Under Her Skin

by Stephen Law

  “You’ve got nowhere to go now, little brother.” She positioned the chair in front of the window and stood between him and the door. He looked more worried than wane and she figured if he began to slump, she’d take him back. “Spill it. What the fuck have you been doing?”

  He started rubbing his head with his hands and lifted his chin to the ceiling. If he started to lie she’d pinch the morphine. Starved of the pain medication, he’d see what it really felt like to be sliced open.

  She could tell he was scared to take his eyes off of her. His hand was vibrating on the arm of the chair. “It was a gang. If I had told you, Nan, or mom, you would have killed me.”

  A gang? He was right, if he was part of a gang it was a toss-up who would be most ferocious. Shaz put her money on Nana, but knew her mom wasn’t a write-off. Though he probably wasn’t thinking it at this moment, he was lucky he found himself with his sister.

  “It was kind of an initiation thing. You had to do something that mattered. I told them I would quit rugby, but they said that wasn’t good enough. I thought of you. I told them I would break into your house. I was supposed to steal something and then get out. I didn’t know they were going to come in with me. They wrecked your shit, they wrecked everything, and I couldn’t stop them.” He suddenly turned away, “I was too embarrassed to tell you.”

  She wasn’t going to be fooled this easily. “What did you take?” She hadn’t noticed anything missing: grandfather’s watch was in her pocket, Nan’s teardrop earrings had been returned. What else was there?

  His hands went to his chest. If they hadn’t been in a hospital room and he hadn’t been in a hospital gown, the gesture might have appeared as though he was going for a gun. He pulled the gown collar down. A chain with a gold locket encircled his neck. He’d given the locket to her when he was ten. It had a little puffin on it, and the chain, made of cheap fool’s gold, was so brittle Shaz had worried it would break if it had snagged on a sweater. He’d thought it was real gold and she’d been touched he’d used his whole allowance to buy it. It even included a tiny picture of the two of them, taken at the photo kiosk at the mall. She’d kept it in her jewellery case.

  He rubbed it with his thumb as though it were a rabbit’s foot. “I didn’t realize you’d kept it.”

  She’d secured it in a little drawer with the earrings. When the police had asked her for a list of stolen items, it had been overlooked. She’d forgotten about it.

  “That’s when I knew I couldn’t do this, be with them.” With some difficulty, he twisted it around his neck, brought the clasp to the front. “I brought it with me to wear after the surgery. I wanted to have something to hang onto after I gave my kidney to Dad. Then after this was over, I was going to give it back to you. I’m so sorry, Shaz. It was stupid.” Unhooking it, he held it in his hands, then offered it to her.

  She snatched it from him, resenting the feeling of being manipulated. There was so much missing from the story.

  “What about the beating on Frank. Did you do that for me too?”

  “That wasn’t me.” His voice was pleading again, maybe because she had him cornered in the darkened room, with nowhere to go. An organ having been just removed from his belly. “I swear to you, I wouldn’t do that to Frank … or to you.”

  It didn’t make sense. Something wasn’t adding up. “Why would Frank claim you were there, that you did that to him?”

  “I didn’t beat up Frank, Sis. I wasn’t there. It wasn’t me.”

  She might have believed him except that just as she kept gifts from childhood, he collected souvenirs of his victims. He had Frank’s card in his crime box. It made her want to crumple the locket into dust. “I found Frank’s driver’s licence in your bedroom, Des. I found his fucking licence in your box.” It took everything in her to not yell so loud it would echo down the corridor.

  “Ugghh.” Desmond rubbed at his face and gritted his teeth, like he was a lion caught in a cage. “That was retribution, you know, making amends for what had happened. I took stuff from the gangbangers, to eventually, you know, apologize or something. It was Rashid’s suggestion.”

  “Rashid?” Shaz sputtered. “What the fuck? He knew about this?”

  Desmond began shaking his head, seeming to realize what he had said. “No, no. Not exactly.”

  Shaz was the lion, now. She wanted to tear into not just Desmond, but Rashid, too.

