by Stephen Law
The woman thanked her again. “We won’t be needing you. But we’d love for you to consider being put on our active donor list. We would need you to come into the hospital to sign your consent …”
She disconnected and threw the phone on the bed. She slid to the floor.
She wasn’t going to be a donor. They didn’t need her. She was a match, but was not chosen. Denied. Was it her dad who made the decision or was it solely a medical thing? And who did they choose? Desmond?
There was no one else, far as she knew.
Rising, she stumbled to the bathroom. Head over the toilet, she heaved into the bowl, emptying herself of everything in her stomach. Collapsing to her knees, she threw up some more. Her stomach ached. She took a piece of toilet paper and wiped at her mouth.
It had been her choice whether to save him or not. She’d never considered Desmond would be more suitable. It had seemed like an opportunity calling out to her, allowing for retribution and forcing her father to take her into account. She’d imagined him sitting by his phone, waiting for the call, wondering if he was wanted, loved, cared about, thought of, considered. Now she saw she’d set herself up again. At five, fifteen, or thirty, her father had the ability to disappoint her in ways that transcended missed birthdays and holidays. She never saw it coming and this time was no exception.
Gathering herself together, she stood up in front of the mirror. Her kidney hurt, almost like it was angry to still be inside her. Her kidney, the one that would not go into her father, pulsed like a beating heart, as though agitating to burst through the casing of her body.
Hastily removing her shirt, pulling it over her head. Unhooking bra and dropping it to the floor. Jeans abandoned to the bathroom rug. She stared at herself in the mirror. She felt for the place where they would have cut her open, along the contours of the unmarked skin. Then, using fingers to find her kidney, she began to claw at it with fingernails to get under the skin. Unyielding, elasticity was its defence. Digging and scratching like a dog trying to rid itself of fleas, she dug deeper. If she pulled off enough layers, she would get inside. Screaming, scratching, more and more furious, the welts turned crimson and layers of skin accumulated under her fingernails. Wailing, she fell to the floor, cradling her stomach, arms crossed, holding her insides together.
She tested the truth of it: she was going to keep her kidney and Desmond was going to give his to their father.
Lying on the floor, her body stiff, she clawed her way to her knees, then to her feet. Her stomach was raw, streaked in blood, like she’d been ravaged in a cat fight. She found a white cloth and dipped it into the sink and applied it to her stomach. Wincing, she worked gingerly, but with pressure. The sting made her eyes blink and her body shudder. She rinsed the washcloth, watching the blood swirl down the drain.
With a little hydrogen peroxide and Q-tips, she applied antiseptic to the scratches. Soaking a new cloth with ice cold water, she carried it, bent doubled, to her room. Lying on the bed, she applied the compress to her stomach to numb the pain.
Eyes on the ceiling, hand on her belly.
Ridiculous. Lying as she was. It was ridiculous. She laughed. It started out as a chuckle, then moved into a full belly ripple, causing her to bring her knees to her chest as she convulsed in fits of hilarity and pain. Tears streamed down her face.
He’d done it. He had managed to get under her skin. Again. Just when she’d thought she’d let it go, built enough wall, formed enough scab, scarred, he hurt her again. Disappointed her. Demonstrated how she didn’t measure up. And she’d let it happen. Had in fact brought it upon herself. This time she had wanted him to see what it felt like, and then, sure as shit, it’d been flung right back at her.
She was not going to be free. It was inside her, all of her, fused into the cells. It couldn’t be removed or scratched off. Holding the cloth and trying not to make any sudden movements, she tried to reimagine the scratches, transform them into something different. Her dad hurt her, she hurt herself. It was endless. Her body a tapestry of their history: her eyes shedding tears, her lungs holding screams, her kidney carrying bitterness. And her heart?
