The Scars That Made Us

by Inda Herwood

  “Taj,” Ayla hisses at her, looking back at me nervously.

  I laugh, her spunk reminding me of Till. “Well, the honor is all mine. Speaking of which, has the specimen made an appearance yet?”

  “No,” she says, almost relieved. “Mom talked to him yesterday and he made it sound like he had plans. Hopefully that means Moon will be a no show too.”

  As though Taji knows the same thing I do, she gives me a roll of the eyes and a grin behind Ayla, mouthing, “She’s lying,” to which I give a subtle nod. The reserved look behind Rosy’s sister’s eyes says it all, and my heart kind of breaks for her.

  Just like last time, the dinner table is full of laughter and conversations, stories and jokes told at one another’s expense. With it just being us girls, the energy is lively and unhindered, whereas I feel everyone kind of held back some of their wilder sides with the boys being present. Though these ladies may look sweet and innocent, their mouths certainly aren’t, and I can’t help but feel Atillia would love them.

  After dinner, we all pitch in with the dishes, making the task fly by. Some help with clearing the leftovers, others wash plates, one dries, and I help Lotta put them away. While we are stowing the beautiful china back in the cupboard, Mrs. Nunez says to me, “So, I got a call from your mother the other day.”

  I almost drop a very expensive looking tea plate as she tells me this, the glossy porcelain sliding against my fingers. Holding it with both hands as I put it back, I say a little unsteadily, “Um, really?”

  “Mm-hmm. She said that you wanted me to design a wedding dress for you.” She puts a cup away on a lower shelf, standing back up with a frown. “I was kind of hurt, actually. I had hoped you’d ask me yourself.”

  Placing the last of the plates away, I say, leaning back against the dining table, “I was, really. My mother just likes to jump the gun. She’s not one to wait for others to do what she thinks she can do herself.” I should have guessed she’d do this. When I told her I had become friends with Lotta through Jagger, she practically insisted I ask her to design my dress, to which I had agreed. But I told her I wanted to ask her myself. She couldn’t even let me do that.

  “Don’t worry, I believe you. I remembered her from when I helped with your sister’s gown.” I can almost see the chill go through her at the memory, and I chuckle under my breath. “A very…aggressive woman, isn’t she?”

  “You can say that again.” I shake my head, looking down at my feet, arms crossed over my chest. “I’m sorry she did that. I hope she didn’t give you any ideas about the dress.”

  Her smile turns kind of annoyed. “Yes, she did actually. When I asked her if she thought the bride should have an opinion, she didn’t say anything. I’m going to assume I should just throw those notes away?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Already done.” With a knock of her shoulder into mine, she says, “Why don’t we go have some of that delicious cake of yours and talk about designs, hmm?”

  Though the guilt of it all makes my stomach churn, knowing she’s going to be doing this for naught, I say, “Sure, sounds great.”

  With the help of the rest of the family, we stuff our mouths with cake and come up with a simple design for my dress, Lotta recommending silk for the majority of it once I mention how much fabric bothers my scars.

  “Well in that case, why don’t we do away with sleeves,” she erases the ones she had drawn on the stick figure in her sketchbook, “and give you a shear cape instead?” She uses long, clean strokes of her pencil, framing the shoulders of the figure all the way down to the mermaid style train with the ghostly outline of tulle. “It’ll look beautiful with a winter wedding, while at the same time giving your skin some air to breathe.”

  Once she’s done, she hands the sketch over to me, and I place it in my lap, looking over the design. It truly is beautiful, the embodiment of what I’d want if I were actually getting married. The silky gown drops to the floor in a sleek mermaid style, pooling around the legs of the figure. The top is sweetheart shaped, with two small pieces of fabric draping around the sides of the shoulders. And to top it all off is the cape, looking like gossamer as it floats around the design, Lotta even having given it a hood to make it look more whimsical. It’s stunning.

  “So, is there anything you want to change, or does this look like what you envisioned?” Mrs. Nunez asks over my shoulder, everyone else peeking in to see the final design after giving their input, awing over it once they get a good look.

