The doctor ran her fingers over the letters, stroked them with none of the clinical coldness Uma had expected from this encounter.
“We can do this,” she said, placing Uma’s hand back gently in her lap. “Any others?”
Uma swallowed with a wet click, accompanied by the loud crinkle of paper on the examination table beneath her. The sound was jarring in the silence.
With clammy hands, Uma grabbed at her sleeve.
“Would you like a gown?”
“No.”
If the doctor left the room to get a gown, Uma would lose every last shred of courage she’d built up. It was now or never. She dragged the thick cotton sleeves up to reveal both arms. The breath the doctor sucked in could be felt more than heard.
Oh God. I can’t do this, Uma thought, flinching away, focusing on the ceiling, the floor, the earth poster on the wall—anywhere but at the mess of jagged lines her body had become.
“May I?”
“Okay,” whispered Uma.
Dr. Hadley’s fingers trailed over nearly every inch of Uma’s arms, mapping the pain scrawled there. The woman exuded empathy, a gentle balm, as she catalogued the wrongs done. “This looks fairly recent.”
Uma nodded slightly, swallowed hard on the emotion filling up her throat, and responded, “Six months.”
“All of them?”
“Yes. They were all done on the same night. Except for one.”
For all that time, Uma had avoided them. Months without seeing herself. Months of denial. They looked new in this blinding, white light. Raw. She was nothing but a gaping wound. Her skin festered out in the open.
“Oh no—” She gagged and lurched off the table. A trash can was pressed into her hands, and that day’s green bean casserole made a painful reappearance, scraping against her throat, pushing tears out through her eyes. Funny that the only time she’d managed to cry during the six worst months of her life, it wasn’t even real tears.
The hand on her back was soft and smooth. It tightened on her shoulder, then disappeared before reappearing with a box of tissues.
“I’m so sorry,” Uma managed to say through lips that were stiff with embarrassment.
“Don’t be. Please.” Dr. Hadley’s warm, solid hand held her naked arm—the ugliest skin the woman had probably ever seen. “Please.”
Uma looked in her eyes and cringed at the sheen of tears there. She can cry for me. So why can’t I?
“Have you reported this? Called the police?”
“No. I can’t.” It came out louder than intended.
Rather than argue, Dr. Hadley nodded, then took back the trash can. “Can I put this outside?”
“Thanks.” The moment was mortifying on so many levels.
“Do you have a safe place to stay?”
Uma nodded.
“Are there more?”
“Yes.” She swallowed again. “Yes. A couple more. My belly, my legs, and my…” She waved her hand in front of her chest vaguely, too ashamed to admit to what hid under her bra.
“It’s going to be a long process. Newer tattoos can be a bit more intensive. But we’ll take care of you.”
She nodded, again overwhelmed at the emotion piercing through the embarrassment.
“We’ll need several sessions. Lots of factors are involved, such as how old they are and the color of the ink. Because most of them are new…” She looked a question at Uma, who pointed at her upper back.
“The professional one on my back is older.”
“Okay. Well, this is going to take months. Can you do that? Do you have a place to stay for the next few months?”
Months. Months hiding out with Ms. Lloyd, enduring her quirks, her bitchiness. “I—Yes… Yes.”
At Uma’s expression, the other woman hurried on. “The treatment is no charge. We’ll take care of you. Could you maybe come evenings? Weekends?”
“Yes. Whenever you can fit me in.”
The doctor pulled down Uma’s sleeves so Uma didn’t have to. Would she ever be able to face her own body?
“And I don’t have money now, but I’d like to pay for—”
“Please don’t worry about that. I am so sorry this happened to you.” Dr. Hadley took Uma’s cold hand in her warm one. Like a lump on the hard vinyl of the examination table, Uma sat, shoulders bowed beneath the weighty legacy of all that ink.
