The Tattoo Under His Wristband

Within two weeks, Bear became part of the rhythm of our unit. He arrived every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, sometimes after a twelve-hour shift at an auto-body shop. He always left his vest at the front desk and washed his hands until they were red.

He held babies whose parents were stuck at work, read picture books, and sang quietly, though he insisted he had no musical talent. He learned which babies liked tight swaddles and which preferred a hand resting gently against their feet.

The nurses began calling him when a baby was having a difficult day.

He treated the work as a responsibility.

Baby Boy Parker responded to him more than anyone. His oxygen levels often improved before Bear had even lifted him from the incubator. He seemed to know that familiar voice.

“Hey, little man,” Bear would say. “Your friend is here.”

One rainy afternoon, the black band around Bear’s left wrist slipped down as he reached for a blanket. Underneath was a small tattoo: a heartbeat line ending in a purple flower, with four letters and a date.

LILY.

JUNE 14, 2011.

I had seen the tattoo before, but never clearly. That day, I asked without thinking.

“Who is Lily?”