Indelible

by Dawn Metcalf

  “My thanks to you, Bailiwick,” Ink said, holding her close. “I am in your debt.”

  “I believe there are no debts between us and you have brought me more than one riddle tonight,” Graus Claude demured. “There is so little that excites the mind nowadays, and Sudoku bores me.” His voice held only the lightest tinge of sarcasm. “Be well, Miss Malone.”

  “Thank’ll...” she slurred.

  When Ink swung aside, they appeared in her room, dark with night and cold and the familiar smell of home. Ink settled her onto her bed and shut the window. Joy saw him traced in blue against the black-and-purple dim.

  No belly button, either.

  Of course—he’d never been born.

  Joy’s head sloshed against the pillow, loose and wobbly. Ink pulled back her covers, taking care not to set them near her bare and bandaged arm. Joy realized her pj’s were ruined. Maybe she could cut off both sleeves? Would Dad believe it was a new fashion statement? Did pajamas have fashion statements? Where was Dad, anyhow? Shouldn’t an attentive parent be aware of stuff like this? She’d been kidnapped. And burned. And there was a guy in her room.

  As if he read her thoughts, Ink placed a hand against her lips.

  “Shh,” he cautioned. “Quiet, now. Your father is asleep. Take these.” He placed a plastic bottle by her clock. “Graus Claude said that they will help you through the night.”

  “I don’t want to—”

  “Joy, please.”

  In the dark, he sounded vulnerable, undoing her completely.

  “I’m scared,” Joy said and saying it made it real. She started to cry and Ink held her, solid and warm.

  “It is over,” Ink said. “No more harm will come to you. No one will hurt you again.”

  She shook her head against a bat-wing flurry of thoughts, against his naïveté or her own. “I didn’t know what was happening or what to do,” she said, feeling that she somehow had to explain. “I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t say anything. I—I couldn’t say your name.” She stuttered, wringing her sheets in both hands.

  “Ink,” she said urgently, squeezing her eyes and chanting loudly: “Ink. Ink. Ink.”

  “Shh.” He placed his hand gently on hers. “Joy, I am here.”

  She opened her eyes and nodded. “Yes. You are here. You are very, very here.” She looked at their hands next to each other, blinking back tears, muzzy and scattered. “You have no knuckles,” she said. “Or fingernails. Or belly buttons. Belly button. Singular.” Joy fumbled and lifted her nightshirt, showing the flat of her stomach. “Like this.” She smoothed a hand over her innie and shook her head sadly. “You don’t have one. That’s just wrong.”

  Ink gave a tired twist of a smile. “Is it?” He looked tender, relieved.

  “Oh, yes. Belly buttons. Very important,” she said. “And you should speak with contractions,” Joy added. “You sound like a robot.”

  Ink straightened the blankets, both solemn and amused. “Do I?”

  “Don’t make fun,” she said. “Graus Claude warned me that I’m not supposed to say anything, because I could say anything. I have to be careful because it just slips out. Like the fact that you’re stunning, like a statue or a photograph, or a photograph of a statue. A naked, old one. Like the Greeks. Not that I think of you naked, because I don’t, but if I did, I shouldn’t.” She took a breath. “It’s not real and it’s not fair. You’re freaky and dangerous and I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  His hand stopped moving and rested against her pillow. His voice was overly casual.

  “Is that right?” he said.

  “I know—it’s ridiculous. You’ve been horrible to me and kind to me and all sorts of weirdness is now in my life, but I can’t imagine going back to the way it was before,” she said in a rush. “It has to be this way and it has to be with you, but I can’t seem to concentrate on anything else. And now that you’ve been in my room, I think it will be hard to think of you being anywhere else,” Joy confessed. “Nowhere is safe.” She blinked as her words slowed, growing quiet and mopey. “I’m gonna totally fail school.”

  Ink stared at her with those fathomless eyes, saying nothing for a long time—long enough for Joy to wonder what, exactly, she’d just said. She couldn’t quite remember, but was too exhausted to ask. It couldn’t have been too bad, whatever it was, because the way he kept looking at her felt okay. Joy studied him in the half-light for a clue. She gasped.