  “It couldn’t be more perfect,” I tell her honestly, unable to look away from the sketch.

  “Jagger’s going to be one happy man,” Ayla says next to me, jumping her brows when I look at her. I laugh.

  “Yeah, well, my mother isn’t going to be too happy about all of the exposed skin, but it’s not her wedding dress, so screw it.” And anyway, I know that if I had really gotten the chance to wear it for Jagger, he would have been proud that I hadn’t covered myself for her sake. The thought makes the moment a little less melancholy.

  After a few minutes of chatter about the wedding, everyone asking if they’re invited, which of course they are, Taji says with a smile, “Well, I think this calls for a celebration. Mehndi anyone?”

  All of the women murmur their agreement, and Taji grabs her bag, sitting in the corner of the chaise lounge she had been laying on. Opening it up, she takes out multiple tubes wrapped in yellow and silver foil, a small towel and pillow coming out last. Setting up her supplies, she says to me, “I think the bride-to-be should go first.”

  She nods for me to join her over on the chaise, and I hand the beautiful sketch of my dress back to Lotta, who takes it and says, “Remind me to send this home with you after I make a scan of it.”

  I nod, walking over to Taji, who has me sit down in front of her as she asks, “So what do you want done? Hands, feet, or both?”

  Since I’ve never done this before, I admit, “I’m not sure. What do you like doing better?”

  She shrugs. “Feet usually last longer with the stain, but hands are easier. It’s up to you.”

  “Well, I’ll do a hand then.” As she places my hand on the pillow, now covered by a soft, mandala patterned towel, I ask, “How did you get into doing this?”

  As she tests a small dot of dark brown paste on a second towel I hadn’t noticed, she answers, “My mother is a henna artist, henna being what we call the paste. Mehndi is the design we draw with it. I’ve always kind of been apprenticed by her. We do it mostly for the women in our family for weddings and Hindu holidays, like Diwali.”

  Moving the tube of henna to hover over my hand, she begins the design by putting a small dot in the middle of it, going around it with more circles, little loops, and flowers that look like lotuses and daisies. She works methodically in the waning afternoon light, the strong smell of the paste reminding me of dried leaves in fall. It’s comforting, and I grow mesmerized by the beautiful art Taji is swirling on my hand and fingers.

  Looking over, I notice Ayla has begun drawing on one of her aunts, her hand moving in the same smooth strokes as Taji’s. When I ask how she knows what to do, she says, “I’ve been an apprentice almost as long as Taji has. I’ve known her and her family since I was seven.”

  Wow.

  After half an hour, my design is done, and I look down on it in awe. The beautifully feminine lines wrap around the top of my hand and crawl onto my fingers, the small flowers and loops making a tapestry of my skin. I give my emphatic thanks to Taji, telling her that she is a very gifted artist, and that I’d love to have this done at my wedding. And by wedding, I mean the one I’ll have many years from now. But to her, she naturally thinks I mean the one coming this winter.

  “I’d love to do it for you,” she says, dark eyes shining with a smile. “Wedding designs are even more intricate. It’ll look beautiful with the design of your dress.”

  As Taji wraps a special kind of padded tape over the dried paste, protecting it from falling off, a loud v
oice echoes over the backyard, every head looking up to see who crashed the party.

  I don’t have to look to know who would be that obnoxiously loud.

  “Good evening, women. Having a little estrogen party, are we?” Moon says, walking into the backyard with a giant smile and a wink at Lotta after she gives him an unimpressed look.

  Ayla stills over her cousin’s hands, back stiffening. Looking over her shoulder, she says to him, “What are you doing here?”

  His lips contort into a dramatic frown, dark hair ruffled like he just woke up. “It’s Sunday, is it not?”

  “Dinner was over two hours ago,” she says, voice a little perturbed. “Where have you been, anyway?”

  “Aw, is little Nunez worried about me?” He rubs his knuckles on her head like she’s some kind of kid, and if she wasn’t pissed before, she is now. Her eyes narrow on him dangerously.

