by Stephen Law
Raising her eyes from his chest, she caught him studying her too.
“Your tattoos, what are they all about?”
People asked her that a lot. Some tattoos, though highly visible, were often deeply personal, their meanings unclear. She debated how to answer, not sure if they had arrived at a place of deep disclosure or if they were still exchanging superficial retorts. She rubbed the star on her hand and studied the artwork that hung on the wall, two cats frolicking in lengths of wool.
A kitten she’d rescued a few months back had been tied to a tree by some cretins on her street. After she got it down, the little guy glued itself to her leg and mewed its way into her kitchen. She’d called it “Niner” though hoped he had plenty more lives left in him when it disappeared two weeks later.
Seemingly content to let her consider her response, Rashid sipped his coffee and picked at his sweet. At once watching him, and looking away, Shaz used the café as the canvas in her piece, with Rashid at its centre. He took in the photos and art that lined the wall, the pillar that divided the room. He looked as if he were trying to detect how the stucco technique had been applied.
A tennis match of gazes — a serve in her direction sent her own gaze spinning away. The young barista at the counter pulled a lever that blew steam into a mug. Shaz was mesmerized by the woman’s green eyes, which refracted light so prettily, like a piece of beach glass. The woman likely did well in tips.
Awaiting her serve, Rashid admired a photo of mountains on the wall behind her. She flexed her hand, noting how the flower shifted when she moved. “They help me remember.”
“Beautiful,” he said.
The photo, or her? She spun the cup around in her hands, wondering if this was the start of new memories.
***
BOULDERING ALONG THE SHORE, off the peninsula. They were going to try to get to know one another, see where things led. They’d taken a Murphy’s tour bus along the South Shore and hopped off at the entrance to Polly’s Cove. Hiking along the trail towards the ocean, Shaz compared strides as they walked. His ankle had healed, but she noticed he was still careful to watch the path beneath his feet.
Feeling clumsy as she led the way up a hill, she was aware of both his condition and his view of her backside as she marched ahead. “Sorry, I didn’t really think this through. I hope it’s okay.” Shaz turned when they crested a hill.
“It’s a lovely day for a walk.” Smack. He dispatched a mosquito feasting on his neck.
“It’s not too far.” The air was fresh, the trees floating canopies of green. They walked mostly in silence, the buzz of crickets, cicadas, and bugs their only accompaniment.
Shaz fought the urge to babble and to second guess each comment or question. On his part, he seemed comfortable walking in the woods and being with her. A scurrying in the bush had them both startled, until a rabbit hopped out. They watched as it scampered away.
“Tell me about Desmond. What’s he like as a brother?”
Nearly tripping on a jutting twig, Shaz restrained herself from flinging forward and fleeing with the bunny through the underbrush.
“Hey look, here we are.” Just in time, they came out into an expanse of shrubs and bare rock, a checkerboard path that led to the sea. She imagined jumping up and hopscotching around, leaping from patch of green to rock top or side. “It’s like nature’s parkour.”
“Cool.” Rashid climbed up the nearest boulder, testing his ankle.
Shaz began to scramble away along the boulders, leaving the questions about family behind.
***
SHE SNUCK A QUICK glance toward him after ringing the doorbell. He smiled and gave her hand a squeeze. She pulled free when the door opened, making as though something had gotten caught in her eye.
“You must be the new friend.” Before she could search Frank’s face for a reaction, Frank turned and led them up the stairs. Gone from his parents’ place, returned to the condo, Frank had called the gathering to celebrate what he called his “return to the world.”
Shaz hadn’t been keen on showing up on her own.
“I’d like to introduce you to William,” Frank said, placing his arm on the shoulder of a dark-haired man who had been sitting beside Aleysha. Shaz couldn’t tell if he seemed overly boastful or a little embarrassed. Having just popped a broccoli bajji into his mouth, William tried not to spit the little florets all over her as he mumbled hello.
