By Tracy Cozette Moore
JANET roused from a seemingly dreamless sleep, sweaty and tucked under a large, white duvet without a cover. Her naked body was moist and warm with eye corners crusted over with the tears of the evening before. She was wrapped in a blanket cocoon that proved to help her drift off, its weight competing with the weight pressing on her chest. How could he just end it so abruptly?
She tried to loosen the bedding; the cold air of the cottage bedroom made goosebumps all over her tender arms. She hesitated, wondering if it was worth getting out of bed today. Traveling up to the Highlands on four hours of sleep, her shoulders sent prickly signals to her nerve center necessitating rest. She looked at the duvet and saw wet outlines where her body overheated in her sleep. What an asshole. Janet stared at the bed and thought about calling him. Of ending her continuous obsessing over their end.
Janet had lost quite a lot. And the more she experienced loss, the more she set expectations and subsequent preparations. She surveyed her room forgetting where she placed her pochade box, poster tube and tote folio. She looked at her luggage in the corner, a half zipped cavity where she pulled her oversized cosmetic bag and bonnet out, gaping open like a wound – clothes furled like fresh granulated tissue.
She hadn’t unpacked when she arrived last night, heading straight to the shower and into bed. It had been surprisingly therapeutic. The water pressure proved strong enough to soothe her aching lower back and calm the ballooning in her shoulder blades and thighs – even if only for a little while. She was able to walk completely upright to her bed, climb in and open her hips into Ananda Balasana which released an exhale that brought her close to weeping.
Janet could never just stretch and attempt exercise. Her relationship to movement felt almost adversarial, intrusive even. It brought everything to the surface – the years of abscissions to a body she lived in but no longer felt secure in. Each morning she rose to question her own coming and going. She consistently tallied the cost.
Janet continued to stare at her luggage. She always kept her bags packed and her art supply case close beside. One foot in the door, one foot out – just in case. She was perpetually prepared for good things to come to an end. Having to move house at a moment’s notice was not unfamiliar to her. Muscle memory made swift exits like a dance. She knew the choreography. Janet anticipated the beat and moved accordingly.
She was glad she decided to come up to the Highlands again instead of going back to Belfast, sure that no one here could clock her. If any of Ethan’s friend’s recognized her on the streets of that “neat little town,” she’d turn the pavement into a scene. She was like that. Never starting, but always finishing.
When Ethan got on that fateful FaceTime call, his eyes spoke before his lips moved. It was over. And he blamed her. But Janet didn’t choose hostility that time. She simply wished him the best, hung up and sat in her bed upright staring out the window into the city skyline for hours – gritting her teeth in humiliation until a headache ensued.
She knew the news of this break up would rip through Ethan’s friend group in no time – like a bright green eviction notice stuck to her door for the neighbours to see. Tearing the notice off the door left a sticky white residue letting everyone know she came up short. Ethan’s house was no longer her home. So, Janet moved.
Just a few months before Christmas she visited Ethan in Belfast. She laughed into the phone regaling her best friend with a play by play of her first date. Laying on the bed where their date continued into the next morning, her fingertips trailed the surgical donor site on her thigh where skin grafted puzzles for once made her smile.
‘Before we even undressed, we just sat across from each other, legs crossed and stared.’
Timothy rolled his eyes and feigned a gag.
‘Y’all are disgustingly dramatic. Y’all dated each other through a laptop for a year and y’all finally are in the same room and there’s no immediate slapping of skins? Be fucking forreal, girl.’
Janet smirked and smoothed imaginary hair behind her ear. Timothy leaned into the camera waiting for clarification, impatience behind his pursed lips.
‘We took a moment to just explore each other’s skin.’
Timothy’s eyes shot her a knowing glance.
‘I’m glad sis. You deserve to feel safe.’
‘I do. I do feel safe.’
A few moments of silence passed between the two of them.
‘Then why do I sense some hesitation?’
Janet hadn’t realised she was being so obvious.
‘It just feels incredibly good. And that’s terrifying. I mean . . .the man joked about us nearly going half on a baby the next morning. I had to tell his ass to cut it out. That’s a trigger. It ain’t funny at all.’
‘It’s not funny to you because it’s what you want.’
Janet scoffed and dropped the phone on the bed.
‘Fuck off.’
Timothy’s cackle reverberated into Janet’s room, transporting him to Belfast.
Janet picked up her phone.
‘I wish you were here. I really need a hug.’
Timothy wanted to hang up the phone before it got too real between them.
‘Listen, I know you’re afraid to let go because you’re already contemplating the end. And I get it. Trust me, I do. Who knows how long it’s going to be. You can never know. So that’s even more reason to ride the wave . . .and ride him!’
Janet moved the phone lower to show only her forehead as emotions brimmed to the surface and Timothy continued.