  “Your ears!” she said, raising her hand to touch one. Ink froze under her fingertips. Joy ignored his distress. “They’re perfect! They look so real.” She marveled at the change. His ear gave and bent like cartilage and skin. She giggled. “I mean, they are real, right? They work like ears. They look...” Then it hit her. “They look like mine!”

  “They are like yours,” Ink said. “I studied them. Remember?”

  She shuddered, not unpleasantly. “Yes. I remember.”

  There was a question. Permission. Would he touch her again? Did she want him to? Did he want to? She trembled. Where? How? Her heartbeat jumped at her throat. Could he see that? Could he hear it, being so close? Her vision swam on delicate fins through warm water. Ink leaned over her, naked to the waist.

  “Was I wrong to do that?” he asked.

  “What?” Joy asked. “No.”

  “Do you wish me to leave?”

  Joy quivered. “No.”

  He saw something in her eyes that made him wonder. “What is it then?”

  Her fingers twisted the edge of the sheet.

  “I’m afraid.”

  “Of me?” He almost stood.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “But it’s more than that. Stay.”

  Ink paused. “Are you asking?”

  “No. Telling,” Joy said. “You owe me. Stay.”

  He settled back, almost reluctantly.

  “A message may come,” he cautioned.

  “Then tell them to wait,” she said. “Your lehman is injured. You have to stay. I’m your responsibility.”

  Ink’s face formed a question, but he quietly rose from the bed and rolled the desk chair near her nightstand. He sat, crossed his arms and gazed down at her, his silver chain spilling off the edge of the chair.

  “I suppose you are,” he said.

  “Yes.” She nodded against the pillow. “Remember, you have a reputation to maintain.”

  “So I am told.”

  “Have to keep up appearances.”

  “Yes,” he said. “That, too.”

  They almost smiled. They almost said something more. She wanted to keep talking, but the words were fading on her tongue. She wanted to sleep, but she couldn’t close her eyes while he was there watching her. She wanted to match him, second for second. She wanted to stay awake. She wanted to sleep. She was pinned by his stare. She was anything but invisible.

  The way he tucked his hands close to himself, no part of him near her, made it all the more obvious that he wanted to touch her. She wanted him to want to. His chest rose and fell, but Joy wasn’t entirely certain that he needed to breathe. He was watching her breathing. She needed to breathe. She needed to know.

  “What is it?” she asked finally.

  Ink’s glance fell on the armrest instead of her eyes.

  “When I saw that you were hurt, I felt it—” he tapped his chest “—here.” Ink’s voice trembled like a plucked string. “I still do.” His fingers cupped like hooks. “I dislike this feeling. I want to dig it out.”

  Joy tried to sit up, but winced. She propped herself up on her good arm, her elbow tucked under her head. “It hurts,” she guessed. “It hurt you when you saw that I was hurt.”

  Ink nodded. “It hurt. Yes,” he said. “I want to make it stop.”

  “Where does it hurt?” Joy asked.

>   “Here.” He placed a hand over his breastbone. “And here.” His fingers traced along his stomach. “And here.” He touched the corners of his eyes that did not tear. “How do I stop it?”

  Joy smiled sadly, feeling warmer. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  Ink frowned. “Why not?”

  “Because when we care about people, their hurt is our hurt. We want to take it away, to make them feel better.” Joy’s eyes slid to her computer screen, her phone, her dresser drawer. “And we feel badly if we were the ones that caused them pain.”

  “It was my fault,” Ink said. “But punishing Briarhook did not make you feel better. It made me feel better.” He looked to the window and back at Joy. “Bringing you to Graus Claude was the better thing to do.”

  “Yes,” Joy whispered. “And he said I’ll get better soon.”

  “Yes, Joy, get better soon.”

  “I’ll try,” she said, her eyes slipping closed. She heard the lightest scuttle of the chair wheels on the floor.