He was younger than she would have thought. Shaz simpered a reply, and remained fixed where she stood. Rashid pulled away to introduce himself around.
To refrain from staring, Shaz turned to Aleysha, recognizing the way her friend sized up the man Shaz had brought along: a quick formulation that assessed height, size, intrigue, looks, passion, probability, hormonal congruity, financial prospects, family history and whether it was worth affecting her friendship with Shaz.
A nod devoid of a smile or leer left Shaz uncertain whether Aleysha envied, was indifferent to, or had just dismissed her date for the evening.
“You dressed up?” Aleysha steered her toward the appetizers. Wearing leggings would have made her happy, but Rashid turned up in a long flowing shirt and pressed pants, and the realization dawned on her that she would have to lift her game a bit too. Compared to Aleysha, who was adorned in something both sleek and silky, Shaz felt weighted down in her funeral dress.
As the men conversed, Shaz kept tabs. Rashid appeared relaxed. She hadn’t told him about Frank. It made her wonder whether Frank had discussed her with William.
A sardonic nod to her friend, Shaz said, “You enjoying this?”
“It’s divine.” Aleysha took a nibble of battered fried shrimp.
A buzzer dinged in the kitchen.
“Voila,” Frank said, placing a large plate on the table. Aleysha sat at the head, and Frank had Shaz and Rashid sit opposite him and William.
If he’d been trying to impress, Frank might have served a lamb brochette flambé, drizzled with Drambuie, cutlets ignited so the flames soared above the table, inducing awe in the dinner guests, along with shouts for after-dinner shots. Tonight the group moved through biryani, little leek filled triangle pastries, and a pot of mulligatawny soup that was dished out by William while Frank prepared an arugula salad with a reduced balsamic vinaigrette.
“So you’re a librarian?” Aleysha began the interrogations. Shaz had warned him this would happen.
“I work at North Branch.”
“Looks shabby now, compared to the new one downtown, huh?”
It almost dropped her jaw. What kind of supportive opening was that? Before she had a chance to intervene, Aleysha swung the conversation over to Frank, the architect, for his opinion on the new building downtown.
“It’s all right, I guess.”
“Now, now. Let’s not be jealous.” Placing his hand atop Frank’s, William reminded them, as if they didn’t know, that Frank’s architectural firm had lost the bid.
“Fine, it’s beautiful. They did a great job.” Frank rolled his eyes, though what appeared to be a squeeze on William’s knee did not go unnoticed.
The conversation was battered around, the food was lovely, but Shaz found it hard to stay focused on the storyline.
“That was amazing.” Jumping to clear the table, Rashid was shooed off.
“No, no. You sit down. Let William and me take care of things.” Frank led everyone to the couches that faced the windows overlooking the water.
White chocolate and raspberry sauce dipping bowls served by William were followed by a tray of shot glasses filled with Turkish coffee brought in by Frank. Perched on the arm of the couch, Frank dipped his white chocolate into William’s bowl.
When Frank hosted parties, he was not light with the liquor. When he was amongst chums, for poker and playoffs, he quaffed beer, and when trying to impress colleagues, the Chivas Regal wo
uld appear. Tonight, he served pomegranate juice for dinner chased by coffee on the couch.
Shaz rose to leave as soon as the chocolate was finished. “Ok, thanks for all this. I gotta go.”
Rashid scrambled to follow. “Thank you. That was a lovely evening.” After a quick shaking of hands at the door while Aleysha waved goodbye from the kitchen, he took off after her.
He reached out for her hand, but she shrugged it off, preferring to stalk away in silence.
It was a crisp night, the kind where you dressed lightly when the sun was out and didn’t suspect that the chill would seep back when the moon appeared. Only having brought a light sweater, she felt the goosebumps on her skin.
It made her want to run, to get warm. She wanted to think about nothing but her lungs ripping open, stretched so hard they could snap.
She ran.