‘You can tear down the walls you’ve needed to keep up to survive. Thrive, sis. And ride. Ride him!’
There’s a lot of things she wanted to say to Timothy but instead she thanked him behind tears she dared not let fall.
Now, sitting in the bed of her Airbnb in North Kessock, she looked out at the waves as anger filled her body and crashed into her like a tidal surge breaching a quay.
Enough of that. I didn’t come up here to fixate on a white man. What’s done is done. Stand up.
Janet began to roll to one side of the bed and noticed a stain on the duvet.
Another flare.
She sucked her teeth and let out an exasperated sigh.
‘This is how I know the owner isn’t a local because who but an American would forget a duvet cover,’ she said into the frigid cottage air. She could see her breath, reminding her there was a fireplace she should light.
She was sure the little holiday home she was in, on the shores of Beauly Firth wasn’t owned by a local. The accent that crackled through the intercom at the main gate sounded American like herself. Probably from Brooklyn. Folks from Brooklyn love to move to random locations and outprice the place. But at least he has good weed. Very good weed.
The welcome surprise of a berry white pre-roll was enough to give him a temporary pass. She needed the joint. She needed her imagination. She needed something to help her seascape dance on the canvas she brought along.
She got out of the bed to stretch a back that had seen better days. Before all the doctor visits. She rolled her shoulders back attempting a reset before her mind took her there. Flashes of agonizing hospital stints made her grit her teeth and squeeze her sore fingers into ashy knuckled fists. It’s okay, Janet.
Looking out the window into the cornflower blue of dawn she weighed her options. You have a fireplace. You have this view of the beach. You carried all your supplies here for a moment like this and you’re gonna let it pass? Janet looked at the painting on the wall by the sliding door that led out to a patio. She could paint something much better than that.
Janet let out a whispered Fuck as she made her way to the mirror to look at herself. The tightness of her calves made walking across the bedroom another undertaking. Arms raised over her head she rolled her wrists.
She realised she’d fallen asleep with her Bluetooth speaker on. Her playlist had reached “Balm in Gilead” by Karen Clark-Sheard. The modulation of the second chorus filled her with nostalgia for her youth choir days.
“Medicine used in the Bible days to heal the sick and take the pain away.”
She hummed the alto key as she did her stretches, going into a downward dog that made her upper half vibrate under her own weight but helped her back expand deliciously.
Brushes of auburn and deep cadmium yellow began to coat the morning sky as Janet let her car warm up. She ruled against using her cell for directions as she felt pretty comfortable with the A9. She also wasn’t in a rush to get to a store.
She was determined to let the scenery facilitate the rest of her time, slow her down and reconcile her to nature’s continuity. She planned to drive to the Chanonry Lighthouse and remembered it was along the A9 until she hit the B9161 or A832 along the Moray Firth. From there she was clueless. I’ll ask a local, hopefully they’ll be keen to help.
The lighthouse would be the obligatory nudge back towards her pastel sticks and canvas rolls. She sat in silence as her windshield got a bit foggy, opting to turn off the heat so she didn’t miss the splendour unveiling out over Beauly Firth. Contentment rose in tandem with the dawn.
MARCY liked to drive straight to the lighthouse and start her mornings there. When she wasn’t relishing in the tranquility, there were schepper vodsels1 with creatie vodsels running about that she enjoyed observing and studying. She never picked up any hitchhikers here because these were local families piled into small cars with miniature seats that needed to be removed from the vehicles. The small chairs unnerved her. Creaties seemed to have soft schedels so why weren’t the chairs enclosed? Inadequate technology is all I’ve witnessed down here.
However, Marcy was fascinated with how scheppers kept their eyes trained on their own creaties even as they conversed on phones and with each other. She paid particular attention to how their breath caught in their throats when a creatie got too close to the incoming tide. Why even bring them here? Is it safe? Marcy’s face unscrewed and her eyebrows lowered quickly as two locals walked by and smiled down at her belly. She dropped her thick arm down to her swollen tummy as she rubbed it in contrived thankfulness.
Marcy looked into the distance, as a car pulled in next to her black Jeep Wrangler. A dark skinned vodsel female emerged from a silver Audi TT coupé that looked fresh off the lot. Marcy knew she was not local.
Lately, she felt as if she was being watched. With the fallout from the last procurer from Vess tasked with handing off vodsels to processing, the executives had begun to schedule routine check in’s and impose mandatory minimums for vodsel females with intact eggs. For every five wrapped carefully, at least two needed to be viable.
Marcy’s last shipment was reported to be one below the requirement so the men at Ablach farms began to offer unsolicited advice – which she despised. It was incredible to her that men permitted to stay in their natural form, letting the muck of the lower levels stay stuck to their fur and mane’s like glue, would dare to speak to her work ethic and sacrifice.
