by Stephen Law
A day turned into a week, weeks into years, until it was impossible to give them back.
Nan put her hand out now, to receive the drops in her wrinkled palm. Without a word, she opened the jewellery drawer and placed the earrings in the spot on the velvet bedding held vacant for them.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
Her nana closed the jewellery box lid. “You didn’t want me to.”
She always seemed to know things, her nan. Glass of chocolate milk waiting for her at home after school when she was being bullied. Box of tampons appearing alongside the fits and starts of her first periods. Her nan wasn’t caught by surprise or fooled by anything it seemed.
A ray of light peeked in through the small window in the bathroom, making a line on the floor. Shaz wanted to stand on top of it and follow it out of the room, but she stayed.
“I came to talk to you about Desmond.”
“What about him?”
Returning the teardrops hadn’t been as cathartic as Shaz thought it would. Magazine articles and self-help gurus proclaimed the benefit of admitting some wrongdoing, telling the truth, but Shaz felt no release. She just felt heavy.
She went to the bed and slid down to the floor, bringing her knees to her chest.
Returning the earrings before ratting on Desmond about the swarming — she thought the former would show that she wasn’t perfect either and somehow dilute the wrath that might come his way. But now, in hindsight, Shaz realized it would come across as squealing on her brother so she wouldn’t look bad.
Nan’s face remained impassive. She wasn’t likely to take sides over her grandchildren.
Shaz moved to get up. “It’s nothing. I’ll talk to him myself.”
“Let me fix your hair.” Her nana smiled and bade her sit in the chair at the dressing table. Pulling her hair out from behind the backrest, Nan selected a comb, then began to brush.
If Nan noticed the turtle peeking out below Shaz’s hairline, she didn’t mention it. She’d sketched it — a green and turquoise shell with flecks of red and yellow — and brought it to Tyne, the only other artist in the city she trusted to do the work she couldn’t do on her own. Shaz liked that the turtle was hidden — not to everyone, but to most.
Nan separated hair into sections and began to braid. Shaz’s hair was like her father’s and she’d never spent the time, never cared enough to have any look other than straight down her back.
Nan didn’t talk. The quiet gave Shaz time to watch her in the mirror, her fingers nimbly braiding, starting at the scalp and moving to the tips, over and under. Out of her drawer she pulled little multi-coloured elastic baubles that she tied to the ends to hold the braids in place. Shaz figured she kept them there for when she did up her mom.
Settling into the rhythm, Nan started to hum, her face set in concentration. Shaz stared, noticing her nan’s blemishes, black freckles, white teeth, eyes focused on the task. There was a scar on her chin, to the left of her dimple. It was faint, small, and hardly discernible.
“What happened there?”
Nan’s fingers kept moving, “What happened where?”
“On your chin.”
A half second pause coupled with a glance at the mirror and she resumed braiding. Over and under. “A stick.”
“How?”
“Some girls threw a stick.”
“Why?”
Over and under. Over and under. “Why what, dear?”
“Why did they throw the stick at you?”
Fingers moving as she looked to Shaz’s eyes and then back to her hands. “White girls.” Her nana retrieved the strands that had fallen from her hands. “Sit still.”
“Ouch.” An extra strong yank to keep her quiet, perhaps. Undeterred, Shaz continued, “What happened? What did you do?”
A red bauble plucked from the tin. Nan tied the elastic to the end of the braid and began another. ”My brothers chased them when they saw what happened.”
Over and under. One braid, then another.
Shaz watched as she worked. Her eyes drifted to Nan’s chin, and back to her own image in the mirror. Two generations, reflecting back at each other.
The braiding finally finished, Shaz waved her head around, swivelling the braids in the air.
“Can I borrow your car?” It wasn’t something she did very often. But on occasion, it was helpful to have access to a vehicle.
Keys in hand, braids in hair, Shaz stepped out of the house.
***
SALT STAINS ON HER black backpack — she didn’t take it anywhere but the ocean. To get to Lawrencetown, she could take a bus from the city and in fifteen minutes have sand between her toes. But with waves slapping down hard on the windswept shore, that beach was more suited to surfing. She wanted to go for a swim, have seawater scrub her skin and wash her clean. She’d spent her childhood visiting the Eastern Shore, Clam Harbour and Martinique Beach, but today she wanted to get away from family memories, get her head clear. She headed in a different direction.
As a teen Shaz discovered the South Shore when she’d hailed a ride up past where the public bus dropped her off in Tantallon. Thumb out on the highway up by the Irving station, it wasn’t long before a man in his pickup truck stopped for her. He’d pushed away old coffee cups and newspapers to make room for her to sit.
“Where you headed?”
She maintained her distance, hand on the handle, ready to spring.
“A beach. I want to go swimming.”
He drove in silence. They passed beaches and signs to beaches. He stopped at none of them.
Shaz kept the window open and her eye on his intentions.
At a nondescript section of the highway, the truck veered off and caromed down a side road, entering a forested lane where trees grew close to the path. Shaz took a pencil in hand.
He stopped and pointed at the trailhead. “This is the best I know.”
