The girl depicted in the tattoo had black hair and brown skin, curvy, wearing a red-and-white polka-dot bikini and a bright, flirty smile.
Titus huffed a laugh. “No, it’s…it’s no one in particular. Or, I guess maybe it was a real person.” A laugh. “How do you explain pinup calendars? Um. It’s a drawing of someone from a long time ago. Sort of like a cartoon.”
She frowned. “Is it painted on?”
Titus laughed. “No, well, kind of. It’s on there forever.” He rubbed at it with a thumb. “You try.”
Isabela looked at him, then at the tattoo. Rubbed it gingerly with a fingertip, and then looked at her fingertip. “Weird. It looks like Mommy.”
Titus looked at the tattoo more carefully. “I guess you’re right. Never thought about it—I got that one a long time ago.”
“How did they put it on you?” Isabela asked.
Titus considered. “Um? You ever draw on yourself with a pen or a marker?” She nodded. “Sort of like that. But it’s this special kind of needle, like a handheld sewing machine, and they dip the needle in special ink, and the needle goes down into my skin, real fast, and it draws on my skin, and then it doesn’t come off.”
Isabela gave a disgusted look. “Like getting a bunch of shots?”
“Kinda, I guess, yeah.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Yeah, a little.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Why?” Titus echoed. “Why did it hurt, or why did I get them?”
“Why did you get them?”
A laugh. “You know, that’s a good question. They seemed like the cool, rock star thing to do, I guess.”
A blink. “I don’t know what that means.”
Another laugh. “That’s okay.” A sigh. “What else do you want to ask me?”
A shrug. Isabela’s eyes dropped to her hands as she toyed with the trunk of her stuffed elephant. “Where is Mommy? When can I go home?”
Titus blinked hard, and looked at the social worker for help.
Mena scooted next to Isabela. “Honey, remember what we talked about?”
Isabela nodded. “You said Mommy…you said she—she was hurt, and that the hurt was so bad she…she’s not alive anymore. It was a accident.” Her voice cracked, became tearful. “She’s gone?”
Titus nodded. “I’m so sorry, Isabela. I wish I could change it.”
“What about….” She blinked. “My bed, and my clothes? And what about all of Mommy’s stuff? Who…who will take care of me?”
Mena wrapped her arm around Isabela. “We’ll figure all that out, about your stuff and your mom’s. And…you’re going to stay here, now. Titus and Laurel are going to take care of you.”
Isabela was quiet, absorbing. She looked at me, and then at Titus. “You’re my dad?”
A nod. “Yes. I am.”
“Mommy told me…she said my father was too busy to be with me. That he…that you had a job that made you go travel everywhere, and you couldn’t see me. That you didn’t want to.”
Titus’s shoulders shook. His head dropped. When he lifted his eyes to her, they were wet. “I…I can’t say I understand why she told you that, Isabela, but it’s not true. I do want to see you. I always did. It’s true I have a job that means I travel a lot, but…I wanted to see you.”
Isabela looked away, thinking. “When I asked Mommy about my dad, she got angry. Were you mean to her?”
Titus sighed, sat down heavily on the floor and folded his legs in a crisscross. “I…I don’t think I was, but your mommy may have felt different. I don’t really know how to…how to explain it, honey.”
Mena touched Isabela’s arm. “Sometimes, adults just don’t get along, and it’s nobody’s fault. Sometimes, when adults don’t get along, things get complicated, and they can be hard to understand until we’re a little older.”
Titus’s eyes went to Mena’s. “I know what the court paperwork says, but I—”
Mena cut in. “Perhaps we could talk about this in private.” She looked to me, to Isabela. “Isabela, I need to talk to Titus for a little bit, about some adult stuff. Do you think you could go with Laurel for a few minutes?”
Isabela nodded, looked at me. “Are you nice?”
I laughed. “I mean, I try to be. How about I promise I’ll be on my best behavior?”
Isabela nodded seriously. “Mommy has a friend who looks like you, only she’s not as pretty, and she’s not very nice to me. I don’t like her.”
I stifled a laugh. “Well, I like to think I’m pretty cool.” I held out my hand to her. “Do you like clothes and purses?”
Isabela’s eyes brightened, just a little. “Yeah. Mommy lets me wear her shoes sometimes, and if I’m careful I can play with her purses.”
I wiggled my fingers and smiled. “Well come on, then. I have lots of shoes and lots of and purses. You can tell me which ones are your favorites.”
I led her into the extra bedroom—I had no clue where it was going to go, honestly, but I’d have to figure that out later. Her eyes went wide at the racks of clothing that filled the room, the shelves of purses along two walls, and the shelves of shoes on the others, and in the closet.
“This is all yours?” she asked, awed.
I nodded. “Yeah, it is.”
“You have a lot of stuff.”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
She eyed me. “If I’m staying here, where will I sleep? On the couch?”
I shook my head. “No, honey. We’ll clear all this stuff out of here and put it…somewhere else. This will be your room. We’ll bring all your stuff over, and it’ll feel just like your own place. Okay?”
I could tell she still hadn’t quite processed the reality, yet. Her six-year-old mind still half believed it wasn’t real, that her mom would come get her. And I couldn’t fathom how she must feel. How this would work. How any of it would work.
I’d just started wrapping my head around Titus living with me, loving him, letting him into my life. And now…this.
I looked at Isabela, who had wandered over to my purses and was examining them carefully, one at a time, not touching them. A little girl.
Here.
In my house.
In my life.
There wasn’t room or time to panic, but I had to work hard to push it back, to fight it.
“I like this one,” I heard her say.
My brain went sideways—she was holding my alligator Birkin. Don’t freak, don’t freak, don’t freak. “That’s my favorite too, actually.” I swallowed the instinct to take it and put it back on the shelf. Instead, I settled the strap over her little shoulder. “Looks good on you.”
She touched the outside with a very careful fingertip. “What is it made of?”
“Um, alligator.”
“Real alligator?”
I nodded. “As far as I know.”
“Did it hurt the poor alligator when they took its skin off?”
I gulped, tried to not cackle in raw panic. “Um. I don’t know. I hope not.” I felt compelled to explain, even to a six-year-old I’d just met. “I didn’t actually buy the purse myself. It was a gift.”