Laughter subsiding, Shaz touched the sores on her belly, following the erratic lines created by her fingernails. She brushed over them, as though using charcoal on a drawing, smudging out the concrete, the definitive. Blending her work, she chose colours that were both bright and dark, layering them. She imagined a canvas on her stomach with toucans and ravens, foliage and flowers, taking their shape from the scratches and scars, making something new out of these old wounds.
Spent, her arms dropped to her side, and sleep crept in.
***
SHAZ AWOKE AND LOOKED around, startled. It hurt. Touching her stomach, she glanced at the clock. She’d taken a short nap, just long enough for the sun to go down. Exhausted, she felt as though she could sleep for a week. Rolling onto her side made it hurt. Lying on her back wasn’t comfortable either. Her stomach ached, and her futon squeaked every time she flipped.
The room felt like a balloon that was losing air. Imagining the paint from the walls cracking and ceiling buckling from the pressure, she jumped out of bed, wincing as she dressed and pushed some clothes into a bag. She burst out the door, just in time for her room to disappear into a rabbit hole.
Out on the street, she stood under the streetlight. Running between the halos, not wanting to disappear in the darkness, she ran to the studio.
The tattoo designs and photos shone under the bright lights, all of which Shaz had turned on. In the back, she lowered herself down onto the chair that reclined into a bed. She left the blinds open.
Her studio was supposed to be her chrysalis, where she could creep in like a caterpillar, where every limb represented a tangle in her life. With sufficient quiet, head bent to work, she underwent a mysterious metamorphosis and the art emerged.
She conjured the image but kept getting mired in the red goo that was left over: the metabolic waste that was the by-product of change. After bringing home a chrysalis project in elementary school, on seeing the red, Desmond had asked Nan if the butterfly had been shot.
In every transformation, something is left behind. Shaz feared she would forever be a part of her father’s waste and now maybe that from her brother.
The thought caught her breath. It spun her around the room, carrying the air from her lungs. She felt as though she were suffocating. Jumping off the table, she ran to the front entrance and yanked open the door. Gulping in air, she tried to stretch out her breath. The frenzy in her mind was at war with the air in her lungs. Breathe in, breathe out. Hyper aware of the feel of her body as it leaned against the building, she tried to concentrate on her feet on the ground. Connecting with her body calmed the panic. The thought of going back inside cut the breath out of her again. Where the hell could she go?
Frank would offer his apartment, but she didn’t want to sleep on the couch. William had invaded that space, and she was uncertain whether he would welcome her intrusion. Aleysha was away in Toronto, “part family, part business, mostly pleasure.” She couldn’t go to Nan’s — seeing Desmond was not an option.
“Can I come over?”
“You okay?”
It was a relief to hear his voice. The visions that had been spinning through her head slowed to a scroll. She began to doubt and the scroll sped up again. Too much, too soon. Was she ready for an entanglement?
“Come over. We’ll rearrange. We’ll make room.”
“No, that’s silly. I’m fine.” But she couldn’t go home, and she didn’t trust herself in the studio.
“I’ll come to your place, then.” Rashid wasn’t going to let her go.
“No!” Did she sound as panicked as she felt?
“Then come here. It’s fine. I’m serious.”
Hidden in the shadows between the buildings, Shaz waited for a taxi, then ran up the stairs
to his apartment.
“You’re here!” Toshe rescued the bag from her hands and portered it off to her room. Of course, she couldn’t just barge in and have Rashid all to herself so he could hold her all night. There was a family here, traditions and protocol.
Another mistake.
“Tea?” Rashid’s mom pressed a cup into her hands.
When she was young she had liked to sit on the playground roundabout to be pushed around and around. The kids only got off when they were about to puke or so dizzy that they would collapse to the ground. The body always recovered, finding its centre. The centrifugal forces acting on the brain would stop and the world would right itself. As Shaz sat drinking the tea, the world continued to spin, but she could feel it starting to slow. She wanted to weep, but she didn’t want to startle the kids. She’d finish the tea, then go.
Toshe and Boyden played chase down the hall.
