by Stephen Law
“I want naked … make her lady … ah … here.” Pulling up his shirt, it got caught around his head and he struggled to get his arms out of his sleeves. He was thin, like an addict.
“Put your shirt on Donald.”
“A redhead … make her pre … etty.” He pointed to his upper chest, tapping it.
Frank stepped out from the back room then. “I think it’s time to go, Mr. Miller. The shop is closed.”
Aleysha was by his side, arms folded. They dared him to step forward.
“It’s okay guys.” Shaz motioned them to stand down. “It’s time to go.”
“I just want a tattoo … fucking.” He brushed her hands away as she led him to the door. “Give me … a fucking tattoo.” He yelled into the street. “My own daughter … won’t give me a god damn tattoo …”
A last push and he was out. Door shut. She watched him stumble away, his shirt hanging from his hands. It was hard to turn around. This wasn’t new to her friends, but she felt splintered by the visit just the same. All she wanted was to go home and get drunk.
“I still think Lauren Bacall trumps Dorothy Dandridge any day.” Frank moved her aside gently so he could get to the door.
“That’s just because you’re white,” Aleysha said, following. At the door she flipped the sign and flicked off the lights. “What do you think?”
Out on the street they could still see him ahead, stumbling along the sidewalk. Shaz locked the door and tucked herself between her friends, walking arm in arm with them in the opposite direction to the classics night at the movies. “I’m a Lena Horne fan myself.”
Shaz turned her focus back to the calendar as she swiveled in the chair. Her father’s condition had deteriorated so the date of his surgery had been moved up. She’d added it to her calendar labelling it simply as “today.” She swiped past “today,” looking ahead. And then she looked back. Turning the calendar off, she dropped the phone onto the top of her work space. “Today” was yesterday.
***
THE POCKET WATCH WAS in her bedside table drawer, buried underneath empty ink bottles and discarded receipts. It was her grandfather’s, the only thing she had from him. The chain had been lost ages ago, but she treasured the watch, its beautiful ticking, the roman numerals, the feel of the round, heavy piece in her hand.
She wound it up. It still kept time. Removing the alarm clock on the table and placing it on the floor, she replaced it with the watch. Lying atop her comforter, she followed the ticking hand as it made its way round the face.
Picking it up, she played with the clasp, popping the cover open like a clam. Would time stop if she let it wind down?
She closed the watch, put it in her pocket, and headed out.
***
STANDING IN THE PARK, facing out over the water, she could see the grass had been tended to. A bike and strolling path cut through the middle. She noticed a bench had been gouged with inscriptions: “I love you.” “You suck.” “We rule.”
The bushes had been pruned and the park felt … managed. Subdued.
Ceres cranes crowded the view of the horizon, their hydraulic lifts moving shipping containers off boats from China. The cranes were painted orange at the tip to distinguish them from the sky.
She stared at the rough waves on the water, searching to see if she could spy the ocean releasing salt into the air, imagining the breeze batting it back and forth, depositing traces everywhere.
The highway behind and around her head blocked the park from expanding up the hill. It had been contained. Kept in its place, as intended.
Sparrows landed and pecked the ground beside the bench. An old lady had left them morsels to feed on when she left, ensuring none would go hungry.
Shaz wanted to hold one, speak with it, examine the browns, shades of black, flecks of yellow and white of its colouring. She wanted to feel the feathers in her hand and feet on her palms.
The birds parted when she approached, but didn’t scatter. She stared at one who seemed to be eyeing her presence with suspicion.
“May I?” Picking up a crumb from the ground, Shaz straightened and offered it to the bird. The bird gave her a quizzical look, then went back to foraging.
Strolling along the path, bending down, she plucked a blade of grass and wondered if you could smell regret, if it came out of the earth and was clipped off with each cutting. Inhaling the scent, she held it to her nose.
With her dead grandfather’s watch in her pocket and a piece of grass from Africville in her hand, she went to the hospital.