Rashid took off right behind her, sprinting to catch up. He kept pace beside her as they raced through the downtown in dress shoes and evening clothes, neither attempting to speak.
When they got to Shaz’s place he plunked himself down on her steps as if he were done in from a full-court press. She bent over her knees, breathing in the air, and stretching out her calf muscles. The cool breeze was welcome as it washed over the sweat on her face.
“I knew I should have worn my other pair.” Dispensing with his dress shoes, Rashid pulled off the sticky socks and rubbed the soles of his feet.
Once she caught her breath, she straightened up, went over to where he was sitting and bent down and kissed him. Then, taking his hand, she led him inside.
11
RIGHT FOREARM
f sharp trumpet
A MATCH DESCRIBES A game of tennis, a small stick used to ignite a flame, the union between two people in love. Or between two people for another purpose, like a donor match. A match to her father.
Snatching a bunch of grapes from the bowl in the kitchen and popping one in her mouth, she retrieved the envelope and took it to her room. The official letterhead and statement of results alongside brochures, forms, and subforms. Dropping them all on her desk beside the vial of blood she’d taken from the hospital, she popped more grapes. The seeds were bitter when she crunched down on them. She swallowed and then kept popping them in, eating until the bunch was gone.
She’d assented to the tests without telling anyone. A confirmation of paternity if nothing else, as if there had been any doubt, but the results were something she imagined she could wield over him, like grapes held over his mouth. She pictured him immobile, while she crushed them, one by one, letting them dribble down his chin, close but out of reach.
The match brought them together. It meant they shared something. They were alike.
Included in the details was mention of an appointment with a psychologist.
This was not something she’d considered. A psychological assessment. To test for what? Toying with the vial of blood, Shaz wondered if she should take it with her and what they would think if she did?
***
WHY WAS THERE NO couch? Lying down would have been better — she could stare at the ceiling for focus. And she wouldn’t have to look at the doctor.
The room was nondescript. The chair, comfortable. Doctor Li, pleasant. Finding herself crossing and uncrossing her legs, she fixed her gaze out the window to the top of the adjacent building. As the doc asked her questions, she stared at the things that were strewn atop the roof: cables, a couple of two by fours, a large pickle pail.
“Why are you willing to do this?”
She wondered if by bounding out the window and retrieving the cable, whether it would be long enough to throw over the side and reach the sidewalk below and if little metal slivers would become embedded in her hands when she slid down.
“Donald needs one, and I have two.”
“Donald is your father?”
A nod in assent. “I like your hair.” It was long, straight, jet black. If Shaz took it and twisted it into a braid and swung out the window, she wouldn’t have to contend with the shards on her palms from the cable.
“What’s your relationship with your family?”
What was the difference between a psychologist and a psychiatrist? The hospital had both. Searching for the office, she’d passed all sorts of clinics and exam rooms as she made her way down the hall: fancying she might enter a magical world when she turned the knob, imagining that if she chose mystery door number three she would be catapulted into some kind of tropical Narnia, absorbed away into a fantasy world.
She turned back to Dr. Li. She was in her forties, maybe late thirties. Shaz glanced around to see if the doctor’s pedigree was hung on the wall. Then she’d be able to see a date and do the math.
It occurred to her that Dr. Li had been writing things in a notebook the whole time she’d been here. She’d filled up more than half a page, yet Shaz felt she’d barely uttered three sentences. Now, the doctor stopped writing. Shaz realized she hadn’t spoken, she hadn’t responded to her question. Dr. Li waited in silence.
“It’s fine,” she replied. Her relationship with her family was fine. “I could do a psi on your writing hand, or maybe on your shoulder? It’s from the Greek. The word for your profession. Meaning mind and soul or something like that. You know, like a big U with an I sliced down the middle. I did it for a student once, the whole Greek alphabet down his arm.”
“Why don’t you want to talk about your family?”
