But this thing with my skin . . . It molts.
But before that, it bubbles, inflames, kind of. It doesn’t itch, it’s rough, like the surface of a dried-out clementine. It becomes extra sensitive, as if my nerves are sliced open and breathing, cresting the surface of my dermis and flirting with the air.
It hurts.
It wasn’t always so bad, but it seems like I’ve always had it.
Started as a tiny, bumpy patch on the back of my knee when I was four. I’d fallen in the front yard and my mom swooped down and carried me into the house while I screamed myself breathless.
Nothing was wrong with me; no broken bones, no deep cuts, just a little scrape on the hand that prevented my forehead from smacking into the pavement.
And that little patch.
My mom noticed when she bathed me that night in the normal concoctions that I’d hissed the moment I touched the hot water.
The temperature didn’t bother me, it never bothered me, but my skin; it stung. It felt like it was being peeled away from me, from my body, and I hissed, then screamed and mom smacked my mouth, shutting me up, so she could turn me over.
She cut it off, that patch of skin. Right there, in the bath.
She took the small paring knife to it and slipped the layer right off, so quick, her wrist, that I barely felt it.
The odd thing? There was no blood.
There never is. There’s this viscous clear liquid instead. Plasma, it’s called, I think. I know I’m not supposed to, but I pick at it. I can’t help it. When I’m not staring, I’m picking. It’s fascinating. And repulsive.
And it’s me.
#
She gets up, but we’re between stops so there’s nowhere to go. The train is packed and the route all fucked up because there’s forever construction so there’s a lot of white people asking questions to the kindest, yet brownest people with whom they can make eye contact.
People tell me I have a nice smile, but it doesn’t outshine my skin. Still, it would be nice to be asked. Not just about the trains; about anything, really. It would be nice to be noticed.
She’s stuck in the midst of a Swedish family, all blond and milky, and the father looks like he wants to ask her where the fuck we’re going, but she’s got that look on her face, the look that says “leave me the fuck alone”.
I stare at her until she worms her way through the bodies towards the middle of the car. I stand, just to keep an eye on her, and a young pregnant woman slides into the empty seat, next to the one that her man had taken when my auntie had gotten up.
Don’t think me presumptuous; I know she’s pregnant, I can smell it. It’s strong, like a pretty perfume amped by sweat. Her and her man, they smell alike, but he’s not hers. Not really.
Anyway, my auntie, she’s made it to the doors on the other side, so when we pull into West 4th she doesn’t have time to look up and see me step off with her.
She’s following most of the rerouted crowd for the F train and I’m following her. I’m kind of short and with the exception of my skin, I blend into the other black and brown faces, though we seem fewer and fewer these days at stops like this. No one notices my skin while rushing to another train or place or meeting, there’s never enough time, so I always find a little peace in the frantic rush. Stopping makes me nervous.
It’s hot, but the F is running on a higher line so we get some breeze. Still too hot for my jacket, though.
The sweat stings like hell.
I hide by the Swedish family until the little girl notices and starts staring and the mother, the smooth cream that is her face tinges with a delightful smack of strawberry jam, and she says something in her native tongue because she’s so nervous she forgets the perfect English with which she’d asked questions and it sounds somewhat apologetic, so I smile at her and nod, accepting her daughter’s rudeness. It’s not the smile I get compliments on, it’s the kind that’s tight, kind of mean, expected of a Black girl with an attitude problem.
I look down and see that I’ve begun oozing. Before I can start to blot, the train arrives.
Me and Auntie step on through separate doors.
#
Summer was the catalyst.
Once the humidity set in, there was no controlling it. My skin would explode, hives turning into sores on top of blisters until every piece of clothing hurt.
Before the buds of my breasts came in, my mother used to let me run around the house naked. Those were the summers Mom would dress me in a smock on weekends and I’d lay down in the back seat of Daddy’s car under a blanket until we pulled up in front of my aunties’ house in Canarsie.
Usually at night. Always at night.