  “Then I will stay,” Ink said, and she trusted that he would.

  CHAPTER NINE

  HER ALARM BUZZED. The automatic smack of her hand produced a wounded cry. Her body was all at once burning and bruised—not half so much as the day before, but it was still a hell of a way to wake up.

  “Joy,” Ink said quietly, making her remember.

  He was there—right there—his face filling her world.

  “Joy?” her father called from the hall. “You okay in there?”

  “Fine,” she croaked. “Ow.” She sat up. Every movement was agony. Strings of hot wire tugged from her neck down her spine, drawing taut over her shoulders and down her right arm. She sat gingerly on the edge of her mattress, her feet flat on the floor as she steadied herself. Joy let the clock radio play, masking her voice and the sounds in her throat. Ink crouched next to her.

  “You are not finished healing,” he said, his voice slicing through the music.

  “No kidding?” Joy was all too aware of her wounds, her bruises, her torn pajamas, her bad breath, her bad hair, and him sitting there. She barely moved her lips and kept her chin tilted down. Her head pulsed. Her arm throbbed. “I’m never going to get my bra on.”

  “Need help?” Ink offered.

  “You wish,” Joy said, but it was obvious that she was going to have trouble getting dressed and the only one home was Dad. Even the idea of putting on her sweatshirt over her burnt and bloodied jammies was unthinkable. She wanted a shower, but pressurized water promised sheer torture. Joy didn’t want to move. She picked a pair of jeans off the floor and tried pulling them on using only her left hand. She groaned. Tears wet her eyes. She looked skyward. “Holy...”

  There was a knock on the door. “You sure you’re up?” her father asked.

  “Yes,” Joy groaned through her teeth. “Just didn’t sleep well.”

  His voice came through the pressboard. “Well, get a move on. You’re going to be late.”

  “You should stay home,” Ink said.

  She shook her head. “He’d want to know why.” Joy wiped away a layer of sweat. Her face felt clammy. This didn’t look good. She glanced at Ink. His expression was so open, so plain, Joy was surprised at how much her hurting hurt him. He’d never looked anything like this before. He looked almost human. He was learning, watching her.

  “It hurts,” he said.

  “It does,” she admitted.

  “Wait here.” He sounded resolute as he stood up. “I will only be a moment.”

  Joy grinned thinly. “If that?”

  A quick flick of the wrist and his odd sweeping motion, and Ink vanished. Joy held her breath and pushed herself to a standing position, moving everything but her right arm. The bandage was tight and stiff and smelled funny. How was she going to put on deodorant? Joy stood in the middle of her room, equidistant from all her clothing in drawers and shelves and hangers, feeling pathetic. How would she open drawers? Button up? Zip? Maybe she could come up with a plausible reason to stay home...?

  Before she could concoct some believable excuse, Inq strode into her room through a ripple of air.

  “Need a little help?” Inq asked and held out her hands. Joy nodded and allowed Inq to help strip off her top while standing on the bed, holding the armholes extra-wide so Joy could slip through. Inq busied herself rifling through the closet, giving Joy a bit of privacy with her underwear and pants.

  “The less formfitting, the better, but it’s cold outside,” Inq said.

  “I thought the cold didn’t bother you,” Joy muttered, slipping on black yoga pants.

  “It doesn’t. But I’m not blind,” Inq said. “Everyone’s bundled up like Christmas ornaments out there. And there’s snow on the ground. It doesn’t take a genius. Here, turn around.”

  Inq quickly and efficiently hooked Joy’s bra.

  “Thanks,” Joy said.

  “No problem. Now, this looks roomy.” Inq held up an XL hoodie from U Penn. “Let’s get this on and I’ll help you with your socks and boots.”

  “You’re a goddess,” Joy muttered gratefully.

  Inq crinkled her nose and laughed. “It’s been said before.”

  * * *

  Joy dry-swallowed a couple of painkillers on the bus, and the sour taste rang in her mouth all through first period. She moved stiffly and clenched her teeth as she accepted back her English paper. Raising her arm above the elbow was nearly impossible.