Shaz followed the line of this finger to the end of the path where a small cove ringed with harbour rocks protected a secluded beach. Shaz scrambled out of the car, girded for a struggle. Towards the water or the woods? As she was deciding, the truck backed up, the man waved and then drove away.
She wasn’t foolish like that anymore. She liked to be alone, but with people around. A sign for Crescent Beach emerged on her left and she turned the car to the parking lot.
The sea was the colour of a light blue freezie. Diamonds sparkled atop the water. Resisting the urge to race after them, she held back. As a kid with her nan she’d shriek in dismay as the gems bounced away in the ripples when she pounced on the water. They’d collect strings of algae, twist them like necklaces, and prance up and down the beach collecting shells and poking around for treasures. Desmond loved doing that, too.
Shaz took a moment to shake her head clear, to look out to the horizon where the only things to look at were sea and sky. A breath of the salted air and then a dash into the water, calf deep. It was fresh and calm, though the waves were mild reminders of how little she was in control.
Goosebumps rose on her arms. Wading up to her hips, she dove in quickly, surfacing with a sharp breath, then breast-stroked out to deeper water.
Following the shoreline, she stretched her arms and kicked her feet, warming her core. Hardly taking notice of the waves, she rode up and over them, rising and falling with the rhythm of the water. Every third stroke, she raised her head and took in a breath, her gaze fixed to the horizon.
When she turned to contemplate her circuit she saw she’d drifted out further than she thought. The shoreline was at a distance.
She was well past seeing through to the bottom. Treading water till she tired, she flipped over and floated on her back, her gaze to the sky. A seagull flew over, its body white with flecks of black and grey. The bird seemed ebullient, buoyant. A seagull was not a crow.
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br /> The bird flew back towards her, soaring over, circling once, twice, then settling at a distance on top of the shifting water. They eyed each other for a time, both of them bobbing on the surface.
She floated with the bird, as it headed out to sea.
A splash of water on her face brought her out of her reverie, and she searched again for land. Open water to the right. She took a breath, looked left, saw the beach.
Taking her time, she swam back.
She felt light as she towelled off. Invigorated.
Red, yellow, orange, and blue towels dotted the sand. A few kids ran around throwing a frisbee. A boy chased his sister after she crushed his castle and stole his little green pail. Older boys collected crabs at the far end of the beach, where the waves broke before they hit the shore. She saw a swimmer in a wetsuit out in the water.
The waves rolled in, never failing, punching the clock on shore time after time. Clouds passed over.
She wondered how far it was to Sable Island, if you would bump into it if you swam straight out. Farther on was France or Northern Spain. She squinted, imagining if she looked hard enough she would be able to see through to the other side.
The sky, sea, waves, water, and sand — they had wiped her canvas clear. She was free to work, draw, imagine.
Back at the car, she shimmied out of her bathing suit. A new tattoo series had emerged, with the lone seagull as the central motif.
She paused as she was pulling up her jeans. Eyes were on her. She was being watched.
She scanned the lot for movement, finally spotting two teens sitting in their car. They pretended not to look in her direction. Probably, they’d been watching her the whole time. Little skanks. Locking the door just to be sure, she turned away and ended the show by covering up.
A shadow passed over and she gave a shiver. Not about to let anything sully her day, she shook her head. Just a cloud passing on its way.
A few seagulls dipped over the water at the far end of the beach. With a sigh, she headed back toward the city.
A large sign pointed to an ice cream shop down the road. It was something she would have done as a kid, gone for a treat with Nan or her mom after a day on the beach. She was ready for the memories now.
Everyone else in her family would choose two or more flavours, double cones with bubblegum on top of licorice, or cherry cheesecake atop cookie dough. Shaz preferred the long, slow pleasure of one taste, usually maple pecan. Red maple trees and winter sugar shacks. The sweet pecan a complement to the smooth, milky flavour of the maple cream as it melted on her tongue.
“Hey there.” One of the boys from the parking lot nodded like they were chums.
Shaz shook her head at his confidence.
“Hey, you. I’m talking to you kid.” The man behind the counter yelled. “You speak-y English, China boy?”
Shaz froze. The air became still. A woman in front of her looked away, pretending she didn’t hear. Shaz kept her eyes on the boys, who were probably the same age as her brother. She watched their bodies deflate, then become hard again, in an instant.
There’d been no warning. No confederate flag. No sign affixed to the door.
Leaving without a cone, she didn’t look to see if the boys persevered. You could stay in defiance or walk away in disgust. Neither offered much satisfaction.
Was it living next to the sea that preserved old ideas?
The pain was not new to her. It was a wound that joined other memories in her body, wounds she gathered everywhere she went.
From the car, Shaz stared back at the shop. She couldn’t see if the boys were still in there, or if they’d left. Other cars were coming and going, people still getting their ice cream.
She rubbed her arms up and down, as though something had stuck to her skin. It was not something she could get a doctor’s note for, this feeling. This damage. There were no scars to show. No ugly proof. She found herself rubbing her hands, her head, the turtle at the back of her neck. The hatred was on her skin, almost impossible to remove. Not just sticking to her, but sticking into her, taking something off of her, out of her.