I had seven aunties. They all lived together. No uncles. Mom’s family didn’t have any men until my dad. I supposedly had a brother, a twin, but he died before we were born. I had cousins, but I haven’t seen them since I started to bleed. I overheard my aunties and Mom talking about sending them “home” the morning I woke up with a pain my belly and the sheets stuck to my bum when I was fourteen.
They’d given me a special bath that day, a blue one, one that didn’t sting. They told me it was nothing to be ashamed of, that I was a woman now.
And there’d be changes.
I hardly felt any of them, these changes. Except my belly hurt a lot of the time and I was hungry. Constantly hungry.
But my aunties kept me well-fed.
With my cousins gone, I could eat their plates, plus some. So my mom left me there that summer.
I never saw my mom or my dad again.
#
There’s more room on the fake F train so hiding is a bit difficult, but my auntie doesn’t notice me anyway. I can’t lie; it hurts a little, but it won’t matter soon enough.
The F follows the E until we get to Jay Street/Metrotech. There’s a mass exodus as the connections and corrections are mumbled through the PA, but it doesn’t include my auntie so I drift further down the car and sit next to the homeless man everyone is avoiding.
He stinks, but I don’t mind. I have this thing where I can filter smells if I want to. It’s useful when traversing the tunnels.
My auntie pulls out a book and my heart leaps with joy. I love books, always have. I love reading. My dad taught me when I was really young. I was the smartest kid in pre-K, so they say. I skipped a few grades, but then my condition spread and kids are mean and I started having this temper problem . . .
The F is skipping a lot of stops, but Auntie doesn’t seem to mind. She’s casually paying attention as we roll past the elevated stations and I try to keep an eye on her and where we are. I know these boroughs fairly well, well enough to get back to where I need to be, but I don’t like feeling unmoored either.
As we pull away from Neptune Avenue, she puts her book away—some crime novel, dog-eared and shitty--and stares out the plexiglass windows.
She has beautiful, clear skin . . .
#
Winter is the kindest to me. At that point, my skin is no longer oozing or blistering. Instead it becomes hardened, dry, flaky. Feels like a callus in some spots, horny bedsores in others.
But the relief is palpable.
It’s then I try to take oat baths, like my aunts taught me. It helps keep the new skin underneath healed so when my summer skin slips, it’s just a matter of peeling it away. Sometimes I get too eager and make new scars but—
Oh, yeah, there are scars.
They’re not so bad. It’s better than the condition.
Anyway, Spring and Fall are my transitions, from relief to pain, pain to relief. But I’ve learned to live with it. There’s no cure so there’s no point to yearn for one.
But there is a way to find respite, if only for a season.
#
We get off at West 8th street and this butterfly lets loose in my belly because we’re close to the boardwalk and the aquarium and I haven’t been there in years. My dad used to take me—never mind.
I keep lamenting the
past when my present is gaining distance. So, Auntie; she’s not going to the aquarium or the boardwalk. She lives here, in the Luna Park Projects. She’s in the building right on West 8th, closest to that concrete park. There’s a lot of people outside, but none pay much attention to either one of us. The security door is broken so walking in a moment or two behind her is no big deal. The elevators are working and she steps on but no one else does so I put on my jacket and lift the light hood and step on and stick myself in the far corner away from her.
She doesn’t seem to notice me or recognize me. I’m short and plump and I look like everyone else when my jacket is on so she has no reason to. She gets off on the 15th floor and I wait a few seconds before following her out. Her apartment is closer than I think and she’s almost got the door closed before I realize which one it is.
I take a breath, raise a fist. Knock.
I hear her suck her teeth—steups is what we call it—I hear her steups as she approaches the door, but then she opens it and I try on one of those smiles for size, the good smile, the smile that people like so much, but it doesn’t relax her.
It does the opposite.