  Fortunately, Graus Claude had been right about the cuts on her neck—not a whisper of them had remained when she’d exchanged the bandages for a scarf. Inq had been right, too; it was freezing outside with a windchill of twenty-two. She’d nearly cried when she’d put on her coat, the sleeve like a blood pressure cuff over her arm. Give it one or two days, he’d said. She could make it that long. She’d have to. One or two days. She could do that.

  Still, swimming in her giant sweatshirt wasn’t easy and Joy had to carry her book bag, her binders and her lunch tray all on the wrong side. By noon, her neck ached every time she turned her head. She swallowed another two painkillers with her chicken noodle soup, which was unsurprisingly tasteless but surprisingly hot.

  Monica slapped down her tray and eyed Joy’s ensemble. “Why in the world are you wearing your Bloat Pants to school?” she asked. “Might as well stand up on the table and announce you’re packin’ Tampax.”

  “I’m not menstrual,” Joy said.

  “Could’ve fooled me with how moody you’ve been,” Monica said. “What has gotten into you? You totally freaked me out in the library and you never answered your cell. What were you doing in the bathroom? Pitching a tent?” She plucked Joy’s sleeve to emphasize the point.

  Joy snatched her sleeve back. “I just lost track of time,” she said in defense. How long ago was that? So much had happened since then.

  “‘Lost track of time’?” Monica said. “Were you too busy reading all the witty remarks written on the walls, or were you...?” Her friend’s eyes widened and then narrowed menacingly. Monica’s voice dropped ice cubes, each word a thunk.

  “Joy, Lord help me....”

  Joy snorted. “What?”

  “Dressing like a garbage bag and camping out in the bathroom do not a pretty picture make,” Monica declared. “Ever since you got involved with Mr. Somebody-A-Guy, you’ve been acting totally mental.”

  “Says Mrs. Gordon-ocious.”

  “Don’t sass me,” Monica warned. “And now this stuff with Stef?” She waved herself to silence as if erasing the air between them. “Are you pregnant?”

  “What? No!”

  “Give me your hand.”

  Joy frowned. “’Scuse me?”

  “I said, ‘Give me your hand,’” Monica snarled. “Now!”

  Joy hel
d out her left hand. Monica glanced at the back of it and waved gimme for the other. Joy moved delicately, but passed inspection.

  “No scabs on the knuckles, so you’re not poking your finger down your throat,” Monica declared. “And you need food too much to go without.” She gestured to the soup, dinner roll and bowl of grapes. “Did you gag yourself with a pencil?”

  “What? Gross! No,” Joy winced.

  “Laxatives?”

  Joy sighed. “Monica, you seriously read too many pamphlets.”

  “Then what is it?” Monica asked earnestly, giving Joy’s hand a squeeze. Joy tried not to wince, but Monica caught it.

  “What’s this?” Monica pulled. Joy sucked in her breath against the scream and yanked her hand away. Monica let go as if stung. A weird comprehension lit her dark eyes.

  “Dear Jesus, did this guy hit you?”

  Joy almost laughed. Almost. “No.”

  “He. Hit. You.” Monica’s voice was deadly calm.

  “No!” Joy said louder, then dipped her own voice. “It’s nothing like that. Honest!”

  She searched Joy’s face.

  “Okay, so what is it like then? Did you...?” Monica trailed off when a surprised glint of mischief lit her smile. Joy was more stunned by that than the accusation. “Did he mark you?”

  Fear stabbed her gut. “What?!”

  “Did he draw on you? Mr. Artist?” Monica asked. “Did you get a tattoo?”

  The idea clicked together like Lego blocks. “Yeah, sorta,” Joy said. “It’s on my upper arm.”

  Monica squeed in her seat and hopped up and down. “I can’t believe it! You let this guy draw on you? Something permanent?” Joy nearly laughed. The level of irony was ridiculous. “Damn, Joy! Can I see it?”

  “It’s not done,” Joy said hastily. “It’s healing. It’s not... I just got it done.”