Group Hex Vol 1

by Andrew Robertson

  I nod in understanding.

  “If you are sick, it is too much. You wait a week and do again. You know they say, don’t fly too close to the sun.”

  “How much do I put in the tea?”

  “One eye dropper.” She hands me a dropper from her pocket. It’s very small. The glass vial attached to the rubber bulb looks like it will hold about 3 drops. I take it from her and place it in my purse, along with the jar. Rolling up the calendar, I pull the cash out of my pocket.

  “How much for this?”

  “You give me four hundred. You keep one hundred for the big date you must have.” The smile she attempts is a bit like a sneer at this point, not worth the effort.

  I peel off four bills and hand them to her.

  “No returns!” She barks. “You come back in two months to see me again,” she says in a strong voice, bowing and extending an arm toward the stairs as if to tell me to get out.

  I manage a weak smile in return and walk up the stairs and out of the store with Jenny trailing behind me.

  The rain is worse and the calendars start to get wet. I get half a block away before I turn around to go back in and ask for something to cover them with but hear the familiar sound of the dead bolt locking as the lights go out.

  No matter, she marked about one day each week, I don’t need to do it by the light of the moon or whatever her instructions are, and I’m certain she was being overly cautious. It’s not like I’m going to eat tree bark and resin every day and hide myself in a hole like some crazed monk. Medicine is a tool, and now I have mine.

  Three weeks after leaving the shop, I am sitting cross-legged on my couch examining my nails. They are longer, and look like a smoky, cut glass. There’s a slight honeyed hue to them, and I’ve stopped biting them because they taste bitter. Nail polish is entirely unnecessary. In fact, I have a bronze glow all over and haven’t gone tanning in ages. And I’m certain my muscles are firmer. The tea is working its magic, eliminating toxins from my body and filling my cells with the youthful energy I haven’t had since school started.

  I’ve only been sick once, vomiting all morning until my throat was raw, but nothing serious. It was probably the drinks I had after closing at work because I have been really careful with this stuff. Even the girls there told me I was looking really good before we poured some vodka shots and things started to get blurry. They all think I’m hitting the gym and salon after the breakup with Bradley, but that’s not it. He can suck it because I am on the road to a new me.

  Instead of taking three drops once a week, I’ve been taking one dropper full each day to really kick start the urushi in my system. It has made it hard to keep food down, but I’ve also started an all fruit diet to shape up and honestly, the tea suppresses my appetite better than diet pills or smoking. Those Buddhist monks knew what they were doing!

  There is no reference point anyway. The calendar itself was pretty much destroyed in the rainstorm. I took a hairdryer to the pages and caused the ink to run all over and dry in blue pools like a Rorschach watercolour, rendering them pretty useless so I’ve had to improvise anyway. Most of what the Chinese Doctor wrote is gone. The only legible sentence was on the last page.

  Stop after 8 weeks.

  I’ve barely made a dent in the jar after a few weeks, so why would I stop after eight? On top of that, she asked me to come back after two months so I’m sure she will have something else to sell me once the jar is done. If I wasn’t supposed to keep using it, she shouldn’t have given me so much. With all the dust on that box, I would say that she just wanted to get rid of it, and wrote the note for liability in case I drank the whole thing and keeled over dead. I guess I would be overly cautious too. There can’t be too many people look for urushi with all the scary stories attached to it. People just don’t understand other cultures.

  The kettle whistles in the kitchen. My legs ache as I uncross them and move to get up. Time to go back to yoga, I tell myself as I walk through to make today’s batch of tea.

  I pull the large dropper I bought at the pharmacy out of my drawer and take the jar of murky yellow gold down from the shelf behind my cereal boxes. Carefully pouring the water into my travel mug, I take a moment to stretch each leg. My left one feels half asleep.

  Once the mug is almost full I open the jar. The liquid always seems to be moving as if there is something swimming inside. It’s beautiful. When I was a kid, I used to marvel at hologram stickers, the rainbows underneath the silvery surface, the images seemingly trapped inside, inches away but printed on a small adhesive square. Several times I have stared into the jar thinking that I will see an image, an ancient Asian specter gazing back at me with a wink, all set to reveal secrets of the other world.