Her eyebrows knit hard and she’s looking me up and down like she’s trying to figure me out and she sees my hands, my stupid fucking hands give me away because they’re bubbling up really bad and they’re oozing, too, so there’s no hiding it and my auntie, she sucks in a breath, a tiny little panicked breath and moves to close the door, but I stop it with my foot and everything goes black.
#
My aunties taught me everything I know. I thought they knew everything. But they couldn’t control me.
Turns out I had plenty to be ashamed of once I started to bleed. And my aunties, they tried. When the past failed them, they tried to learn me, but it was too late.
Turns out they knew nothing at all.
#
I come to in her small living room on a cracked leather couch set. Auntie’s laying on the love seat while I’m in the arm chair.
She’s got a shiner that’s swelling before my eyes and her beautiful square jaw line is lumpy. Blood fights melanin as both discolour the surface.
Her skin is still beautiful.
Not a mark on it. No scarring, no acne.
She’s got a high forehead like my first auntie, the oldest, but she favours the youngest the most, the last auntie, the one after my mom. Same burnt umber skin, same beady black eyes, same pillowy lips. Even the slight arch in her thin, short eyebrows mocks the memory of my prettiest auntie. The nose is different though; hers is thinner, straighter, almost violent in its slope. I don’t like her nose.
But I like everything else about her face and her skin so I sit up and smile at her until her eyelids flutter open and those beady eyes are staring back at me.
I smile harder. Show all my teeth.
Of all the other things my body has failed me with, my teeth remain pretty and white and big. Not sure why. Genetics, I suppose.
Auntie sits up and by the look on her face, perhaps a little too fast. She touches her eye, then her jaw, then whimpers, tears brimming those bug eyes.
“You okay?” I ask. My voice is rough, croaky. Before today on the train, it’d been a long time since I’d spoken.
No need to when you’re ignored.
I clear my throat. “Are you okay, Auntie?” Old habits kick in, remembering the licks received for addressing elders as if they were friends. The question is intrusive enough to catch a hard side-eye, but this is a new auntie. She wouldn’t do that.
She blinks at me, five tears running down the slopes of her face, then says, “Yes, I’m fine.”
“Good! You have any squash?”
Squash is my favourite. My dad made it best, but I’ve learned to live with substitutes.
She frowns for a moment. “Y-yes. Yes, I do.”
I knew it! I knew she was an auntie! There’s no accent but I know my aunties anywhere!
“May I have a glass, please?” I ask patiently, though my excitement for the sweet, tangy drink is making my heart pound.
Auntie stares at me for a long time, then nods slowly. She stands with some trouble, then shuffles her way towards the tiny kitchenette. I watch her giddily, practically climbing over the top of the chair to keep an eye on her movements. She pauses by the sink and pats her pockets, then looks around patiently. There’s a cell phone charger but its empty. Right next to it, she finds what she’s looking for, smashed to pieces.
“Sorry about your phone,” I say. “I can get you a new one.” This is a lie and we both know it but she smiles softly anyway and turns to the fridge. She takes out an old-school, probably early ‘70s, plastic pitcher and dumps the remains of the squash into a plastic dollar-store cup. Bright red. Red is one of my favourite colours. She looks around the kitchenette again, tugging drawers open, and sighs with disappointment. I know those sighs all too well.
Her shoulders fall a bit and she trudges back into the living room and hands me the squash, which I greedily gulp down. Still not as good as Dad’s, but better than any of my aunties’ attempts. She needs more Angostura.
She sits back down on the loveseat and her body begins to shake. “Are you going to kill me?” she asks.
I frown, tears prickling my eyes. “No, Auntie, no!” I cry out. “I just—I need a bath. One of those baths. I can never get the ratio right, you know? The Florida water versus the Rose. It doesn’t make sense and I can never get it right and my skin—,” I tug the sleeves up with care, but it still catches on the plasma and sticks until I have to tug harder, “—it’s really bad this summer and I need help.”
