Under Her Skin

by Stephen Law

  Allowing his breath to echo as he rocked, she kept herself from making noise, letting his sounds fill the space.

  She let him succumb. His sweat trickled down her back and she pulled away, and told him he could go. There was a hesitation, like he wanted to ask her questions, get her name, maybe a number. But, she kept her head in her pillow.

  He placed her clothes back on the bed. She kept her eyes shut to ensure she couldn’t be drawn in, convinced otherwise. Boxers back up, pants on, shirt buttoned, he crouched down to put on his shoes rather than disturb her on the bed. He was willing to do it her way.

  He closed the door and she turned to the ceiling, bringing her hands to her face. She drew in the scent. Her body, her control.

  ***

  THE DOOR WAS LOCKED. Assuming people came in at all hours to get sustenance, relief, to grieve, to pray, she was surprised. But the big oak door of the Basilica wouldn’t budge. Considering ringing the doorbell off to the side, she chose not to. Anonymous. That had been her preference. Enter the sanctuary, soak in the stillness, fill with conviction, attain clarity.

  Places open late at night in the city were few. Coffee shops and fast food outlets were options, but those weren’t the atmosphere she was searching for. The public gardens closed at dusk — no one wanting ruffians running amok, scaring the ducks, sneaking off the paths and onto the cut grass and flowerbeds. The Halifax Public Gardens were for strolling, not lawn bowling or playing hide and seek, and certainly not for late-night cavorting.

  It might be just the place after all.

  Shaz eyed the fence. The bit of parkour training gave her the confidence to give it a try. She tucked her pants into her socks to ensure she didn’t get stuck on the iron spikes on top.

  Setting aside the image of some early morning senior strolling past while she hung upside down, she braced herself for the launch. The leap, up, and then down again, not quite. A failure in conviction, at least on her first try. But it was close enough to indicate that she could.

  With a stronger breath, a run, and an earnest launch, she scaled up and over, free falling onto the grass on the other side. She checked to make sure that no one had noticed, then pulled herself up. Pleased, she made her way past the duck ponds, the floral displays and park benches to the centre of the grounds.

  In the middle of the park, in the middle of the night, in the middle of the month at the dead centre of the gazebo structured bandstand she sat down and thought about whether she was going to let them cut her open and give her dad what he wanted.

  ***

  MORNING COMES EARLY TO the gardens. Pigeons and crows begin their reconnaissance to find scraps missed in the previous day’s scavenge. Ducks begin their breakfast dialogue, chatting at one another as they glide along the ponds, dipping their beaks in the water and making dives for plant morsels and bugs. Daybreak reveals dew collected on the patchwork spiderwebs that dot the grounds.

  Shaz fell asleep, curled tight. Her clothes were damp with the moisture of the night. Her hips were sore as she stretched, working out the impression of the bandstand’s wooden floor. Other than a mosquito bite behind her ear, she was invigorated by the sleep. Her skin felt like it had renewed energy and spirit. The cool air filled her lungs and she inhaled the morning blooms of the garden, taking in the bright colours of the dahlias, roses, zinnias, and mums. Her own core had bloomed along with the bouquets and opened up to greet the day. Stretching her neck, she arched her back and stared past the roof into the blue and white wisps of the morning sky.

  Ensuring she was still alone and hidden by the foliage of the trees, bushes and fences, she removed her shoes and socks, carefully placing them under the bench of the bandstand. As she was unable to see the streets, anyone there wouldn’t be able to see her. It felt very early still — few people would be about. Shrugging off her jacket, she undid and slid down her pants, and drew her shirt over her head. Bra unclipped, underwear off, she folded everything and placed the bundle neatly by the entrance.

  The breeze brushed along her skin. Shaz walked down the steps onto the gravel path of the garden. Each step she placed with care, so as not to sting her foot on rocks, thorns or twigs. Crossing onto the forbidden lawns she lay down, rolled over, then settled onto her back, letting the sun kiss the dew on her chest. Eyes closed, the rays penetrated her lids, lighting them like a movie screen. The heat of her breath mixed with the cool of the air, and the tingle of the grass tickling her back and the skin of her legs made her feel alive.