The door was closed, the window was shut. She had come voluntarily on her own. Dr Li didn’t give anything away when she looked at her. Impassive. Like an empty canvas that was hers to fill. If she chose to.
Shaz stood at the office door, uncertain whether she’d given away too little, or just enough. What were they assessing anyways? Dr. Li thanked her for coming and offered nothing further. Did she pass? They had to take her, didn’t they, if she were suitable? Wasn’t it really about them just getting it out of her and into him? Outside, the sun was high and bright and surrounded by a blue sky that seemed as though it had just leaked up from the ocean. People in the city were bright and happy. There was exuberance to their activity: folks out walking dogs, strolling with groceries, riding on bicycles, walking and talking in loud groups.
Aware of the rhythm of her walking, her feet on the sidewalk and the spring in her calves, she wondered if she’d notice the absence of the organ. Would it change her gait? Would her body readjust and allow the other organs to hone in on the empty cavity? Or maybe it would put her off balance and she’d still dream it was there, like a soldier who lost a leg from a landmine but still felt it ache.
Questions about her father, these she was prepared for. But why did Dr Li need to know about the rest of her family? What did her relationship with her mom have to do with anything? “We get along fine.” That’s what she’d said.
She didn’t share the story from when she was in grade eleven: the year she failed gym. The teacher was a letch, commenting on the girls’ shorts and t-shirts. Sidling in tight, he’d demonstrate how to do free throws in basketball, holding on to the girls too long after they made a shot, wanting to hug them when they missed.
When her mom found out she’d skipped all her classes, she was furious. Shaz never got a chance to explain, so they just didn’t talk about it. They hardly spoke at all. Her mom would come down for breakfast, and Shaz would get up. Greetings exchanged as they passed by the bathroom in the mornings; nights when Shaz escaped into the basement after supper.
Shaz had been the one to retreat. As a kid, she shared everything. Her mom dubbed her Chatty Cathy, “because you could talk straight through to the next coming of Jesus.” But that didn’t survive adolescence. It fell to her mom to sit her down and acknowledge that her dad wasn’t going to show up on too many occasions. So Shaz turned away and stopped sharing stories, thoughts, secrets. She took it out on the messenger, until the pra
ctice became a pattern. A pattern she hadn’t been able to break.
Instead of heading home after the assessment, Shaz made her way back to the Public Gardens. At this time of day it was populated with strolling seniors and employees on break from hospitals and businesses. She spied the old groundskeeper and thought he noticed her too, but he kept his distance.
Plucking a single snapdragon, then a few more from the garden bed next to the pond, she gave him a wink and jogged out of the park.
***
NIGHT TIME RAMBLINGS.
Staying out in the city, in their teens, deep into the dark. Nan away for the evening, her mom at the end of a string of shifts, tired and less attentive. Lying about their whereabouts, they strolled around, on their own, unencumbered, with no one aware of where they were, if they were in danger, or if there was cause to worry.
One night, on a walk to the ferry terminal, Ochterlony Street was empty. Occasionally lights would come up the road headed to Portland Street or out to the neighbourhoods, but no one walked the sidewalks. Not around there. Other than the nocturnal squawks of birds, they were alone. The ferries stopped running after midnight and there were no businesses, few residences, and no reasons to be near the water — not then, before the condos sprouted up and the urbane moved in.
Sitting on the wharf where the berms made of rail ties were covered in seaweed and slapped by waves that rattled about in the harbour, Shaz, Aleysha, and Frank watched the lights on the other side of the bay, the lights of Halifax. Voices bounced across the water, the shouts of late night revellers. Specks of conversation were caught and released. It’s where they sat and imagined how they could be anyone, do anything.
Nearing dawn, with the sky still dressed in violet and hoping to sneak into the house and creep into her bedroom in the basement unnoticed, she eased open the door to see her mom awake in the kitchen. A crossword in front of her, the TV muted, Desmond swaddled and asleep in his room.