***
TREES EXPRESSED THEMSELVES IN shades of green, then moved along to bright yellow, fiery orange and scarlet red, the walking felt like replenishment to her soul.
She should have spoken with Desmond before today, and perhaps like a born-again sinner, he would have found redemption and been returned to the righteous. Then somehow, with the transformation in his mind, it would follow in his body, and when his kidney was inserted into Donald, the transformation would travel along, infusing into her father — transforming him too. But she hadn’t talked to Desmond.
She imagined them lying side by side on the gurneys as they waited for surgery where she could have confronted them together. A kind of Hollywood redemption. Maybe it would have been easier that way. But the surgery took place before she was ready.
A call from her mom let her know everything had gone okay. They had been moved to the post-op floor, where they would spend the next few days under close observation.
The time had come for recovery.
Shaz passed a little boy who was trying to rake leaves into a pile with his hands.
“Can I give you a hand?”
The little boy glanced towards the house: stranger danger alert.
Grabbing a scoop, she put it on his pile, and then went and grabbed a few more, till it was big enough for the boy to jump into.
He eyed her with anticipation. “You go first.”
“No, you go ahead.” Standing to the side, she watched as he flew in with a shriek. With leaves floating down from his head and shoulders, he emerged victorious.
“Have fun.” Shaz picked up a leaf that had shifted from green and was making its way to red. “I gotta go.”
As she left him, she slowly pulled the leaf apart until it was just a skeleton, a vein, stripped of its vital covering.
***
WORDS ON BUSES AND billboards, store signs, brand names, cars, posters, coffee cups, and newspapers. Words were everywhere. She passed the site of Doull’s Bookstore — it was boarded up now, no new tenant in sight. The plywood was covered in posters for shows, clubs, and theatrical productions.
The store had books strewn upon every surface. It was there that years ago she picked up on old encyclopedia that remained on her bookshelf still. Leafing through it, she found the word “family,” nestled there between familiar and famine. From the Latin, a derivative of familia. For denizens of the 1400s it referred to servants of the household, later it was understood to be “those connected by blood,” and, until the early 1800s, “a family man” was understood to be a thief, derived from the slang sense of a “fraternity of thieves.”
Shaz wondered what meaning it held today.
As she walked past, she imagined Doull’s still with its business here and all the words from all the books gathering up in a great swirl as though magnetically, picking up more and more into a great mass, and offering themselves to her. Maybe then she’d have a way to express what she needed to say.
On she walked, heading to the hospital, heading to her family.
***
STROLLING THE WARD CORRIDOR, Shaz suddenly ducked into the nearest room and breathed into her jacket. It was Shelly, making her way down the hallway with her big hair, wafting a trail of perfume at her heels. Shaz should have known she’d be here, but her mind was a d
istracted mess. How was she going to avoid dealing with Grandma Shelly?
Shaz turned to find an old lady eyeing her from the bed where she sat upright.
“Sorry, I, ah, I, don’t like needles.” She pointed to her shoulder where one might get a shot of cortisone.
“That’s okay honey. I would hide, too, if I could.” The woman had a glint in her eye. “You don’t have a chocolate bar on ya by any chance? I’m diabetic, so they won’t let me have any of that in here.”
Shrugging Shaz peered out the door to see if Shelly had passed by. “Sorry.”
It had been years since she’d seen her father’s mother.
Shelly lived in the residential sprawl of Lower Sackville, on the outskirts of the city. Her dad told her Shelly lived there “‘because it’s close to the Harness Track, and if mom is lucky she can call a cab to bring her home. If she’s empty handed, she could always walk.”
Once a year, Nan would drive Shaz to visit before heading over to First Lake for a hike if the weather was kind, or to a coffee shop to read the paper until the visit was over. Never venturing past the sidewalk, Nan always stationed herself in the driver’s seat with her eye on the door. She waited for Shaz to go in, and she was never late in picking her up.