  The twittering of the birds and the rumble of the early morning traffic as it encircled the park lulled her. She drank it all in.

  A mallard crossed her path in the sky above. It settled on the pond as if it were alighting upon a pillow. Shaz stood and followed the duck. Walking to the lip of the pond she let her toes break through the water, then as though called by a siren, she drew forward, past some reeds. The water held some of the heat of the previous day and seemed warmer than the air around. So she went in further. The water reached her calves and knees and up to her thighs. Standing in the pond, the bottom squishy in her feet, she felt like she were at a spa. The ducks seemed to be watching her, eyeing what she would do. Diving, ducking her head down, she swam to the middle, immersed in the water, as though exalting in baptism.

  Floating, gliding around the pond, she took in its environs and moved with the ducks. Her hair dangling, her face toward the sun, buoyed by the water, she stretched out to the world.

  Then, the feeling of being watched. A groundskeeper stood at a distance, probably dumbstruck at being greeted by a woman skinny-dipping in the duck pond. Taking one more stroke, Shaz came to the edge, stood up in the muck and strolled out. Ambling back to the bandstand, she ascended the stairs. A shake of her hair to remove a stuck reed, she pulled an elastic from the pocket of her pants and tied her hair back. Standing tall, she pulled on her pants, then draped on her jacket. Not bothering with socks and shoes, she gathered her clothes and descended the steps. The gardener kept at a distance. Shaz headed along the path, picking her way amongst the pebbles, gravel and twigs. Stopping at the fountain, she took a drink, zipped up her jacket, then headed out past the gates and onto Spring Garden Road, toward the hospital.

  ***

  SHE DUCKED INTO A washroom and got dressed properly, then waited for the clinic to open. Despite the early arrival, it was still a wait till they called her number. That was okay. Today, she had time.

  Once summoned, she was led into a small room and directed to roll up her sleeve. Hopping up on the examining room table, the young nurse explained the procedure. Before she had a chance to continue, Shaz interrupted. “Does it matter?”

  The night had given her time to decide. Even up to the morning, she hadn’t been sure.

  “Will what matter?” The nurse was lining up bottles on the counter.

  “The needles.”

  Stopping her puttering, the nurse looked at her.

  “My tattoos.” Shaz pointed at the flower and the meerkat, the two most obvious. “Will these make me ineligible to be a donor?” Licensed and certified, she took great care in her practice, always using rubber gloves, sterilized equipment, anything to avoid infection. Yet, spotting the tracks that led up her arm recalled the incident with the frat boys. She hadn’t always been careful.

  In the bandstand under the stars, she had convinced herself not to even bother coming in, assuming that with one look they’d reject her. But by morning, she was convinced she should at least try to find out. If nothing more, it would confirm how incompatible they were. And if she was sent away, then the decision would have been made for her. If they couldn’t take ink, they couldn’t take her.

  “The tests will indicate if there’s a problem.”

  One excuse down. How many more to go?

  “Shall we continue?”

  Shaz shrugged her assent. The nurse affixed the rubber band around her
bicep.

  Veins puffed up, and with a flick to the skin, the nurse inserted the needle, slowly, far past the depth Shaz would go with clients. The prick was the same, it was the depth that was different.

  Crimson blood left her body and filled the vial.

  “I could have been a van Eyck or a da Vinci or Raphael.” Her dad was an artist of sorts, a sophisticated doodler who could scratch portraits on a whim.

  He whipped a box of twenty-four crayons out from behind his back. The pack even came with its own built-in sharpener. Shaz was fifteen, but she took it anyway. It wasn’t until after he left that she researched the names he’d mentioned, real artists.

  To make money on the side, he did pencil and charcoal drawings of navy frigates, schooners, portraits of wives and naked girlfriends, whatever the guys on board were willing to pay for.