  Perhaps sensing she was about to go in for the kill, Desmond tried to push back in the chair, but he ran into the wall. “No. I mean, no.” He wasn’t going anywhere. “Listen to me, I met the parkour guys. They were practising and I was with the guys, the gang. We were walking by and they were thinking they might try to rumble some of them. But I was watching them and I thought it looked cool. So, I told the other guys to go ahead and I would bust one of them on my own.”

  “You beat up on someone from parkour?”

  “No! I told you, I thought what they were doing was cool. I asked them what was going on. And then they had me try it, you know, like you did.”

  A bunch of kids challenging themselves, supporting each other, balancing, jumping, leaping for fun, not for destruction.

  “I liked them. They were like a way out, you know? The gang, they scared the shit out of me. But I wasn’t sure what to do once I was in.”

  Shaz stared at him hard, trying to take it in, trying to see if he was having her on. “How does this relate to Rashid?”

  “I told him I felt bad, I’d done bad things. So, he said, ‘make it right,’ And so that’s what I did. The boys had a stash where they kept all the stuff. Their booty chest. I took some things out, like drivers licences and shit like that. Shit they wouldn’t notice, but that would help identify who they had beat on. Then I was going to pay it back, or pay it forward, you know, like do something nice, or apologize or something.”

  “So, you’re telling me you definitely didn’t beat on Frank?”

  “No Shaz, I swear to you, I didn’t do it.”

  Shaz wasn’t sure what to believe.

  ***

  HER DAD WAS AWAKE when she rolled Desmond back into the room. He sported his gift-giving smile, the crocodile kind that kept her wary. “I need you.”

  “Get a nurse.”

  Shaz helped her brother climb back into bed. She was done talking, to both of them. She arranged Desmond’s legs, fixed his blankets, and tucked him in. It was habit, she couldn’t stop herself.

  “Thanks,” Desmond’s head dropped to the pillow. He was exhausted from the brief trip.

  Now she had to leave. Get out of this room.

  Her dad stared at her. “I need you for when I leave. I need your help.”

  She used to take pride in her ability to not be surprised by people’s ideas of what looked good or felt right or how what they wanted may not be understood by what others might see — like the biker chick who came to her wearing a tartan skirt who wanted fairy wings along her bicep brushed with the right mixture of innocence and romance.

  Yet in this room, with her brother on one side, and her dad on the other, she was blindsided. He’d stopped her cold. On the table beside the door were get well cards. Spotting one from Desmond’s rugby club, she lifted it up and pretended to read the inscription.

  “It’s convalescence, that’s what they call it. I need you to take care of me while I recover. That’s why we took Des’ kidney.” He pointed to his incision. “Then you would be free to take care of me.”

  Shaz threw the card on the floor. Not asleep yet, Desmond raised his eyebrows and opened his eyes wide, like when he was a little boy and had spilled milk all over the table.

  “I’ve got to get the fuck out of here.” Shaz stumbled towards the door.

  “Will you still take care of me, baby?”

  Shaz ran past the nighttime nurse.

  “Hey! You’re not supposed to
be here.”

  “No shit,” Shaz said as she fumbled past her towards the stairs. The fluorescent lights, the stale air, the disinfectant odours that masked the smell of blood, shit, death, and decay — she had to get out of there. Tearing down the stairs, she burst through the hospital door. As soon as the fresh air hit her face, she bent over, hands to her knees, chest heaving as though she’d just run a marathon.

  Standing, she took a deep gulp. It was quiet. There weren’t many people coming in and out of the hospital, but standing in the entranceway prevented the automatic doors from closing. The security guard approached. “Would you mind stepping aside?”

  “Sorry.” Shaz moved forward so the doors could close.

  ***

  BED PUSHED TO THE wall, desk under the window, there was just enough space for the huge plastic sheet Shaz threw onto the bedroom floor. Next, she unfurled the canvas roll, large enough to reach from wall to wall of the bedroom. It bumped up against the bed and desk legs, covering the floor again.