But she’d bared herself to this woman, if only partially, and damn it, she’d survived. To have that person be sympathetic to her plight, to understand at least some of what she’d suffered, without pitying her… It was deeply comforting. She shut her eyes and imagined tears rolling down her face, sobs filling the void.
“I’m glad to meet you, Miss Smith.”
“It’s Uma. Uma Crane.”
“I’m glad you came to us, Uma. I’m George. We’re going to take good care of you here.”
Uma believed her. This woman would take care of her skin, of that she had no doubt.
It was the rest that she worried about—the small, shriveled heart of her, deep down inside. Because that, she knew, was what she’d become. Just a shriveled little raisin of a heart. Despite this woman’s kindness and the relief her promises of help brought, at her very core, Uma suspected that the pain would never really go away.
* * *
Night had fallen, and the lights were on at the place next door when Uma emerged, still shaky, from the doctor’s office.
Great. Unless she’d been bluffing, Ms. Lloyd wouldn’t let her back into the house. She must have been kidding, though, right?
Uma took a couple of steps along the sidewalk, dazed and a little lost. What would she do if her boss didn’t let her back in?
Sleep in my car.
It wouldn’t be the first time—and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Resigned to the idea, Uma moved forward, only to encounter the door to the martial arts place, propped open in invitation.
Should she do it?
Yes, she thought. Do it.
The idea appealed. It would be something to help distract from the pain of digging up all the horror of her life. Something to make her forget it all before facing the long, dark hours of night—whether in a tiny room or a car. She’d just endured one of the hardest hours of her life. She could do this. She could do anything.
This is it. Do it.
Uma walked inside, greeted by a gust of warm, gym-tainted air. It was a universal scent. She’d never been to a gym that didn’t smell of rubber, socks, and sweat. There was no camouflaging it.
The woman at the front desk looked familiar, although Uma couldn’t imagine where she’d seen her, having been in town less than a week.
“You here for the self-defense class?”
“Um, just to get some information, please.”
“You’re in luck! Come on in and take a class with us. I teach it. I’m Jessie.”
“I can’t do it today.” What she really meant was I can’t afford it, but she wasn’t about to admit to that.
“First session’s free. Come on, try it out. Starts in”—Jessie glanced at the clock on the wall behind her, and Uma’s eye noticed her earring, a small, tasteful diamond—“about fifteen minutes.”
Uma’s hand went automatically to her own naked lobe, and she thought of everything she’d left behind: my entire life. As far as possessions were concerned, Uma was only a few garments from being naked. She’d arrived in Blackwood devoid of possessions. Like being reborn. She almost liked that thought.
“I don’t have workout clothes.”
“You can wear what you’ve got on. Next time, if you decide to come back, maybe some yoga pants and a T-shirt, but you’re fine for tonight.”
“Do you have a brochure or something? I’ve really got to go.”
The woman handed her a card, and Uma left.
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Minutes later, she stood on Ms. Lloyd’s front porch, pounding on the door, with cold feet and a strong sense of déjà vu. A glance at her watch told her it was after six. Definitely past dinnertime, according to her boss’s rigid schedule, and the woman had left the porch light off. A sure sign of the kind of night Uma was in for.
“Go away!” the voice called through the door.
“It’s cold out here, Ms. Lloyd.”
“Yeah, well, you should have thought of that before you went gallivanting off and left me here to fend for myself, shouldn’t you?”
“Please let me in.”
“You can come back tomorrow.”
“I’ve got no place to sleep.”
“That’s not my problem.”
Uma dropped her head to the door. “Please. It’s freezing out here!”
“You wanted the evening off—well, you got the whole night. You should feel lucky. It’ll give you something to think about next time you try to skip out on your job.”
“Would you mind throwing me my things? Please?” A perfectly good jacket hung in Uma’s closet.
“Nuh-uh. How else can I guarantee that you won’t go running off on me? No. You can get your stuff in the morning. Now git!”
Through the door, Uma listened to the thump thump of her cane as the woman shuffled away, followed by the exuberant trumpet call of the evening news. Should she continue knocking, just to drive her crazy? Probably not. She wouldn’t put it past Ms. Lloyd to call the cops on her.