  I fill the dropper and then squeeze the rubber bulb to release the contents into the steaming water; scents of pine and jasmine waft up from the mug. It certainly smells better than it tastes.

  I snap on the lid and get ready for class.

  Professor Grey is already well underway when I arrive. My leg was still asleep for most of my walk to the campus, so I stopped to get a banana because a friend told me the potassium is good for leg cramps. I eat half and throw the rest away.

  The Professor raises an eyebrow at me as I walk in and slowly ascend the stairs to my usual seat. I must be late.

  “A few weeks ago, we discussed the religious mummification rites of Buddhist monks,” she begins, causing me to break out in a cold sweat I can feel from my ears to my panties. I am certain I can hear the liquid in my travel mug swishing back and forth in deafening tidal waves, my own tell-tale heart.

  “Today we are travelling in similar territory and discussing incorruptibility as evidence of Sainthood,” she continues as the knots in my empty stomach loosen. “Many religions believed that an incorruptible body or a body that showed no signs of decomposition after death was a sign of divinity and holiness. Much like the living Buddha or sokushinbutsu of Shingon Buddhism in Japan, the ages have revealed similarly mummified or unchanged bodies of religious figures after death in other countries throughout the world. In the case of the Saints, no eating of barks, resin, berries and urushi tea was necessary for incorruptibility to take place.”

  She takes a clicker from her pocket and presses a button to advance the images on the screen behind her. Several bodies appear in sequence on the screen, each looking like a person in repose, sleeping. Some are covered in simple clothes; nuns, priests, laymen. Others are garbed in highly decorated robes with gilt scarves and elaborate glass tombs preventing prying fingers from poking them in their unseeing eyes. It’s fascinating.

  I become aware that as she continues the lecture, her gaze keeps landing on me, so I try to keep my eyes low as I make notes. The hour it takes for her to cover the material feels like an eternity, and the whole time I am afraid to sip from my travel mug as if she will know what I have done. I know I’m being stupid because it’s part of Chinese medicine but I suppose the context it was originally presented in is more the issue.

  “Next time we will be looking at how the Russian Orthodox religion, a cult of sin, and mysticism led to the rise of the mad monk, Rasputin.”

  Picking up my bag, I start down the stairs looking at the vomit-coloured carpet as I do.

  “Amber, how are you feeling this morning?”

  I look up to see the Professor’s gorgeous face, dewy cheeks and shining eyes right in front of me.

  “Sorry, what did you say Professor?”

  “How are you finding the course load?” She asks sweetly.

  “Oh it’s great,” I respond. “Everything is just so interesting and you tell the most interesting stories.”

  “Have you been down south? You look so tan?” She smiles as me with her head tilted to the side, waiting on my response. Her hair practically glitters. She has never asked me about myself before. I have the guilty feeling of the kid with her hand in a cookie jar, but instead of cookies it’s an ancient Chinese secret. “Or maybe you’re trying
something new…you’re hair is so glossy, and those nails!” She makes an exaggerated wide-eyed face and reaches out to lift my hand like she’s examining an enormous engagement ring at a bridal shower. Only in this case, the bride is a single girl sweating in front of a real queen. My mouth is so dry; my tongue feels like a sandy slug in my mouth.

  “No, I’ve just been jogging a lot, you know. Outside a lot. Fresh air.”

  “Okay, as long as it’s not the tanning beds. Those things are bad for you. They will cook you from the inside out!” She gives an odd laugh, and then looks me up and down.

  I smile at her and slide past, relieved to enter the hallway and move toward the exit. A warm area on my spine makes me aware of her eyes following my back the whole way.

  As I’m doing my makeup for work my laptop makes a familiar sound- an incoming FaceTime call. I hope for a moment that Bradley has come to his senses but my personal reality show is just not that exciting.

  Mom.

