IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT WHEN I got home. I changed out of my wet clothes and into a tank top and cardigan sweater. I put the long-awaited bag of popcorn into the microwave, having resigned myself to the fact that there would be no Dr Pepper to wash it down with, and while I waited for it to pop, I flopped down on the couch and put my head in my arms.
When I woke up, the room reeked of burning kernels. I opened my eyes slowly, groggily, and then with a start, saw that I was eye level with my mom’s hospital scrubs.
“Mom?” I turned over, squinting against the light from the balcony, where the rising sun had turned the snowy parking lot into a field of diamonds.
With her thumb and forefinger, my mom lifted the sleeve of my cardigan, which had slipped down in the night.
“What,” she said quietly, “is that on your shoulder?”
Oh, shit, I thought. ShitshitshitshitSHIT. I’d been planning on telling her about the tattoo eventually, just not until I was, like, thirty.
“Um,” I said.
“Take off your shirt.”
I did as I was told.
“And your bra.”
I unclasped the bra and turned away from her. My mom hadn’t seen my bare chest since I was about eight years old.
“Lie down.”
In a way, it actually felt good, knowing that I was in deep shit. It felt like finally, someone cared. I lay on my stomach, my face sinking into the couch cushions.
“I can’t believe this.” She took a paper towel she’d yanked off the roll and began dabbing at my back. “Where’d you get this done, anyway? Let me guess—somewhere that doesn’t have a license on the wall.”
I nodded into the cushion.
“You kids today are all so stupid,” she said, dabbing angrily and with a nurse’s clinical efficiency. “Piercing your faces and your nipples and even your balls and clitorises—yeah, I just said clitoris, young lady. Deal with it. Dying your hair all those stupid colors. Jesus, Wendy. But at least hair dye and piercings can be reversed. This? This—this thing is now with you for life.”
“Mom—”
“All these years of praying to Our Lady of Lourdes.” She balled up the paper towel and tossed it on the carpet. “All the holy candles. All the Mass cards. All the rosaries. All the special intentions. I thought I was instilling a real respect for her in you kids. A real reverence. And then one morning I come home from work and I see this—this—version of her. Is it supposed to be some sort of horribly misguided tribute? Or are you blaspheming? What is this, Wendy?”
“Mom—”
“You know what? I don’t even want an explanation, young lady. I’m going to the drug store to get you some Motrin for your fever. Then I’m going to call the doctor’s answering service and get you an appointment. Jesus Christ, Wendy.” She shook her head and headed for the door.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“What about the weeping?”
“What about the what?”
“The weeping. Our Lady of Lourdes is weeping. Don’t you see it?”
“Of course I see it!”
“Well, don’t you think it’s a miracle? Or at least some kind of sign?”
“You’re goddamn right it’s a sign—a sign of an infection!” She picked up the paper towel, smeared with slimy yellow stuff and dabs of blood, and waved it in front of my face. “See that? Do those look like tears to you? That’s pus, young Christian soldier.”
“Oh,” I said.
“And let’s only hope to Christ that an infection is all it is. Dirty needles can carry blood-borne diseases, Wendy. That’s what you should be worried about—Hep B. Hep C. HIV!” She threw her hands in the air. “I swear, you never cease to amaze me. Eleven years of Catholic school and it’s like pulling teeth to get you out of bed for Sunday mass, but some scumbag scribbles on you with a dirty needle and suddenly you believe in miracles!” She stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
“A dirty needle?” I asked the question to the now-empty apartment.
I should have known. There were no such things as miracles. There was only science, logic, and facts. The leaky air-conditioning unit above the painting in the Saints Corridor. The air vent in the ceiling of the Florentine Ballroom. An infected tattoo. When was I going to get used to it? You can believe all you want, but life will always smack you down with the cold, hard truth.