Chapter 25: right there in his eyes; Acceptance; slow and steady (rated T)
Oregon, September, 1998
It was evening time when Shaw finally made it home that night. Walking the back streets in cool evening air, it gave her time to think.
Quite a day. First, the run-in with the big girl, Billy, at school; their fight in the hall; her escape to the woods, then town; then Master Lo's shop. She thought of him again as she rounded the corner near her house. She recalled the look on his face when he'd first laid eyes on her, on the street at the back of his shop. She'd been pacing back and forth behind the small cafe – drawn to the sight of food, but unwilling to enter.
Right away, she'd noticed something different about him, about the way he carried himself, how he stood, how he held his gaze on her – without the usual stare or the smirk or the quick dismissal she got from people.
He saw her. He saw through the obvious.
And in that instant a window popped open for her – just for her, and just for a moment. Through the window Shaw could see herself the way he did. Strong spirit. She heard it inside her head as if he had said it out loud. For him, it meant more than just the words. This was a clear-eyed judgment, a pronouncement.
He'd stood there, taking in everything before him – the cuts and bruises on her face, the swollen nose, the missing clothes, the defiant look – he knew her in that instant, and he didn't turn away. Strong spirit he'd said, and she sensed acceptance. The window snapped shut for her, but the feeling ricocheted inside her like lightning in a bottle.
Nothing like this had ever happened before. She dared not let go of this feeling. It could evaporate and disappear without a trace from her mind. This was acceptance, an unconditional acceptance from this stranger. It didn't matter any more where she'd come from or what she'd ever done in her past. Nothing needed to be forgiven, nothing given up to get it. She'd already earned it. It was right there in his eyes.
In that moment Shaw vowed - she was willing to do what was necessary to keep that feeling alive.
In the next few steps she was home. She hustled down the dirt driveway running next to the house, then around the corner to the back stairs. Shaw knew how to step so they wouldn't creak, and even in the darkness she could find her way through the back door. The house was dark inside, except for a little strip of light in the hallway. In the kitchen, she stopped at the fridge. Not much there inside, but on the shelf, wrapped in thick waxed paper, was her sandwich. Further down on a counter sat her thermos, hot soup inside. She tucked them both under an arm and hustled ahead past her mother's room. Light shone from under the door and Shaw imagined her sitting there at her desk, surrounded by stacks of her work. She pushed on and rounded the banister, climbing steep narrow stairs to the tiny loft on the second floor.
This was her space, small and sparse. There was a square of carpet over the old wood floor, and she'd put her mattress down on top of the carpet. Next to her bed was a single short table and a goose neck lamp. This was all there was. She dropped her sandwich on the table, the thermos next to it, careful to feel for the edge in the darkness.
A few steps away she felt for the knob on a closet door. Two empty hangers hung inside, above a small chest of drawers. Shaw reached for one of the hangers and leaned forward, sliding off the shirt Master Lo had given her. This was the shirt that all his students wore, and he had given one to her. She settled it on the hanger, then up over the top of the door, smoothing the fabric gently with her hands. That's when she felt the small round tin she'd slipped into a pocket. Its smooth metal shape felt cool in her palm, and she lifted off its cover. A faint smell of herbs rose from the contents inside. It reminded her of the herbal smells inside his shop. She ran her finger around inside it, and spread the ointment with little swiping motions - as Master Lo had done - on the cuts, the swelling, and the bruising on her face.
She remembered him dropping the tin in her palm then, pressing the cover down, speaking softly to her over the top of her hand. Shaw recited his words to herself in a whisper: This is ancient formula, passed to me from my teacher. Special medicine. Put on same way, six times every day.
She placed the tin on the table next to her bed, then turned back to the shirt hanging on her closet door. Moonlight from the little window caught it in its glow, and she adjusted the door so she could see it hanging there, from her bed, all night.
Basement of Zheng hide-out, Flushing, Queens, December, 2014:
The smell of rain outside drifted through open doors upstairs, down the hall and down the stairs, right to where she stood. A little chill from the damp air. Here at the doorway looking in, this was the room where she and Reese were held that night: captured, beaten, left there as a warning to the rest.
There was the rope hanging down, tangled tonight, like a fight. When Reese was there, it hung down straight. She remembered him trying to catch her eye, hanging there by his wrists on the rope, cutting skin; later, the sound of wood cracking into bone. In his eyes, hurt and pain, but no giving in.
And there on the right, the table with her own rope coiled in a heap.
Shaw remembered the sound of tires ticking over metal in the street; the swerve, a blur from the left and crashing, rolling, rolling, glass breaking, metal straining, head striking. And then the quiet.
Just falling glass.
Voices, doors, hands on her, and blackness.
With every move, ticking sounds, tiny shapes of glass dropping from her hair, bouncing, skidding on the table. Even before her eyes could see, the sounds of ticking on the table, first.
Then voices, foreign voices, and cold water from a bucket on her back. Awake then – but struggling to come up to speed, make sense.
Where was this place?
She'd turned to pay attention to the sound and saw her partner hanging on the ropes.
Defiant, she spoke out loud to the Zheng.
"Great, Reese, you always bring me to the best places."
That first strike was a warning on her legs – a wooden stick, like a Kali stick, slapped across her feet. He hadn't held back much. The strike was plenty hard. These were pros, after all, trained in the art just like her.
What made her challenge him like that, again? "Let the fun begin."
Another strike across the legs. Harder this time; more pain than the first. Reese tried to make her stop but she wouldn't let him tell her what to do. She would take it. Whatever they dished out, she would take it.
But then, they went for Reese instead.
They bared his skin, then the Kali stick again – on bare skin so they could see where they would aim. They were pros at this – more force with every strike, at just the right angle, at just the right point. Exquisite pain at every blow. And the strike-points – the same ones she would have used on them. She'd learned them years before – from her Master, her Sifu, her teacher.
This one and only steady rock, when she was young.
He'd guided her, molded her, given her an outlet for the pain of her disorder.
When she fit in nowhere else, he gave her room to be herself. Acceptance.
Solace.
Midtown Manhattan, safe house, December, 2016
She could hear before anything else, voices far away. And then she could feel things next – her left shoulder, something wrong there; pinching on her arm on the right; something warm wrapped around her left hand.
At first, it felt like too much effort to surface. She'd been submerged, unaware; and now, it felt too hard to break the membrane in between. She listened to her breath, and rode it down, submerged again.
Reese walked down the hall and stopped at the doorway. Root was there in her chair on the far side of Shaw's bed. She had Shaw's hand wrapped in hers. This time, Reese could see the pink in the skin of Shaw's hand. He moved closer to the side of her bed. His fingers touched her skin, warm now. He slid his fingers to her wrist – slow and steady – her pulse.
"Has she been awake?" Reese asked, in his whisper-voice. Root shook her head, no.
"She looks better, don't you think?" she asked. Reese looked at her lying there and nodded. Maybe she'd ducked this bullet – well-enough. They'd just have to wait and see.