  “Hi honey, I thought you would never answer, I was waiting forever! I thought you must be out living it up or studying for one of those awful courses you are in,” she says, exasperated. I think it rang about four or five times. “That eye shadow is pretty. A bit heavy handed, but pretty. Getting ready to go out?”

  “No mom,” I answer flatly. “Just getting ready for work.”

  “I told you about that, didn’t I? Just ask Dad and me for money. We will send you some in the email.”

  She always says that. Not ‘the email’, that’s annoying on its own. I don’t want the money and she never sends it anyway. It probably just makes her feel good to stop for a moment, put down her $300 stem cell vaginal tightening cream and think of other things that happened down there.

  “Did you get a tan?”

  I shake my head no and let her keep chattering. She starts in on telling me about her day in a relentless wave, rarely looking at the laptop cam. Fussing with earrings in the mirror on her vanity that she always calls me from, a turquoise pair are quickly pulled out of wrinkled lobes and replaced with garish pink feathers. She seems to ignore the fact that we haven’t spoken in weeks.

  I interrupt.

  “Where are you going mom? You seem totally distracted.”

  She stops and looks into the camera, a look of surprise on her face as a smile meets her lips.

  “Well aren’t you feisty today. I’m going to see an old friend, is that okay with you?”

  She waits for me to respond, her eyes clearly scanning my face as they dart around the screen.

  “Amber, honey?”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you had work done?” She pauses. “I’m not…it’s not that I’m judging, I’ve had a bit of the Botox myself, but your eyebrows and forehead look like porcelain. Maybe you did a touch too much? You should talk to your technician about reducing the dose. At your age you only need a pinprick!” She laughs and I’m not sure why. Maybe discomfort?

  I let out a tremendous, man-sized sigh and look on the desk for my mascara. I’m so annoyed with her that it takes me three tries to pick it up, my hands rigid and shaking with irritation. I look into the cam. My face looks phenomenal, but she has always made herself feel better by putting me down. My own private Snow White battling the wicked witch and her haunted mirror.

  “No, I didn’t have work done,” I spit. “I guess I’m just young and tight!”

  I slam the laptop closed before she responds.

  In the morning I feel like hell. Too many shots with customers. Then again, it was Friday and being friendly is what brings in the tips. My first few minutes of consciousness are spent trying to recollect what happened and determining if there is anything I need to apologize for, feel guilty about or get medicated. There were a lot of guys last night looking for a good time, and with so few girls in the bar, they wanted all the waitresses to party hard with them. My manager doesn’t care how much we drink as long as it’s paid for so that’s how the night went down. At least I didn’t go down, from what I recall.

  My body is stiff all over, swollen from all the alcohol no doubt. I run my tongue over my lips. They are dry, but not rough. The water glass at my bedside table is sadly empty, with a clumsy lipstick mark near the lip. I’m not even certain that I filled it before collapsing nearby. My fingers hardly bend as I stretch my hands upward and try to crack my knuckles. I need a warm shower, few hours of napping and Netflix.

  Rolling out of bed I see a message notice flashing on my cellphone. Pushing my hair behind my ears, I pick up the cell and touch the screen. The phone asks me for my password and I struggle to make my tired, hung over fingers find the right keys. It’s like slapping a keyboard with wooden sausages.

  “Hi Amber, it’s Bradley. I’m sorry about what happened last month, I think I was just under a lot of pressure with finals coming up…anyway…if you want to get together that would be great. Gilles saw you and said you look great…” he pauses and lets out an uncomfortable laugh while my heart almost bursts out of my chest. “Anyway, it would be great to see you.”

  Fucking Bradley. It was more than a month ago.

  I don’t respond to him right away. The urge to piss is overwhelming so I take the phone with me to the bathroom and sit down.

  It takes forever to pee and what comes out feels like needles. Maybe Bradley actually has something else to tell me. I was never certain that fidelity was his strongest attribute. I did have two jalapeno poppers last night. That could be it. It would explain why I feel like I’m on fire inside.

