Under Her Skin

by Stephen Law

  Why was she standing around the Bay, watching her estranged father? What did she hope to achieve or learn? There’s nothing she wanted to know about him, except maybe if he would sense her presence and, for once, notice her near.

  He exited the change room, laying some of the things he had tried on at the door. Remaining in place, barely breathing as he moved in her direction, Shaz felt him pass. She stared at him through her peripheral vision, like he was a Rottweiler on the chained leash of a squeegee kid. It was impossible to have missed her, but he did. He walked right on by, not once looking in her direction, right out of the store. That’s when she noticed he was wearing the crew neck on top of a bright, white t-shirt.

  Her father, the thief.

  And now, here she was stealing into his apartment. Would she find stolen merchandise in boxes stacked against the walls? Electronics spilling out on the floor? She imagined skin mags strewn about among the tawdry furniture and fixtures.

  Her eyes adjusted in the dim light of the room. Except for the scattered papers at the front door, the apartment was clean. She might even use the word “immaculate.” A grey couch with two black pillows neatly arranged on either side faced a large television and stereo. The remote controls lay side by side on a black coffee table and the countertop bisecting the living room and kitchen was free of crumbs and stains. Spotless. A pair of slippers, the kind owned by men who wore evening jackets and smoked pipes, lay on a clean mat beside the door. She opened the closet at the entrance and saw it held a number of jackets hung neatly on wire hangers.

  In the kitchen, the coffee pot was emptied and clean, ready for the next use. A worn card was stuck to the fridge with a magnet: a number for the Dartmouth chapter of AA.

  She eased open the door to his bedroom, which contained a queen-sized bed covered with a navy blue quilt tucked in military tight. Two white pillows peeked above the collar of the sheets. Two photographs in cheap frames sat on the dresser. One was a picture of her mother, standing at the pier in Halifax in a sleeveless flower-print dress. She wore her hair straight and pulled back, revealing a black onyx necklace at her throat and a bright, sunshiny smile on her face.

  The other frame contained a picture Shaz had never seen before: Shaz as a teen and her brother as a toddler. Desmond was in her lap, and they were sitting on a couch, both looking away at something in the distance.

  A painting hung on the wall facing the bed. She’d painted it and gifted it to her father at a time when she still believed he might come back into her life. Her art teacher had assigned them an abstract depicting shapes in the world. Globules of paint in bright red, blood orange and burgundy funnelled in rings inward, downward, toward a black hole at the centre. In the middle was a pinprick of a sun, a speck so small it was easy to miss. Looking from bed to wall, Shaz realized the painting was the first thing her father saw when he woke each day.

  Shaz scrutinized the room for a moment, then went to the dresser and picked up the pictures, which she placed on the bedside table beside the lamp. In the living room, she unhooked all the wires for the television and the stereo, careful to note which wires went into which sockets, and transferred everything to the bedroom. The television went onto the dresser, the stereo onto the floor, and the remotes onto the pillow.

  She could have trashed the place the way Desmond and the bangers had trashed hers. In fact, she wasn’t sure before she came that she wasn’t going to do just that. He’d asked her to come, and she’d grabbed the keys from his hands, enjoying the pleasure of taking something from him. What motivated her to follow through with a visit now, beyond the fact that he would be released from hospital tomorrow, she didn’t know.

  But that didn’t mean she was going to fall under his spell. Not again. She would help make him comfortable then leave it to the hospital, the RNs, the homecare workers — whoever — to take care of him. That was their job. Her job was over.

  She found a towel and placed it on the edge of the bed, like at a hotel. If she’d had a chocolate, she might have set it on a pillow. She looked around once more, adjusted the pictures on the night table, then left the room.

  ***

  RASHID LED SHAZ TO the building rooftop. A clear black night hung like a backdrop to the city lights. Colours emerged, glittering not just in yellow or white, but in flecks of blue, sparkles of green, hints of purple, and spots of red, pulsing out secrets and messages from the universe.

  Rashid spread a blanket on the top of a square of concrete and invited Shaz to lie down and wait. The fireworks celebration that marked the end of the Nocturne festival was due to start.

  “Desmond asked me to design him something. And he checked with Mom first to see if it was okay.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Just then the first firecracker cracked the stillness, and Rashid grabbed for her hand. She squeezed it as the display began, and they watched silently as myriad colours exploded into the night. Sparkles like stardrops twinkled, green comets streaked the sky, and shells with massive red explosions spun like chariot wheels. Yellow twisting sizzlers and maniacal tops spun around, making the whole sky swirl. Flashes of light shot forth then fell dramatically. One burst would be followed by another. A succession of bright flashes illuminated the night.