Lemonade and Mr. Christie chocolate chip cookies were what Shaz remembered, permanent imprints from the visits. Those, and being expected to sit and watch Judge Judy or the Montel Williams Show while Shelly smoked and talked on the phone. Shaz wasn’t to move or touch anything.
Pictures of uncles, aunts and cousins greeted her as she went down the hall to the washroom, folks she’d never been introduced to. Reconnaissance of the house had revealed that, even after Desmond was born, there were no pictures of either of them. Shaz stopped going a long time ago.
After a couple of cycles through Auction 45 cards with Shaz in the visitors chair, and the swinging meal tray acting as their table, a nurse popped into the room to inform Shaz that Myrtle’s visiting hours were over.
“Come see me again sometime.” Myrtle twinkled as Shaz left the room.
Deep breaths in the corridor ensured that the perfume had long since dissipated and Shelly was gone.
Everything was bright, the lights, the walls.
Confirming the watch was still in her pocket, she twisted the blade of grass in her fingers. The echoes of family were all around.
She skirted the nursing station and found the room by the names on the door: a semi-private room in the recovering care wing. Semi-private meant you could hear everything that was being shared on either side. It was a relief she hadn’t done the surgery herself: sharing space afterwards would have been unbearable.
The curtain between the two beds was open and both men appeared to be asleep. Liquid drips fed them with morphine or nutrients. A clear bag filled them up and a yellow bag drained them out.
With them side by side, she could spot the resemblance: high foreheads, pronounced cheekbones, perfect white teeth, large hands.
“Hi Donald.” A fluttering of his eyes. It seemed to take him a moment to register she wasn’t a nurse.
A glance towards her brother: his eyes remained closed.
Back to her dad. “You feeling okay?”
His skin was yellow, and not just from smoking. Her mom had warned her about it ahead of time, assuring her it was normal and expected, and not to be alarmed. He appeared worn, like a balloon that had been leaked of its air. “You look like shit.” She walked around the bed and felt him watching her every move. Sitting up on the mattress, she forced him to shift over.
“You promised me a budgie.” He’d come to the house, making his grand declaration about the bird.
“It’s on its way.” He’d promised.
Budgies were yellow with green feathers and this one had an adorable little beak. She knew because he produced a picture of it from a magazine he’d picked up somewhere. She was eight years old.
The news sent her scouting yard sales till she found an old bird cage, which she bought with her allowance.
“I’ll clean up after him. I’ll only let him out in my room,” she promised. Nan and her mom remained mute.
“I’m going to name him Sir Manchu.” She’d read everything about the birds, and had discovered budgies were the preferred pets of the Ming dynasty. She bragged about her royal bird to her friends. Her mom warned her that birds were chatty, but Shaz planned to station him by her bed where she would talk to him and tell him the secrets of her day.
A week of waiting had her telling herself that maybe the budgie had to get shots, or get fitted for a royal vest. After a month, the familiar doubts began to flood into her head. Little devil whispers told her it wasn’t going to happen.
She painted a picture of Sir Manchu with crayons, posted it on her nightstand and kept it there for a month, then two, thinking he would arrive as an early Christmas present. Christmas came and went. Eventually, she put the drawing away in a drawer: the first item in her lost treasure chest, where she kept mementoes from all the broken promises he made over the years.
“I wish I could have stopped loving you, Dad. It would have made things easier.” She patted his leg, like you would a puppy you weren’t taking home. “I hope you feel better.”
Rising up off the bed, she transferred her attention to her brother.
Desmond was not asleep, though he was pretending to be — she’d noticed him squirm when she was over by her father. He was holding his breath, either waiting for their dad to speak, or for Shaz to say something further.
She brushed her fingers over his hair like when he was a little kid, gone to sleep on her lap. He was such a little guy, a vulnerable little guy.