  I get up and look in the mirror. My makeup is still on and smeared all over my face. Taking a cotton ball, I wet it under the tap and rub my eyelids first. It feels like wiping a Teflon frying pan. My whole face is clean in what seems like seconds and my skin firm and even as stone. However I look a little too tan for someone who hasn’t hit the beach in a while. Maybe I need to slow down on the tea because it is making me a little pretty Latina for a pale-ass Portuguese.

  I turn around and throw the cotton balls into the toilet and hit the flusher in time to see what looks like maple syrup disappear down the drain. I must have drank way too much last night.

  Palming the phone, I stumble toward the kitchen feeling as if I’m in someone else’s body; a body that wants some water, tea, and a few berries. If I’m going to meet Bradley, I’ll need to look my best.

  I open my contacts and find his name, feeling what must be a bruise developing on my elbow.

  Maybe before I call him I should go out and shop for a new dress. That extra hundred dollars Jenny left me is about to come in handy.

  I show up at the restaurant to meet Bradley the following Friday. He had wanted to meet right away but I knew that another week would help me look my best and I didn’t want to look desperate. He has picked a pretty fancy spot for our reunion so either he feels bad about ditching me or I really do have the gift of herpes.

  The waiter quickly seats me at an amazing table by the open windows overlooking a garden. A breeze carries the scents of freesia and hyacinth through the air, reminding me of spring and rebirth.

  My stomach is rolling and starts making crazy sounds that I’m certain the table of foodie hipsters nearby can hear. I take a sip of water to try and make it stop. I’m not even sure what I am going to eat tonight seeing as I haven’t had much of an appetite and in recent days nothing has sat very well in my gut. Probably just a salad. I’ll need to take a break from the urushi and my fruit diet soon because even my piss has been, for lack of a better word, thicker and darker than it should be.

  Nonetheless, I have gone down two dress sizes and the sleek silver number I got off the sale rack looks like a million bucks, not the $49.99 it actually cost.

  “Oh my god, Amber, you look amazing,” Bradley almost shouts as he approaches the table. “How have you been?” He is wearing a cream colour button down that stretches tight across his broad chest. The top two buttons are undone showing a bit of pale blonde chest hair and I want to tear it off of him. He seem
s almost nervous, which is a change from his usual bravado. It’s a bit of a turn on.

  “I’m good, really good,” I say calmly, struggling with dry mouth and lips that are resisting my words. I must be nervous. Moving to get up and hug him, my knees lock with a crunch and I barely make it off the seat.

  “Don’t get up,” he says as he leans down to kiss me. I give him my cheek and I see disappointment spread across his face as a smile covers mine. “You look like you’ve been down south, so bronze. It’s very sexy,” he winks at me.

  I’m not sure what look my face gives him as I clench my abs to avoid another loud roar coming from my intestines.

  He sits and fusses with the menu while stealing glances as me. I pick up my own and start to scan it, totally distracted by his presence and a pain that starts shooting down my arm. I half drop the menu in my attempt to place it back on the table and then let out a nervous laugh.

  “I’ll probably just have the salad,” I say, hoping the precariously placed menu doesn’t fall off the table. The water glass looks too far away so I don’t chance it.

  Bradley reaches across to slide the menu away from the edge and touches my hand.

  “You’re so cold!” He exclaims. “Did you want to move tables?”

  “No, I’m great, thanks.”

  Another pain shoots down both arms. Yoga was a bit hard this week but this was ridiculous. I try not to wince but in trying to look calm and normal I realize my right eye won’t close. I try several times, managing to get the left to close but not the right causing Bradley to laugh.

  “You winking back at me?” He purrs seductively.

  I try again and neither eye will shut.

  Panic starts to set in. I remember Jenny saying that I may start to stick together and the anxiety starts to overwhelm me. Maybe I had too much tea and needed an antidote. She has to have something in that store of hers.

  “I don’t feel great, I have to go,” I slur, barely stammering out the words before lurching forward and knocking down the table. My entire body feels like it’s being cut through with glass, like my skin is too small and will tear any moment.