Rashid’s mother patted her hand, and topped her up. Nobody asked her anything, they just went along with their lives.
Someone pulled out a board game and the family gathered round. Varunesh even emerged from his room. There were cards, a board, dice. Shaz didn’t bother to follow it, and they didn’t make her play. The spinning had run out of steam, but it left her exhausted and sleepy. She settled on the couch.
“You going to be okay?” When everyone had retired to their rooms, Rashid came back to hold her. Now would be the time to leave. Boyden peeked at them around the corner.
“Go to sleep you brat.”
Sticking out his tongue, the boy turned tail. Rashid followed and quietly but firmly closed his bedroom door.
“I feel stupid.” She looked around. The whole house had been thrown in an upheaval, all sorts of accommodations made, just for her.
“We could go back to your house. I could stay with you there.”
Shuddering, she glanced down the hall, towards the bathroom, to ensure it was free. No, not there.
“I, ah, guess I’ll stay. If that’s okay?”
He drew her into his arms, holding her as her eyes searched the corridor, waiting for something to implode. Close, enclosed, held, she struggled to be okay with it.
It would have been nice to stay like that, in each other’s arms, but Rashid had to work tomorrow. She would too. Life had to go on. With a quick kiss to his cheek, she rose to make her way toward Toshe’s bedroom.
“Thanks,” she said quietly as he watched her go.
Toshe was in bed, under the covers, eyes wide, nightlight illuminating the room.
Leaving her T-shirt on, Shaz undressed. “Do you mind?” She sidled up to the bed.
“Oh my gosh, no.” Making room, she helped Shaz under the covers. The girl’s body was rigid with excitement. Rolling to face her, Shaz tried not to wince. “How are you?”
“I never had a big sister.” Her smile was infectious.
“Nor have I.” The sister she had wanted turned out to be a brother. “Can I braid your hair?”
Toshe sat up, pillow to her back. “Uncles don’t know how to braid. If Paati is not around, they try to do it, but they never get it right.” Toshe spoke like she’d waited eight years to share all her thoughts about hair, school, Boyden, boys. Finally, a sister.
Despite her intentions, it slipped Shaz back to when she’d have eagerly welcomed a sibling she could share secrets with.
Nan and Shaz took turns getting up in the night when her mom was back on shift work. Shaz’d give him a bottle and play with his feet, little toes that were the size of her knuckle. Then she’d rock him to sleep, lulled herself by the warmth of his body, the aroma of sweetly soured milk. When he was learning to talk, because he couldn’t pronounce either the “sh” or the “z,” her name came out more like a laugh: “Ha, Ha, Has.” He’d run and run till he was out of breath, then spin in circles till he’d fall down, always still with energy to spare.
The age gap made a difference. Mostly because when she got older, her own interest in her brother waned. She wondered how he must have felt.
Shaz and Toshe shared stories. Having the warm little person beside her, Shaz’s anxiety dissipated and she was able to relax and, finally, sleep.
The next morning. Toshe was already up and getting ready for school when Shaz woke.
“Good morning.” Shaz stifled a yawn.
The little girl jumped back onto the bed. “I tried to be quiet. But I have school and I wanted to see you in the morning.”
The sounds of breakfast preparations filtered into the room. Before Shaz could get up, Boyden burst through the door and jumped onto the bed. The two kids then bounced up and down trying to see if they could get Shaz to pop like a Mexican jumping bean. Shaz tried not to cradle the wounds on her belly.
“Hey, hey, it’s time for breakfast everyone, and then we have to get you to school.” Shooing the kids out of the room, Rashid turned back to Shaz, who was trying to pull the blanket up, feigning decency.
He rewarded her with a wink. “I’d stay, but I have to get the kids ready for school. Take your time.” He closed the door.