  “Moon, are you drunk?” I ask before she can do something about it, knowing he seems…off. Yeah, he’s always honest and a little brutal, but this isn’t like his usual style.

  He walks over to me without a problem, falling into the chair on my left. He gives an overly done “Pfft”, his eyes looking heavy. “Of course not, Tessa. I’m as sober as I’ve ever been.” Pausing, he turns to the all-female circle we’ve created, saying, “So, can I be a part of the tribe?”

  I lean forward, giving him a good sniff, only to come away surprised. I don’t smell any alcohol on him. He really is sober. So that means something is wrong. Very wrong.

  “What’s going on with you?” I ask him quietly, not wanting to embarrass him any further, though that doesn’t really seem possible at this point.

  Another “Pfft”. “Nothin’.” He smiles, but something sad lays behind it – missing its normally vibrant light, and a wave of sympathy for him goes through me. Standing up, I grab his hand and haul him behind me as I aim us for the back door.

  When he starts complaining, I say, “We’re going to get you some water and solid food. Maybe you’re just dehydrated.”

  In a small voice, too small for a man with such a big personality, he asks, “If I do, can I join the tribe?”

  With a sigh, I say, “Sure. If you eat like a good boy, then you can join the chick tribe.”

  ***

  I watch him closely as he scarfs down a piece of cake, making sure the water glass sitting next to him is full again once he drains it. Maybe it’s just my training in health care, but my first instinct is to always fill people up with fluids and calories when they don’t seem right. I’m hoping that’s the case with Moon, but, it’s been about twenty minutes since he crashed the party, and he hasn’t spoken another word since we entered the kitchen. What I can’t understand, though, is what possessed him to barge in here in the first place.

  “Moon, what are you doing?” I ask once he drops the fork in the sink, the plate following after it.

  “What do you mean?” he asks, sounding a little more like himself, a little less like the jackass he was when he arrived.

  “What made you do this? Be disrespectful to Lotta by getting here late, treating Ayla like a child. This isn’t you.” Leaning against the counter, hands braced behind me, I wait for the answer.

  His false smile slowly fades, seeing how serious I am about this. I’m not leaving this kitchen without an answer, and he knows it.

  Dropping the act, he hesitantly admits, “I haven’t been in the best state of mind the last few days. I thought maybe being around family would help.”

  “So,” I say, my anger starting to rise, despite feeling bad he’s been hurting, “instead of coming to one of your friends and talking about it, or arriving to dinner on time, you decided to bust in here with an attitude and make an ass of yourself. Good plan.”

  “Hey, it’s not like it’s a habit of mine, okay? I just wanted to hang and relax. I don’t know how to be uptight and moody on my own like your guy Jagger. I’m a happy person. I have no idea how to cope with, with –” His hands wave around, looking for the answer.

  “With feeling depressed,” I finish for him, and once I say the word, his face falls.

  “Holy hell. That’s what this is, isn’t it? I’m depressed.” He scratches his head, looking uncomfortable, almost unnerved. He wasn’t kidding when he said he doesn’t understand what this feeling is. “How do I get rid of it?” he asks finally.

  I shrug from my side of the kitchen. “Talking about what’s making you sad helps.”

  He winces, as though I said the wrong thing. “I can’t exactly do that.”

  Um… “Why not?”

  “Because it’s…hard.”

  Letting out a breath of annoyance, I try to go at it from a different angle. “Alright, how about I guess what has you upset, and then you let me know if I’m close?”

  He nods slowly, eyes still wary. “Okay.”

  I start. “Since Jagger seems as upset as you do, I’m going to say it has to do with you two having a fight?”

  A nod.

  “Was it about…cars?”

  “No.”

  “Rosy?”

  “No.”

  “Golf?”

  “No.”

  This is getting frustrating fast.

  “Did he say something rude?”

  A nod.

  “You know what, just spill it. If it doesn’t have anything to do with me, then why can’t you just tell me already?”

  “Because it does have to do with you!” he exclaims, and I definitely wasn’t preparing for the outburst, so I jump, startled. His face scrunches up in apology. “Well, on one level.”

