Time Jumps

One.

“When you turn eighteen, your body will truly belong to you, but until then, it’s technically mine.” 

For years, this had been Emory Kincaid’s response every time his son Jameson begged for a tattoo. No matter what the size (“Just a tiny star on the inside of my wrist, Da!”) or where the location (“How about a tribute to Ireland, between my shoulderblades?”), Emory had never waivered, and so that is why he now perches on a stool in his studio, with Jameson seated before him, narrowing his eyes at the hourglass stenciled on the young man’s palm. The ink is purple; sand spills from one orb into another. 

Grimacing, Emory shakes his head and lifts his dark eyes to meet those of his son. “You’re sure, are you? Because this’ll hurt like hell, Jamie. And you know how I feel about—”

“Tattooing a hand?” Jameson finishes. “Yeah, I do. But you’re not exactly one to talk, are you?” 

The words contain a hint of snark, but the young man’s expression indicates nothing short of good humor, and despite Emory’s best efforts, he can’t help offering a wry smile. He’s not one to talk, after all, seeing as his first tattoo had been added to his body at the meager age of eleven. A simplistic triangle on his right forearm, the shape commemorated the obsession he’d once had with Amelia Earhart and her possible disappearance in the Bermuda Triangle. 

The shape has since been covered up. 

Emory’s obsession hadn’t lasted beyond junior high.

These days, a person would be hard pressed to find a substantial patch of skin on the man’s body that doesn’t boast ink. In a sense, he is very much like Bradbury’s Illustrated Man (minus the disturbing control the fictional fellow had over his “Freaks,” that is). Unlike Mr. Dark, the pictures adorning Emory’s all-natural canvas are an assortment of interests from his life: friends he once knew, pets that left pawprints on his heart, books he’s read, and places he’s traveled. At this point, only his face is void of ink, and if the man’s being truthful, he can’t in all honesty say that he’s happy with his appearance… which is precisely why he’s discouraged Jameson from altering his own skin until now. 

He’d wanted his son to make an informed decision.

Therefore, it is with a heavy heart that Emory reaches for his tattoo gun. The little instrument feels cool in his gloved hand, its quiet buzz reminiscent of a bumbling insect. Biting the side of his mouth, Emory lowers the needle to the delicate skin of his son’s hand. Jameson sucks in a sharp breath as contact is made, but he refrains from saying a word. It’s Rowan, his twin sister, who glances up from her book for the first time and mutters, “I can’t believe you chose your palm.” 

Blinking a tear from his eye, Jameson throws a glimpse over his shoulder and counters, “It’s what I want. What would you have chosen?”

“A sundial on the inside of my left index finger,” she answers with zero hesitation. “Just a tiny one.”

He arches his brows, surprised.

“I might do it,” Rowan says, which causes Emory to grumble and mutter under his breath, “Aye, another hand… It seems my plan to have the two of you wait ‘til your brains were a bit more developed has backfired considerably, hasn’t it?”

The twins smile, their grins nearly identical. 

“Will it be the same for your brother, I wonder, or will Milo not beat around the bush and simply ask for a face tattoo on his eighteenth birthday instead?” Emory’s continued griping only makes the twinkle in his children’s eyes grow more pronounced, for it’s when their father is on a rant that his Irish accent becomes most prevalent. Having moved to the States as a teenager, the gentle lilt of the man’s voice has faded over time, but even now, decades after settling along the Maryland shore and making a home for himself, it’s beyond obvious that he grew up stomping amongst the clover. 

“You know what?” Rowan says. “I think I will do it.” 

Having made the decision, she dogears a page of her book and closes the cover, setting the novel aside. The title is one that’s become familiar to all of them, seeing as Rowan has read it no fewer than twenty times. Jack Finney’s Time and Again, in her opinion, is the greatest literary work ever created, and her ancient paperback copy of the text clearly reflects this belief. Its spine is cracked, its corners softened… its pages adorned with quickly- scrawled notes. Once upon a time, the book had belonged to her mam, but Winifred discarded it in much the same way she’d discarded her family close to a dozen years ago. 

Pushing memories of the woman from his mind, Emory focuses on his artwork instead, smearing tiny droplets of blood from his son’s palm and detailing the sand inside the hourglass. His thoughts drift up and away from him, like a kite catching a strong wind. They flit here and there, bouncing from one thing to the next, never lingering for long on a particular topic. If his children were to wonder aloud where his mind goes when he’s working, he wouldn’t be able to tell them, for so many of the considerations in Emory’s head are fleeting. 

Though they don’t ask after what he’s thinking, it is one of the Kincaid kids who pulls him back to the present. “Hey Da?” Milo interrupts, peeking around the jamb of the doorway. 

Emory halts his progress and lifts his gaze. “Aye?”

The twelve-year-old takes a step into the room, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His cheeks are flushed, his honey-colored curls plastered to his forehead. Evidence suggests he’s run from the house to the tattoo parlor. Had this evidence not been provided, however, this fact would nevertheless be known to his family members. 

Milo Kincaid runs everywhere. 

Even in sleep, his legs are frequently moving. Emory knows this from all the nights he’s slipped into his boys’ room and checked on them before bed. Jameson, sprawled on his stomach and clutching his pillow, rarely shifts in slumber, but Milo can never quite seem to hold still. Now, looking at his youngest child, Emory notes the fire dancing in his son’s eyes. “What is it you need, Milo?”

“Can I borrow some money, Da? Not much. Just enough to…” But rather than voice the amount out loud, he crosses the room and leans down to whisper in his father’s ear, “Just enough to buy some ice cream. To go with the cake I baked for Jamie and Ro.” 

Milo’s sentences are ablaze with enthusiasm, the heat of his words intense enough to scorch Emory’s skin. And yet, despite the dull pain in his ear canal, the man allows one corner of his mouth to twitch into a smile. “Aye,” he agrees, “you know where to find it.” 

Exhaling a hot sigh of contentment, Milo spins on his heel and darts from the room, leaving behind a faint cloud of warmth. It smells of sunshine and grass stains and briny ocean air. In other words, the lingering aroma is that of an adolescent boy. Suddenly nostalgic for his youth, Emory lifts his gaze and looks deep into Jameson’s eyes. They are every bit as blue as his mam’s, the hue dark as sapphire and deep as the sea. There’s wisdom, too, indicating a knowledge that spans more than the eighteen years now lived. Had it been there yesterday, Emory wonders, or had something changed overnight? And if he were to study his daughter as closely as he now studies his son, would he note a change in her as well? 

It may be that the difference is all in his head… or it may be this birthday is different from the others. Hadn’t Emory himself first noticed a variance when he’d turned eighteen?

Aye, he thinks to himself, I had.