Alone in bed, she probed the scratches. They were tender, but the inflammation had receded. She probably hadn’t done any permanent damage. Extracting herself from the sheets, she dressed carefully and joined the family in the kitchen as they were readying to leave amidst cereal bowls and backpacks, lunch boxes and runners. Shaz offered to accompany them on the walk to school, which was on the way whether she was going to the studio or home. She couldn’t stay away forever.
As they headed out to the street, Boyden took her hand. The light of day gave way to possibility, and she thought about buying some sage to clear the rooms of her demons.
***
BUSES PULLED UP AND left, kids flowed into the building, the stragglers appeared and disappeared. Rashid and Shaz sat on a bench at the school park and faced the sun. She could see the students settling into classrooms through the window. Everyone was moving about, finding their seats and awaiting the morning announcements.
When she was the same age, she painted the sky purple and yellow. Her teacher told the kids to colour things the way they were: grass is green, sun is yellow, sky is blue. Shaz changed her picture, to get it right, but in her mind, alternatives were always possible. What they said was true and what she saw to be true didn’t necessarily have to be the same.
The breeze had licked salt from the ocean and she could almost taste it as she breathed in the air. And the sky? Today, it really was blue.
Rashid was patient, but she knew she had to tell him what had driven her to his house.
“I was tested to be an organ match for my dad.” It was harder to say than she thought. Her stomach clenched and she had to pause before she continued. “He needs a kidney.” A welling began to fill in her eyes. “I was a match but turns out he didn’t want mine.”
A tear dropped onto her arm. Salt in the ocean. Salt in the body.
Gathering herself together, Shaz described the process, the debates, her brother agreeing to the tests, then she did too, and finally the phone call, the details just as they were, emotions packed back down.
“So will Desmond go through with the donation?”
She didn’t know what Rashid knew about her brother. Desmond was his friend, part of the gang from parkour. This might be the time to tell him about Desmond, about everything.
A car drove up to the front of the school — a late drop off. Shaz jumped as the door slammed, causing pain in her belly. The scratches were still raw.
“You okay?” He looked genuinely worried.
Standing, she pulled him forward as she wiped her sleeve on her cheek. “Time for work.” Taking his hand, she walked with him to the library, letting him talk about the kids, school, the weather, anything but the things that coloured her world.
14
LOWER BACK
&nb
sp; budgie
THE CALENDAR ON HER phone tracked appointments so at a glance she could see what was on the horizon: who may be coming in the studio, at what time, what else she had scheduled, or what might be upcoming in the week or month. Or conversely, she could look back to see the last time a client had come in for a visit. It also displayed birthdays, holidays, and other milestones. Fiddling with the screen, she sat on her chair in the studio. There were gaps in the calendar, items she’d never had the opportunity to include. Things she would have added if her kidney had been chosen: a timeline, for when to abstain from alcohol, notes about vitamins, visits to the doctor. Given the chance, she would have tried to go to bed early. It would have been like the care you take if you’re pregnant.
But would she have bothered? Maybe she wouldn’t have, given who he was, what he had done. But she’d never been given the choice. Never had a chance to decide.
A guy came to the window and put his face up to the glass, cupping his hands to look in. She could tell when they were interested in ink or curious to see if they could get a glimpse of a bare-breasted client. Standing up sent him scampering off. Voyeurs didn’t loiter for long. They were easy to shove off.
Her dad less so.
One time he’d come into the studio when Aleysha and Frank happened to be in the back going through the albums, concocting stories about clients. They were waiting for Shaz to finish cleaning up before they headed to a show at the Oxford.
Shaz hadn’t yet flipped the sign to closed.
The door chimed and Shaz froze as he barged into the studio. She let go of her cloth. “What do you want?”
“Honey.” He moved towards her like he was going to give her a hug. She positioned herself behind the counter, out of his grasp.
Banging into a chair, he stumbled backwards. “So this, ah … is where you tattoo … tag … the fleet?”
A cloud of whiskey coated him like a shroud of shame. Conscious of the sudden quiet in the back room, all Shaz wanted was to hustle him out the door.
“What do you want?”