It happened to them all. Her nan, her mom, Desmond.
Out on the street, she’d get a nick. Little pieces at a time. She would barely register them — they were like pinpricks or hangnails. Bothersome and uncomfortable, but hardly cataclysmic. Except that there was a nick every day. Chunks out of the chin, off the shoulder. It was not always directed at her, but it didn’t hurt any less. Every time the police profiled a kid off the street. Every news report describing a Black kid with a hoodie. Every picture of a starving child in Africa. And every kid made to feel they didn’t belong when all they wanted was some ice cream.
The hardest part was that half the time people didn’t notice she was there. They thought she was one of them. If you weren’t paying attention you would think she didn’t look the part.
Heart pounding, she got out of the car, taking short quick breaths across the parking lot. She flung open the door to the shop. The boys must have left, she didn’t see them anywhere. Storming past the line-up, she strode up to the man behind the counter.
“Fuck you and your ice cream.” Shaz tried to make sure her voice didn’t shake. “Pick on someone your own size, you shit!”
Not waiting for a response, she spun around and stomped out. A woman looked up from the picnic table where she sat with her kids, ice cream dripping down their hands.
Shaz looked the woman in the eye. “And fuck you for your silence!”
Straining against her desire to run, tense that someone would say something or come from behind — grab her, hurt her, lynch her — she returned to the car. If someone made a scene, she was the one who would get arrested. White people didn’t have to say they were sorry.
Though she wanted to screech out of the parking lot, she tempered her foot on the accelerator. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. At the on-ramp to the highway, she pulled over onto the shoulder. Her hands shook. Depleted, exhausted, she bent her head to the steering wheel and cried. The serenity of bobbing seagulls, the taste of maple pecan, gone.
5
UPPER RIGHT ARM
labyrinth
FIRST FRANK, THEN HER brother. That was the order she’d decided on. It was something she was going to have to be sure about even if she didn’t know which of the two would be easier.
They hadn’t talked about Desmond again. Not a word. She wasn’t sure if Frank had told anyone else. She hadn’t. Now that he was released from the hospital, she called but got no answer. Texts, messages — nothing. Frank wasn’t going to get back to her. A visit in person was going to be the only way.
She tried a couple of times to visit, approaching the bus stop but veering away at the last minute. She got on the bus once and headed out to the suburbs of Bedford where he was recovering at his parents’ house, but she went right on past into the morass of used car dealers in Sackville.
But today was different. The sun was shining brightly. It was Sunday, a day for atonement. This was the day she would see him.
Mom and Nan would be at church, in the heart of community. Shaz considered going herself, thinking that maybe it would offer some kind of solace, but it had been a long time since she’d been. As a kid and a teenager, it had never resonated for her, Jesus and Mary. She’d stare at the stained glass during the singing and sermons, immersed in the last supper or the ecstasy of the cross. The pain and praise, it was too much.
“You’ll find God, or he’ll find you,” her nana always said. Not wanting to hurt the family, she’d left the matter of her faith a question mark, attending services only at Christmas and Easter. It was a minor deceit, allowing her nan to believe Shaz might one day return to the fold. But Shaz had difficulty imagining He was by her side.
The bus moved from the downtown core into the leafy streets of Bedford. Nan wo
uld be donning her peach sorbet dress, getting ready to swing and dance and sing in the pews, with Jesus raining down upon them. Her nana would pray for her. Shaz hoped it helped one of them.
She got off at Division Street, just past the yacht club, and walked the two blocks up to the house, trying not to feel like she was bearing her own cross as she passed rocky outcrops and boulders that had been blasted aside to create space for roads and homes. A breeze was coming off the ocean, currents soothed by the summer winds.
The house was large: a two-car garage and a manicured lawn that was mostly grass. Cultivated geraniums splashed colour onto the white siding. Frank hated it here.
His mom opened the door and stared for a moment, then caught herself. “Oh, hello Shaz. Glorious day today, isn’t it?” Moving aside to let her in, she said, “He’s just out back.”
Shaz’s mouth had gone dry. She wondered what Frank may have said about the attack.
She could see the shape of him through the French doors. He was sitting overlooking the backyard that was bordered by trees and a rock face of boulders. Left arm to his side, the cast on his wrist coddled cracked ribs.
“Shaz is here.”
Frank remained where he was.
In the awkward silence, his mom looked at Shaz and forced a smile. Opening up the doors, she called out again, “Frank.”
He got up and walked towards them, his face hard. His mom touched him on the shoulder as he went by but he pushed past.
“I’ll just be in the study if you need anything,” she said to Shaz before retreating up the stairs.
Shaz followed Frank into the kitchen. He pulled open the fridge door, grimacing, and Shaz moved in to help.
“I’m fine,” he said, waving her off.
She felt he would have pushed her out of the way if he’d been able.
Shaz retreated behind the island, upon which sat a rack of cutting knives, and waited. Struggling with a container of chocolate milk, Frank winced as he placed it on the counter by the sink. Each movement stabbed Shaz with pain. Frank shuffled around, pausing heavily, reaching carefully, to perform the simple task of pouring drinks.