  The smell of spent gunpowder wafted up from the harbour. The skies rested and the night settled. In the smoke and silence, Shaz and Rashid remained on the rooftop, staring up and out, breathless at the display, hand in hand.

  A shadow passed over their heads, obscuring the starlight. They both looked to an open patch of sky along the horizon and wished for one a final flash of light — a final rocket or a response from the heavens. But all that lay above them was a black canvas with small points of light.

  Black night, white stars, bright colours.

  Shaz stared upwards. They didn’t make sense on their own, the elements of the universe. They couldn’t exist without each other. It’s what made them beautiful, their contrasts, their coming together.

  Shaz held onto Rashid’s hand. Gazing at the celestial canvas, she smiled, as a design came to mind.

  Acknowledgements

  IT TAKES A COMMUNITY to release a book into the world. I am thankful to so many friends who have been part of this community. A special nod to those who have been part of my “promo squad”: Corrie Melanson and Angie Singer (and Jhavon, Ayden, and Angelo), Emily Coyle and Adam Brown (and Maia and Nico), Lisa Roberts, Jen Graham, Jackie McVicar, Caren Weisbart, Olimpia Boido, Caitlin Power Hancey, Terry Gibbs and Garry Leech (and Owen and Morgan), Janelle Frail, John MacPhail, Maria Ramos, Moira Peters, Av Singh, Karen Sheppard, Shaani and Kaia Singh, Janette Fecteau, Sarah and Jayne Wilbur, Tracy Glynn, Tony Reddin and Marion Copleston, Paula Gallant, Margie Loo, Jim and Marion Wicks, Kathryn Anderson and Wilf Bean, Meghan Thurston, Kausie and S.G. (Loko) Lokanathan, Helene Hannah, Alexandra Pederson, Marissa Kaczmarczyk, Rosemary Ganley, Jeff and Karen Bird (and Kyle, Bronwyn, MacKenzie, and Grace), Carolyn Switzer and Richard Cook (and Norah and Gabe), Mike Farley, Nandita Bajaj, Darren Sigesmund, Elinor Bray-Collins, Deb Stiles, and Emily Dwyer; along with my friends at InterPares, Mining Watch and Amnesty International: Bill Fairbairn, Guillaume Charbonneau, Jamie Kneen, Jen Moore, and Kathy Price; to the Flath and Payne families (June, Greg, Otto Jessica, Nancy, and Mary), and my parents, Ron and Barb Law.

  I have been energized by writing compadres Chris Benjamin and Maureen St. Clair. I am indebted to my writing group, led by Gwen Davies, including Nancy Hunter, Nancy Newcomb, Mary Clancy, Dennis Earle, Mary Evelyn Ternan, Maria José Yax, Cathy MacDonald, Inez Uerz, Elinor Reynolds, and Beatie Popescu — who, along with Laura Hambleton, my proofreader, helped me navigate the contours and junctions of story, character and language.

  There would be no book without the commitment of Bev Rach and Errol Sharpe and all the folks at Roseway and Fernwood Publishing — so thanks for taking me on as one of your w
riters. To the editor of this novel, Sandra McIntrye, and my previous one, Stephanie Domet, both of whom arduously taught me what it takes to be a writer, my appreciation.

  I am honoured to have been inspired, influenced, and awed by the experiences, resilience, and strength of the Black Leadership Advisory Group of the Tatamagouche Centre — whose members graciously accepted me into their midst: Mohamed Yaffa, Amanda Reddick, Tionda Cain, Barb Hamilton Hinch, Liliona Quarmayne, Shauntay Grant, Gail Bowen Cyrus, Wayne Talbot, and Ann Marie Beals. Along with Ishbel Munro, Cathy Gerrior, Cathy Martin, Robyn Brown Hewiitt, Brian Braganza, Rena Kulczycki, and Andrew Jantzen; they have all taught me about community, ceremony, and solidarity, for which I am grateful. Every place where I got it wrong, or where there are gaps and deficiencies, are my failings alone. This story is not from them, or even of them, but in some way, I hope it is for them. And for all of us.

  And of course, this work would not have been possible without my partner, Evelyn Jones, who finds a way to be a beacon of inspiration in working to bring refugees to Canada, and still manages to be a mom, partner, and friend. She is everything.

  Finally, I want to thank my kids, Mady and Jade — who bring meaning to it all.