  She stood in front of the blank space, naked.

  Taking the wire handle of a can of black paint, she splashed large splotches on the canvas, then knelt and began to crawl from end of the room to the other. She neither avoided nor tried to use the paint, but mixed it in as she went, moving her body across the floor in whatever way she could. Soon parts of her and parts of the canvas were covered with swathes of black paint. Then she reached for the red paint pot and drizzled some here and there, haphazardly. She continued adding colours till there was a frenzy of drabs, dashes, and splashes created by hands, elbows, knees, and feet, by all her body parts. Red, white, brown, black, yellow mingled until there was just one colour, a deep, multi-layered mud. Then she lay down and gently rolled to one side and then to the other until she was covered from head to toe, wrapped in paint. A cathartic mixing. Covered in a protective coating. Trying to decide what to do, who to believe.

  She stepped into the shower and let all the colours wash down the drain. With bits of paint still clinging to her hair, she dressed and went to see Frank.

  His firm operated out of a big tower on Hollis Street that was like a giant crate of glass that reflected the harbour back onto itself. A mirror to the sea.

  Frank sat behind a bank of computer monitors for viewing architectural models. Notes and paper and forms lay scattered about. Sporting a purple shirt with a black tie, Frank was surprised to see her.

  Shaz knew he would be busy. “I need you to come with me.”

  “Shaz! You look good.” He came over and gave her a hug. “Need me to go where?”

  “I need you to come and talk to Desmond. Straighten things out.”

  He pulled away, took a step back towards his desk. “What?” He checked the clock on his desk, adjusting appointments and making excuses in his mind.

  “Please Frank. For me.”

  The water was choppy in the harbour, but the ferry from Dartmouth didn’t seem to mind. It kept chugging along toward the Halifax terminal. Frank kept his eyes out the window.

  Shaz waited out the silence.

  “Fine.”

  She hadn’t yet taken a breath.

  “But later, right now I’m busy,” he said.

  Desmond on one side, Frank on the other, between a rock and hard place, and Shaz pitched between the two.

  ***

  VISITORS AND ORDERLIES, DOCTORS and nurses, all hustling about. She spotted Frank down the hall. He wasn’t alone: William had tagged along. She hadn’t wanted her brother or father to know she was there, not until she was ready — so she had sat on the floor, waiting outside their room. She stood to join them. William squeezed her hand in greeting. Frank’s face was stoic.

  “I need you to do this, Frank.”

  He looked like he wanted to vomit, but followed her through the door.

  Her dad pushed himself to sitting when they entered. Grabbing the end of the curtain partition, she closed him off.

  “That’s alright, baby. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Desmond looked small in the bed, like he was twelve.

  “Tell him,” Shaz said. No formalities.

  A swift glimpse towards her, and then to Frank and back again.

  Her stomach was taut, but she nodded at him to begin.

  “It wasn’t me, Frank. I’m really sorry about what happened to you. Shaz told me about it. But it wasn’t me, man, I swear to you. I wasn’t there.”

  Frank didn’t say a word. He looked angry. He took a step closer and Shaz wondered if he was going to slap her brother. “Are you serious?”

  Desmond didn’t flinch. “I swear to you, it wasn’t me.”

  Feeling William stiffen beside her, Shaz got ready to step in. Frank and Desmond were in a stare down, as though through their eyes they could inflict the truth. Shaz just watched, unsure.

  Breaking contact, Frank shook his head, like he was shaking off a wasp that wouldn’t go away. Still, Desmond held his gaze. Clenching and unclenching his fist, Frank started rocking on his toes.

  “Fuck this!” he spat before spinning around and flying out of the room and down the corridor.

  Shaz was right behind him, sprinting past the nurses’ station, past Myrtle, her card-playing friend, to the end of the hall. She swatted at his arm as he reached out for the door to the stairs. William was close behind her saying, “Frank … Frank … .”

  She pushed him back. “Let me do this.”

  William retreated down the hall, but didn’t let them leave his sight.

  “Frank.” Shaz said his name this time.

