play tennis, and Rachel's waiting in the hot car. What's up?" I waited. She started to speak, and stopped.

"Mom, just spit it out." My mind shot through a list of discombobulated possibilities. Maybe one of my brothers or sisters or nephews had a minor accident.

"Robbie's father is dead."

I heard an unearthly scream, and felt myself spiral down a Twilight Zone tunnel in slow motion. "Who is that screaming?" I wondered. Then realized, it was me.

My son rushed to my side. "What's wrong? What's wrong?' His eyes were big, his voice sounded distorted as if it were coming from the bottom of the sea. I snapped myself together for Rob.

"Everyone's here," my mother said, in a tone that was sad and resigned. She'd loved her son-in-law too, he was so kind to her; and my mother had also lost her father at 16, so knew this would stay with our son forever.

"We'll be right there," I turned away from the wall and toward the room. For a split-second I saw a familiar scene of Rob's dad doing something he loved. He'd come home from work, change into shorts, turn on 'soft rock' pop music, and take the one beer he had every night outside to sweep and skim the already clean pool. I'd catch the contented look on his face as he took in the leafy landscaping, the sound of the birds, Robbie and his friends hanging around him, the little things that add up to a happy home. He looked peaceful and proud, as if thinking the thought that had often warmed me. "This is ours." The anchor in the stormy sea of the outside world. Many times, I'd be in fixing dinner and would stop just to watch him enjoying the quiet and beauty.

"What's wrong, tell me, Mom! Tell me what's wrong!"

"Robbie. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Your Dad is dead. He crashed his plane. We are going to grandma's. Everyone's over there."

He turned and ran to his room.

The front door burst open with a disembodied voice. "What is taking you so long!" Rachel came into the kitchen in her usual sleeveless white tennis dress, and dark ponytail bobbing through the back of her white baseball cap. "What's going on?'

"Rob's dad is dead. We're going to my parent's." I don't remember what she did, or said, or where she went. But I do remember staring at the ice-blue agapanthus waving in the sun outside the bedroom window like waves coming into shore, seeing us on so many beach dates, side by side in the sand, the gulls crying in the blue sky above, our music playing in the background, and always "Ill Remember You."

"Robbie?" I tapped on the shuttered doors of his room. "Are you ready to go, honey?" I knew he'd welcome being with his grandparents, uncles, cousin, and aunts.

Graceful, athletic and quiet like his dad, he came into the foyer as if slogging through quicksand. "There were so many things I thought we'd do."