  I wait a couple of minutes for him to explain further, but he stays mute. He continues to stare down at the counter, letting me stew over what the heck he means by “It has to do with you.”

  Deciding that I’m just wasting my time, I start to head back to the party. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, then I’m not going to force him. Even though deep down it’s killing me to not know what I have to do with his fight with Jagger.

  Hand on the doorknob, about to leave him and his drama behind, I hear him say over my shoulder, “He called me pathetic. Because I can’t find it within me to tell Ayla the truth.”

  I slowly turn around, seeing the shame on his face, eyes looking out into the now lit up backyard – staring at Ayla laughing with Taji. It suddenly makes me wonder if that’s the look I wear when I think of Jagger.

  Walking over to him, I grab his hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. The small but significant gesture surprises me. Before Jagger, I never would have done this, afraid of people’s disgust when they felt the scars on my knuckles. But I know now that I have people in my life that I can trust. People who will hold my hand back.

  “You’re not pathetic,” I counter, shocked that Jagger would say such a thing as I watch the same sight as Moon. “You just don’t want to upset the status quo. There’s nothing shameful about that.”

  “But I’m lying to her,” he says against himself. “I’ve been lying to her for years. That’s not only pathetic, it’s wrong.”

  Okay, so I can’t argue with that, but, “You can stop lying to her, if you wish. You can tell her the truth. After you apologize for messing up her hair like a five-year-old’s, of course.” I smirk, getting a small smile in return.

  “I want to,” he admits. “But this isn’t the right time.”

  I watch as Ayla sits there in the lawn chair, smiling at her family while they chat and gossip, but at the same time, you can see that something is missing. Her eyes keep darting back and forth to the darkened kitchen door, subconsciously searching for him. Just like he was looking for her when he stomped into the backyard.

  “When is it ever the right time?” I say, more to myself, though I know he hears it. “There are wars going on every day, natural disasters destroying homes and families in every part of the world – lives lost in the most routine activities of everyday life.” My mind instantly goes to Jagger’s mom when I say this, and th
en my own experience as a kid. I guess what I’m trying to say is: “Life disappears without a second’s warning or our permission, Moon. All we can do is seize the moment, and hope we get another.”

  I give his hand a final squeeze and then release it, finding my way out the door this time. Whether my little speech makes an impact on him or not, it made me realize something myself. If there’s something you want, then you need to go out and take it. And if it means putting yourself out there and risking getting hurt, then at least that pain will come with knowing that you tried; that you no longer have to live your life with the dreaded ‘what if’ hanging over your head.

  -19-

  Now or Never

  Ayla’s eyes are the first to latch on to me as I make my way back onto the patio with the other girls, taking my previous seat, a new kind of energy buzzing through me. I barely have time to process what I want to do when Rosy’s sister pops up next to me, asking worriedly, but trying not to look it, “What happened? Is he alright?”

  “Yeah, he’s fine.” To a degree. “He’s just had a lot of stuff on his mind, I guess.”

  She instantly looks suspicious, and I can’t really blame her. “This is Moon we’re talking about, right?”

  “Hey, stranger things have happened,” Taji says, working on Aunt Inez. “You know, like world peace, the ending of poverty…oh wait. None of that has happened. So yeah, this is the strangest.”

  When Ayla looks back at me for answers, I have none, so I say, “If you don’t believe me, ask him yourself.” I know I shouldn’t meddle by encouraging a conversation between them. But maybe if they did, then Moon might fess up and I wouldn’t have to see them both so miserable anymore.

  Ayla begins to ask me why he hasn’t come outside yet, and as if he heard her, the door pops open in a similar fashion to his first entrance, making everybody stop mid motion to see what the heck he’s going to do this time. Even I’m holding my breath as he walks down the steps, avoiding every eye on him before stopping dead in front of Ayla, his shadow casting over her.

  Without any kind of pretense, his mouth opens up, and a bunch of shocking things (even for Moon) pour out of it.