  Hers was a distinctive style, one she borrowed from her dad after discovering a bunch of discarded portraits in a box tucked in an alcove behind the furnace — stuff he must have moved in before he moved out again. Signed with a looping D, for Donald, with the date on the back of every effort.

  A nick of blood pooled around the needle in her arm.

  Shaz was reminded of the drawings and how she had melted the crayons for a high school art project. The idea had been to use found items that could be transformed and created into something new. She sharpened each crayon, catching the shavings in little bowls then melted them with a Bic lighter. She crafted a scrapbook using his drawings as inspiration, and covering up parts of the pictures with crayon wax shapes. The wax caused the elements in the drawing to either stand out or fade away, be distorted or become amplified, rendering an almost 3D geographical relief over images and body parts. A pink and red dribble down the leg of one lady earned praise from her art teacher and derision and hoots from the boys in the class.

  Shaz dipped her finger in the blot before the nurse had a chance to wipe it clean: blood red, seeming to dilute and absorb back into the body at her touch. The nurse apologized and Shaz waved her off, rubbing the blood into her skin with her thumb, making it go away, as if it had never appeared.

  Two bottles complete, side by side in the little rack. Shaz reached to touch one. It was still warm.

  The nurse was absorbed in her task, eyes on the last needle. “Do another.”

  Glancing at the paperwork, the nurse smiled. “I only need three.” She was almost finished and ready to remove the needle.

  “You only have two.” Shaz palmed the vial, her hand out of sight. Checking her memory, the nurse examined the needle in the arm, and then looked to the counter, to be sure.

  Shaz could tell she was weighing her options. A reed still clung to her hair and she had muck from the duck pond smeared on her elbow.

  Without looking Shaz in the eyes, the nurse grabbed another vial and made as though she were reviewing details on the chart.

  When the fourth bottle was filled, the nurse removed the needle and applied a cotton ball under a bandage. “Keep your fingers pressed on this for a minute or so.”

  Shaz pressed down.

  “Rest here for a bit in case you’re dizzy, and then you are free to go.” The nurse stole out of the room. Sitting up, patting the vial secured in her pocket, Shaz slid her arm through the sleeve of her jacket and slipped out of the hospital.

  At home, she placed the vial onto the centre of her desk and sat on the floor, gazing up at it. She wondered if blood went bad.

  ***

  A KNOCK ON THE door to her room. “Someone to see you,” her housemate said.

  “Better not be some kid selling chocolates for a football team.” Shaz pushed past Brian, who loved letting door knocking vendors and religious types loose onto his housemates.

  “Not today,” he snickered as he darted down the hall.

  At the door, Shaz got ready to unleash her “I’m not interested” spiel.

  It was Rashid. On her landing.

  She was not prepared for him. Her hair was drawn into a messy ponytail, her face was unwashed, her shirt smelled of sweat, she wore no bra, and she sported pants that had been wiped with the remnants of yesterday’s curry. She put her hand up to her mouth to keep her breath from wafting in his direction.

  “It’s good to see you.” His smile, despite her appearance, was large.

  Recovering, she responded with, “Tea?”

  Rashid sat on their ratty couch while she raced into the kitchen and gargled with honey and lemon. Dawdling to let the water boil, she tried to compose her thoughts and emotions.

  Herbal or caffeinated? Deciding it didn’t matter she dropped two Earl Grey bags into a couple of cracked cups, ran her finger over her teeth, and went back into the living room.

  “Do you take milk or sugar? I forgot to ask.”

  “No, this is fine. Tea I take black.” Rashid took the cup from her hand.

  She considered standing over him, glaring down on him while he sat. Instead, she plopped herself right beside him, to see if she could make him squirm.

  “So, does this constitute stalking?” she asked.

  “I hope not.” He shifted to get a little room. “I knew you were off Mondays from the sign at the studio. And your brother gave me your address.”