Her apartment has grown warm so I roll the sleeves back down and take off the jacket. The acidity of my sweat has made things worse, some areas of my arms and chest cracked so bad, I can see fat. The skirt and tank top I’m wearing are sealed to my skin and this stupid fake leather chair isn’t making things any better, but this is the only place to sit. She doesn’t even have a table set with dinner chairs.
I shift in the arm chair and a small flap of flesh from the back of my knee comes away. It doesn’t hurt compared to the area that was stuck in the jacket so I don’t howl, but I do pick the piece off the chair and study it.
“Oh, Father God,” Auntie says in a breath.
“See?” I say, showing her the piece. “I need a bath!”
“O-okay,” she sputters.
“Do you have the stuff? All the different waters?” I ask. I’m being rude, but I’m desperate; Auntie has to understand.
She nods slowly.
“Do you have air conditioning?” She nods again.
“Can you put it on? It’s hot in here.
And I’ll have to nap afterwards; you know that, right? So put on the air in the bedroom, if you have it.”
“I do,” she says. “Good,” I say.
She stands and runs her hands on her thin thighs. She’s small, my new auntie. Not at all like my other ones. They were all big women with broad shoulders and huge guts and far-reaching breasts. I loved cuddling with them. This auntie is bony and I realize she looks a lot younger than I’d originally thought. Almost too young to be an auntie.
“Where . . . where did you put my knives?” she asks, her voice shaking.
I shrug. “I don’t know what I do when I’m in the black,” I say and it’s the truth and we both know it, so she nods and walks towards to the large window and turns on the air. It takes a minute, but the stale air turns cool, then cold and I’m sighing in relief. She returns to the loveseat and I stand up so quickly she flinches, but I ignore her to stand directly in front of the unit.
I don’t know if it’s real or a psychosomatic relief, but I swear I hear my skin crinkle and sigh.
Once the pain subsides, I walk back over to the arm chair, but I don’t sit. Instead, I say, “May I have more squash, please?” I’m being greedy, I know, especially since it’s before dinner, but I love squash and it’s been a couple years since I’ve had some.
>
“I don’t have any more limes,” she whispers, her eyes widening with something like hope. “I can get some, though.”
I grit my teeth. “No store.”
“No, just down the hall. Miss Toddy always has limes,” she says desperately.
“No. No neighbours.” I blow out a breath and try not to let the disappointment turn into tears. “No squash, then.” I sigh again.
This really hurts. “What’s for dinner?” I flinch, remembering the last time I’d asked something like that so casually.
Whatever in de fuck I cook, das what!
I whimper, then shake my head. “I can cook,” I say, trying to pep up. “It’s been a while, but I never forget.”
“I don’t have anything thawing,” she says. “But I can order Chinese.”
Again, I’m fighting anger through my jaw. “No. Stop trying to leave before giving me my bath. I need to eat before you do, though, so what do you have that I can cook?”
Finally, she’s had enough. Her whole face sets hard and she shoots up from the couch. “Go look in the fucking fridge, crazy-ass bitch.” Almost immediately, she stops herself, sobers as if someone popped her on the mouth after a bad word flew from it, but I’m too sad to do anything but deflate and drag my feet towards the kitchenette.
I open the fridge first, then freezer, then cabinets and see that she’s right, she doesn’t have much, barely anything at all, just some chicken quarters in the freezer that will take forever to defrost.
I have to eat and I have to do it soon.
She’s a terrible auntie.
My skin ripples and my belly growls for the first time in a very long time. I try not to let it growl ever because when it does, it’s almost like being in the black—I have no idea what will happen.
But when I look at her, I don’t feel sad or scared: I feel angry.
I feel like she deserves whatever is coming to her for being so horrible to me. I’ve been nothing but nice and respectful and she can’t even feed me before my bath.
My belly growls again. And I change.
#
I come to naked in a bathtub full of cool water, my ruined clothes on the floor beside me, and a little bit of blood on the tiles. I shift and various perfumes tickle my nose, meaning I attempted the concoction again.
Sycorax's Daughters Page 19