Chapter 7
Maxim’s wolf stared back at him from his left bicep, mouth open, snarling, in the middle of a menacing growl. Nice, he thought. He was in the final hour of his latest tattoo, and his new tattoo artist, Dustin, was just doing some fine-tuning. It was so complex that it had required more than one visit. Soon, the powerful beast would be complete, perhaps even extending its legendary symbolic spiritual protection over him.
Tattoos had a way of doing that.
He’d had enough body art in his adult life to be able to isolate and manage the pain, and Dustin’s chatting helped drag his focus away from the fact that a tiny needle was punching into and out of his skin over and over and over.
Since his decision to permanently remain in France five months ago, he’d grown curious about this new tattoo shop. He’d passed it by on his trips through Aix, and eventually decided to pop in and ask to see the artist’s portfolio. The guy was American and now lived in France.
Dustin was competent, happy, and relaxed. Almost from the moment Max had sat down and asked, “How are things with you?”, Dustin had launched into an excited recounting of his wife’s pregnancy. Apparently, they had just discovered they were expecting twins.
The man sounded happy, hopeful, and in love. This new pregnancy was, for him, the concretizing of the huge love he held for his beautiful, ambitious, powerful wife.
Maxim listened, glad not only for the distraction from the pain but for the glimpse he was being afforded into this man’s private life. Men didn’t talk much, that was for sure. The fact that this guy was being frank and open was refreshing.
He couldn’t relate about the babies, though. Maybe it took a special kind of guy to be excited about that, one who was ready to settle down and embrace all that the fates had in store for him. It probably didn’t hurt that Dustin was a few years older; maybe life had prepared him adequately for the pressures and responsibilities of being a father.
“I think we’ll be done in… say, twenty minutes,” Dustin promised, tilting his head to admire his own handiwork.
Max flexed his bicep, watching the face of the wolf flex in turn. In spite of the pain and the smear of blood, it all looked fantastic. “Great—” he began, and then his phone buzzed.
“Wanna get that?” Dustin asked.
“Non, ça va.I prefer to finish.” The call went to voicemail and then started up again. Max frowned. Not many people kept calling after he declined to answer. As a matter of fact, he only knew of one: his mother.
Giving in, he answered the call. “Maman?”
She launched into a frantic stream-of-consciousness tirade so confusing that he had to beg her to slow down. All he could pick up were words like ‘hospital’ and ‘Éloïse’. “Tell me again. Try to stay calm. What happened?”
From what he could piece together, Éloïse had fallen and had been taken to a hospital in Aix. He stiffened, sitting up so suddenly in his chair that Dustin deftly moved the needle out of range to prevent accidental contact, and an inky scrape that would have ruined the work of art.
“What hospital?” he demanded.
Dustin was all ears now, flicking the switch on the tattoo gun. There was nothing but silence in the parlor.
“And the baby?”
Dustin gave him a curious glance.
Max listened further. “Okay.” He hung up and gave Dustin an apologetic look. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” He began swabbing down the reddened, swollen tattoo area and smearing it with antibiotic ointment. “When you are free again, we can complete it. It won’t take long. Call me and I’ll slot you in.”
Max nodded his gratitude, and allowed his arm to be bandaged, fretting inside at how meticulous Dustin was being. It felt like those extra minutes were mounting. Once he was free, he hurried outside, glad that he’d come on his motorbike. It was early evening, and the traffic was thickening. He’d be able to slip in and out of the congestion without a problem.
Minutes later, he was hurrying through the hospital, not sure whether he should be going to the A&E or the OBGYN floor. Common sense sent him to the A&E first; she’d taken a fall, hadn’t she?
“Maxim!”
Maxim had made the right choice because when he spun around, it was to see his mother running towards him as quickly as her tiny kitten heels would take her. She threw herself into his arms with her usual flair for drama, her wide, dark eyes glistening, searching his. “Oh, it was terrible! Terrible! They are keeping her overnight! She is being sent up to a room. She’s lucky she didn’t…Where were you?”
He was nonplussed. “I’m here now, isn’t that enough?”
Maxim noticed Éloïse being wheeled towards them in a wheelchair by an attendant. Her eyes were baleful, carrying the same accusation he’d seen in his mother’s. What the hell was that about? On her cheek, he could perceive the bluish shadow of a bruise forming.
“Leave her,” his mother instructed the attendant.
“Madame,” the harried-looking orderly responded, “I am supposed to see her all the way into her room.”