  She bet he did — he knew exactly where she lived. Peering into the cup she wondered what would happen if she let the tea out of the bag.

  “I missed you.” He took a sip, then put his cup down. “I mean, you haven’t been to parkour. I haven’t seen you around. You appeared, then you were gone. Missing superhero alert!” A little smirk, then he picked up his tea again, to hold rather than drink. “Have I done something wrong?”

  “What are your kids doing today?” There was no need to bother with pretence now.

  “They’re in school,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Library programs are weekdays at three p.m.”

  Sitting up straight, not letting him look away, their faces closer than might be comfortable, she intoned, “No, I mean, your kids.”

  He leaned away to put some distance between them. “You mean Toshe and Boyden?”

  She searched his face, unable to tell if he was acting dumb or actually unsure.

  “I saw you with your kids,” she said. She felt like leaning forward, face right up to his, but she held herself back.

  “Where?”

  It took her a second to fit her answer into something plausible. “At a bus stop.”

  A quizzical look crossed his features, like he were trying to recall the moment. His face grew quiet.

  Conscious of the tea in her hand, she felt its warmth radiate through her palms. If only she could take some of it, fold it into a flame, and blast it right into him.

  “They’re not my kids,” he told her. “Not technically.”

  She brought the cup to her lips.

  “Toshe is eight and Boyden is six,” he explained, “They’re my sister’s kids. She was my baby sister.”

  Shaz remained upright, but felt as though her bones were disintegrating into the couch.

  “She died of cancer almost four years ago. The dad was never in the picture. So my mom, brother, and I take care of them. So, yeah, they are my kids. They’re my family.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Shaz felt sick.

  Rashid pushed his cup away.

  “Listen, I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. How about we go out, get an eclair or something, start this whole thing over again?”

  She put her hand to her spinning belly and could feel her heart racing. No kids, but maybe he still had a wife, there could still be a wife.

  Sensing her hesitation and following her logic, he lifted his hand. No ring. “I’m not married. Single in fact. So how about it? Another chance?”

  Could she trust him? Remembering how they met, him on the ground, the time in the studio
, she realized she wanted to.

  He was waiting for her response.

  Struggling to put these new pieces into place, she said, “Sure.” It sounded more definitive then she felt. “But, just let me go get dressed into something a little more suitable.”

  A big grin spread across his face. “You look suitable to me.”

  Shaz smiled quick and ran off to her room.

  ***

  WANDERING THROUGH THE RESIDENTIAL streets, the sound of real traffic never too far off, they followed the acrid smell of roasting beans to the Java Blend on North Street. Shaz inhaled deeply, as though she could get a fix just by breathing.

  “That whole thing with the tattoo in your studio, bit of a ruse, really. It was just an excuse to see you.” Perhaps he was trying to get all the misconceptions out of the way, eliminate any misunderstandings. Tattoo or no, the thought made her tingle. He held the door. She let him go first.

  “I didn’t figure you for a piercing either. You should see some of the places where I put those things.”

  They placed their coffee order and Shaz paid before he had a chance.

  “Thought this was my invitation?”

  Sipping the frothy foam on her drink, she shrugged.

  A table by the window in the corner gave them a bit of privacy, but also a view of the cafe and the street. She sat down and faced him. The walk over had settled her stomach. “I think a nose ring would look quite fetching on you.”

  Raising his hand to his face, he said, “The kids would probably try and pull it out.”

  Shaz laughed, imagining him being led around like an elephant. Not quite ready for star-eyed gazing, she glanced around, taking in the various students and freelancers in the café: the mid-day itinerant crowd, in the thick of things, or between things, or with naught else to do. Turning back, she caught Rashid in the act of picking the chocolate off the top of his pastry. She envisioned a prairie falcon tattoo on his right breast, guarding the heart. She imagined the bird in flight, the breadth of its wingspan rising to his collarbone. She liked that the falcon lived on cliffs and flew low to find its prey, free to secure what it needed on its own.