When did it get so cold? she wondered, shivering as she turned to eye the darkness beyond, hating to leave the porch and the slight shelter it provided. Her thoughts landed, for a millisecond, on the house next door, where she imagined Ive having dinner with his wife and kid, but even from here, she could see it was dark.
Not that she would have had the courage to knock anyway.
6
With few options, Uma drove back downtown. She tried the door of the skin clinic. Closed. A glance next door showed the martial arts school still wide open.
No more excuses, then. She walked inside.
“You’re back!” said Jessie before handing her a form to fill out.
She put her name as Uma Smith, using Ms. Lloyd’s address, removed her shoes, and moved into the room, where a couple of men fought on a mat.
The place was cavernous, larger than you’d guess from the street, and sparse. A male space if she’d ever seen one. Floor-length punching bags hung in a corner of the room, along with a few sets of heavy-looking weights and benches. Toys for boys.
Her eyes moved back to the pair fighting.
The one whose back was to the room was huge. They apparently grew them big around here. Both men wore padded head protectors, which covered their ears and left only their faces open. The little one did something with his leg, whipping it out in a surprisingly quick kick, and they both ended up on the mat. Uma stepped back with a start.
They went from kicking and punching to what looked like complicated wrestling, legs everywhere, bodies wrapped tightly around each other. It was almost tender before it got violent again.
They rolled, then got stuck in a complex knot of straining limbs and grunts. The smaller guy fought hard but was quickly overwhelmed, faceup on the floor, with the big guy above, covering him. Wow. Uma forced her breath to slow, through a blend of fear and something different—exciting and titillating and almost…erotic.
“Awesome, isn’t it?” Jessie said from beside her. Uma barely spared her a glance. “They’re clearly not the same weight class, but it’s slim pickin’s around here for training partners. These guys have been fighting each other for years.”
Uma nodded to be polite but kept her eyes glued to the action.
“We cover some of this stuff in class.”
The smaller guy pushed up hard into the other one’s chin, then wrapped his legs around him, catching his head in a painful-looking choke hold.
“Oh Christ,” Uma said aloud, repulsed by the violence but entranced by the image they presented.
“Well,” the woman chuckled, “variations on this.”
She finally looked at Jessie. “I wouldn’t mind learning how to do that.” Her voice came out a tad breathless.
“You’ve come to the right place, then.” She moved up to the edge of the mat and stomped hard on the floor, twice. “Okay, guys! I got ladies lining up here, chompin’ at the bit to get started. And it’s not to look at your ugly mugs.”
Uma glanced back toward the door and was surprised to see that several women had indeed arrived. They were taking off shoes, shooting the breeze, stretching on another mat. The stragglers shivered as they entered, and all everyone seemed to want to talk about was the cold snap. The idea of having to interact with them made her regret the impulse that had brought her in here. At the same time, she knew she wouldn’t leave. Not with the way her heart raced, not with this messy mix of anticipation, fear…excitement. Besides, where the hell was she supposed to go? With the coming cold, the best thing she could do was stay inside.
The men high-fived into a hug. Then the big one turned and…
It was that man again. Ivan.
He pulled off his headgear as he approached, followed by Jessie and the other guy. His face changed when he spotted Uma. From relaxed and smiling to serious. He stopped a few steps away.
“Hey, Uma. Good to see you again,” he said.
“Hi.”
“You doin’ self-defense with Jessie?” Ivan reached back and grabbed the woman behind her shoulders in a squeeze that looked slightly too tight. Not waiting for a response, he went on, “This is Jessie. Jessie, I told you about Uma.”
It all came back to Uma then: the coffee shop, the kid, this woman walking in. Of course. She watched as Jessie wended her hands around Ivan’s arm and twisted so she ended up outside his hold, rather than inside it. On tiptoes, she threw her arm around his neck in a choke hold of her own.