  He turned, eyes spinning wildly. “It was your brother, I’m sure of it. He ransacked your house, Shaz.”

  “He did, but swears he didn’t attack you, Frank. It wasn’t him.”

  Shaking his head like he were fighting to keep her words away, he said. “He had my licence. He had my fucking licence.”

  She tried to put her hand on his arm, but he shook it off. “He took it from the guys that beat you up. He knew them, ran with them for a bit, but then got out. He says he took your licence so he could come back and make amends.”

  “It was him, the guy. It was like him …”

  What? Someone like her brother? He’d never said that before.

  His eyes were red and she remembered him not looking at her when he was laid out in the hospital.

  When was the last time Frank would have seen Desmond? Or was she now letting Frank off lightly? It was hard to assimilate.

  “They just fucking beat me. He just …” His hands dropped to his sides. He looked at her then. Really looked at her.

  Maybe it could melt away, all of this, she thought. Everything that went on, they could pack it away, forget that it happened. She wanted to take all this hurt away, from Frank, from her, from Desmond, from everyone.

  William had crept a bit closer, but was still keeping his distance. She could feel Frank’s tired body straining for his comfort.

  Frank’s hands clenched back into fists. “Fuck that Shaz! Fuck that. Fuck all of it.” Pushing her out of the way, he stormed down the hall. William shook his head, as if to say sorry, and then ran to catch up.

  “We got it wrong! We both got it wrong.” Shaz yelled after him.

  Her back had clipped the door handle when he pushed past, and she squeezed her eyes shut at the pain. The elevator at the end of the hall took them away, and she was left alone. Hands to her face, she eased back to the wall and slumped slowly to the floor.

  15

  HEART

  wheels of fire

  A WOMAN WAS STRUGGLING to push a stroller through the entrance of an apartment building. A boy clung to her heels. Running up, Shaz grabbed the door and held it open.

  “Thank you.” The woman flashed Shaz a bright smile as she pushed the boy out in front of her, then followed with the empty str
oller. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

  Shaz turned to look at the sky. She hadn’t noticed the willowy clouds stretching across it like strands of cotton. “Yes, it is.”

  The woman turned down the street, adjusting her head­scarf with one hand and pushing the stroller with the other. As she entered the building, Shaz could hear her warning the boy about the traffic. The elevator seemed sketchy, so Shaz took the chipped-paint, concrete stairs up the three flights. Navigating around a few toys in the hallway, she made her way to the apartment door.

  The area around the keyhole was scraped and gouged, as if a cat had used it as a scratching pad. Splotches of white paint speckled the bottom of the door and scattered flyers served as a welcome mat.

  Shaz hesitated before inserting the key. She’d never been here. She’d never wanted to be.

  Halifax was a small city, one where in the course of a stroll down Quinpool, Robie, or Agricola, you could easily run into a dozen people you knew and another dozen you recognized from somewhere or other. Every neighbourhood had its familiar faces. Her father was probably a familiar face in his own neighbourhood, but he stayed in his place and stuck to his own path, out of her orbit. It was why they were able to live in the same city.

  In fact, in all the years of living here, she’d only run into him once. She’d gone to MicMac Mall to buy tea towels for Nan’s ladies’ luncheon at the church. Lured by the aroma of the bakery, she’d splurged on a sticky bun, which she ate carefully as she admired things she neither wanted nor needed in the shop windows. She was licking the cinnamon off her fingers when she spotted him. He was strolling along, unhurried, with not a care in the world, or so it seemed. His lithe figure was erect as he walked — Navy form. His pants had been pressed and his coat was clean.

  Wiping her hands clean on her jeans, she followed him, maintaining a safe distance. If he were to turn suddenly, she might have time to duck behind someone or into the nearest store. When he went into the Bay, past the cosmetics counters and through ladies’ wear, she continued to follow. Pretending to eye lacy lingerie, she watched him pick out an argyle sweater, a blue crew neck sweater, and a couple of white t-shirts. She hung back as he went into the dressing room. No one paid her much heed.