Suddenly his arm shot out and grabbed a hold of her wrist, squeezing tight. Casting her eye on the door, all she saw beyond it was an empty hall. It was foolish not to have let Rashid come along. She tried to pull her hand away, but her brother held fast. The nurse call button was just out of reach. Her father said nothing.
“Let go of my wrist.” She pulled and he released her.
Rubbing her hand, she moved to the foot of the bed so that she could see them both, but out of reach. Her brother was smiling, like a goofy teenager flying on an OxyContin magic carpet ride, not someone who had just held her in a vise grip.
The two of them stared at her in their similar state with their shared characteristics. A part of each other.
“What the fuck were you doing?” It spilled out of her. “You raid my house, destroy my shit and beat up my friend. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Her brother’s smile faded. Her dad looked wary.
Attempting to heave himself up, Desmond croaked. “You’re wrong.”
“What, you didn’t break into my house?” Her hands balled into fists.
He managed to pull himself up to sitting. “Yes, I was at your place.”
She was right. He’d broken into her house. It was him. Remembering back, she’d sensed it, felt traces he’d left in the air. But she hadn’t believed it, hadn’t wanted it to be true.
“But, it’s not what you think,” He held up his free hand, the one not attached to the morphine.
How could it not be what she thought? The violation of a break-in. Her friend beaten. The nights she’d spent in terror, losing her breath, her sense of security. Losing Frank. She wanted to wrench the watch from her pocket and heave it at his head.
“Listen, please …”
She wondered if he would have been apologetic if she’d confronted him outside of the hospital, in a place where he wasn’t so vulnerable.
“I was forced into it.”
Here it came: denial. Next he’d be justifying it. Did he think she was stupid?
“It was a bad crowd. I was hanging out with the wrong people.” Desmond glanced over to his father. “You gotta believe me. They are on you all the
time, trying to get you to join up. They’re kind of scary you know, but they have girls, and …” Desmond hesitated, shifted his eyes for a moment again to his dad, then back to her. “And drugs, and stuff. It’s flashy, it, it seemed, cool, it’s. …”
“You can’t be in here right now.” A nurse appeared in the room. The same one who had kicked her out of Myrtle’s. “Visiting hours are over.”
“I’m family.”
“You can come back in the morning.”
“Please?”
“In the morning.” Like an old school marm, the woman ushered Shaz out the door. Taking a peek back, she saw her dad swivel his head to stare at Desmond, who in turn had his eyes fixed on her, his neck outstretched, like he was going to try to reel her in.
“Come now.” The nurse pushed her along and followed her down the hall to the elevator. She turned away only as the doors slid closed.
As soon as the elevator opened on the ground floor, Shaz sprinted for the stairs. She couldn’t leave it at that. She couldn’t go home and sleep, and just … leave it. Running back up, she cracked open the door and whipped down the hall before she was spotted. A wheelchair had been left outside a patient’s room. She gathered it as she sped along and slipped back in to her brother’s and father’s room, easing the door closed.
“We aren’t even close to being finished.”
Desmond’s eyes sprung open.
Her dad appeared to be sleeping.
Desmond took in the wheelchair she had rolled to his side. “I’m not sure …”
Using the button to lower the bed, Shaz pulled his legs over the edge. “This is not an optional outing.” She angled the chair so she could slide him on. “You lost that chance a long time ago.” It was an effort to get him properly seated, and she grunted with the effort. He didn’t put up much resistance.
With the IV hooked to pole on the chair, and making sure there were no trailing wires or lines, she rolled him to the doorway, and scanned the hall to make sure the corridor was clear.
“We’re going for a ride.” Her voice was menacing. She thought about popping into the room with Myrtle but realized that wouldn’t be fair: the nice lady didn’t need to have her health compromised by Desmond. Wheeling away from the nurses and her father, she found a dark, empty room. With the door closed, she cracked open the curtain to let in some moonlight.