“Don’t ever let ’em get the better of you, Uma,” Jessie said with a wink before pushing away to the center of the room. “All right, ladies, let’s get started. Line up on the mat, please. We’re going to begin with a little warm-up and then go into some simple evasion techniques.”
Uma inserted herself into the back row, unable to stop her gaze from returning to Ivan. He left the mat, catching her eye before disappearing into a back room. She looked away a second too late, embarrassed to have been caught staring.
When Ivan and the other guy reemerged a half hour later, his messy hair was damp, curling around his face and the nape of his neck. He looked freshly showered and healthy, dressed in a tight T-shirt, with sweatpants that must have been a couple of decades old. Uma tried to ignore him, but the man was true north to her wandering eyes.
Like a car crash, she thought wryly. I don’t want to watch him, but I can’t look away.
“It looks like it’s that time again, ladies. Our guys are back. Let’s put our moves into situations we might encounter with real-life attackers.” Jessie turned to the men. “Get your bottoms over here, boys.”
Oh hell no. No, no, nonono. Uma barely caught herself before saying it aloud. She’d done okay with the other women, but this was touching men and pretending and—
No. No way.
“Ladies, as you know, here we have Ive and Steve, our handy man-puppets for the evening. They look mean and ugly—especially the big one—but it’s nothing we can’t handle, right?”
The women responded with a few raucous catcalls as the two men walked toward them. Uma’s eyes caught Ivan’s for a moment and shifted away.
Chicken. She faked bravado, forcing herself to look back. A strong woman. That’s what I am. Fearless.
Their gazes met and held until her face must have turned the same shade of fuchsia as her sparring partner’s shirt. The color looked fabulous on
the other woman. Not so sure about her face.
“Okay, we’re going to get out of a wrist grab. Let’s show these guys what we’ve learned. Monica, you go with Ive, and Anne C., head over to Steve.” They all moved to the center of the room and started in on their new moves. Everything was different—heightened—now that the men were back here. Uma kept her eyes riveted on Anne and Steve, avoiding the sight of Ivan’s muscles shifting beneath his absurdly tight shirt.
“Great. Now, Penny! Get up there and show us what you got. Anne Riley? Why don’t you try it?”
Jessie was working her way down the line, with Uma at the end. The wait was agony. I can’t do it. I can’t. I won’t.
Penny and Anne finished up, and the next two went. Binx and somebody else. Uma stopped remembering their names and concentrated instead on preparing.
Okay, okay. She could do this. She could let a man touch her. In fact, this wouldn’t be any different from when Ivan had held her hand. She wouldn’t be intimidated by him.
That wasn’t his goal though, was it? Intimidation. That part was all in her head. The man might look scary, but so far, all he’d done was act inviting and friendly.
“Uma?” Jessie’s voice broke through her thoughts. “You feel ready to try it out?”
No. “Sure,” she said, the image of nonchalance. Maybe. She glanced at Ivan and looked immediately away.
“All right, let’s partner you up with Steve. Ive, you and Monica can start.”
Steve? Not Ivan? What a relief. Right?
And then the real fear kicked in.
Oh, Steve was nice about it, but Uma’s hesitation was obvious. He didn’t push, didn’t pressure. But the first time he moved, she lurched back and bleated, like some pathetic barnyard animal. He was small compared to Ivan, and older, but he looked strong.
A man like him could hold her down, force her face into the floor, grind the imprint of the cold mat into her cheek. He’d cover her windpipe with his soft Italian leather loafer and show her with a twist of the heel how easy it was to crush the life out of a woman. With one hand, he could yank—
“I got this, Steve.” Ivan broke through the flashback and muscled it aside, the tendrils of his deep, dark voice oozing around the images and pulling them apart. Behind Uma, he was real and robust enough to chase the memories away. “Need a break?” he asked, close but not overwhelming. She couldn’t be sure whether she nodded or not.
In His Hands Page 38