Her procedure was said to have been longer than most because of how much they had to fashion her after schepper vodsels. Vess Incorporated’s surgeons distributed Marcy’s weight to her pelvis and hips. As a result, she was wide, she waddled as she walked and she appeared homely to disarm vodsel females.
The female vodsel walked near where Marcy was sitting on the stone wall that led to the shore. In the shadow of the lighthouse, she looked her over, taking in her height and width. Marcy’s eyes immediately went to her stomach and saw that a bump protruded forth from behind her thick sweater. Is she pregnant? Is she an out of towner and pregnant? I can’t let her leave here on her own. Marcy slid off the stone wall and started walking towards her jeep. She popped open her driver’s door and pulled back the latch on her glove compartment removing a pocketknife.
Locating the out of towner and confirming her attention was not on the car park, Marcy shuffled a bit to the silver Audi right beside her Jeep and stuck her knife’s edge into the front tire with precision.
A slow hiss of air began to come forth and the silver Audi leaned toward the Jeep in submission.
Marcy returned to the stone wall to contemplate what was about to transpire. She readied herself for the ruse. She began to stretch her fingers, pantomiming the toggle she’d soon have to make the choice to click.
After watching the female pick up stones and put them in her pocket for fifteen minutes, she saw her retreat from the shore.
She’s going to her car. This is it, Marcy. Sit up.
‘No fucking way! You’ve got to be kidding me?’
Marcy whipped her head around towards her jeep, squinting in confusion through dappled sunrays.
‘Are you alright, there?’
She began to walk back towards the car park.
‘No, not at all. I seem to have gotten a flat tire somehow . . .and this is a rental,’ Janet huffed in defeat.
Marcy began to take in the female’s features and bent down slowly as she pretended to inspect the tire with her. She noticed the female’s hips were wide and her bum was high. These were very good signs. As she leaned up, she forgot to go slow and the speed sent a shock all the way up to her neck that she had to muffle.
Janet didn’t notice – completely overwhelmed with the reality that she was stranded almost thirty minutes from her B’n’B. She began to curse.
Marcy cleared her throat.
‘This is my car here. I can give you a ride. Where are you headed?’
Janet looked Marcy in the eyes and then once all over.
‘I’m staying in North Kessock? But please don’t go out of your way. I can try to reach some kind of service . . . which one, I don’t know. But this can be fixed.’
Marcy remained resolute.
‘No, no, you’re on my way. It’s no problem. What kind of Scot would I be if I didn’t help?’
Janet smiled at Marcy.
‘You’re Scottish? You don’t sound like you’re from around here. Even your car . . .I’m sorry I just assumed you were an out of towner like me. My apologies.’
Marcy straightened her neck in resolve.
‘You’re not wrong. I’m originally from Edinburgh.’
Janet knew that wasn’t true by how she pronounced Edinburgh as Edin-burg. But decided not to press the issue. She needed a ride so she could call the rental company. And she was grateful anyhow. She understood why folks yearned to claim Scotland.
Marcy was almost to Munlochy and needed to decide if she was going to make her three out of five for Vess Incorporated this week.
‘I never asked your name. Preoccupied with my chaos, I forgot my manners,’ Janet remarked, taking off her jacket. The heat from the jeep’s fans sent a single droplet of sweat gliding down her back as she reached behind her – her shoulder making a loud pop as she tried to wipe away the icky crawl down her spine.
‘Please, don’t worry. I’m Marcy.’
Marcy heard the pop but didn’t want to pry.
She needed to act now as the sign for B9161 passed in the rear view mirror.
Marcy noticed hair on Janet’s neck as she looked her over for a final time.
Do schepper vodsels grow facial hair? She wasn’t sure what to make of it.
Nevertheless, she refused to miss her window. She clicked the toggle with fluidity.
Janet felt familiar sharp pains in her thighs and began to feel high. Hospital high.
Her head begun to spin. And spin.
‘Marcy. Did you know your name means ‘God of war?’ Janet questioned, looking at the driver inquisitively, eyes trying to close but to no avail.
She didn’t reply. They needed to get back to Ablach fast. Icpathua rendered the largest male vodsels mere vegetables. This was highly unusual.
‘My name means grace, I believe. Thanks for asking,’ Janet laughed riotously, having not felt this good since the end of her last hospital stay.
She tried not to think about any of them. Each dressing change she underwent threatened to make her pass out . . .but every time she held on.
Several nights she danced in her nightgown, stuck to her skin from sweat, her wound vacuum purring in the sterile night air. Globs of blood made tubes into slides – the Diluadid taking Janet upwards towards the rollercoaster drop of her life. She was alive. She was without. Pain be damned.
Just like this moment.
Janet scanned the expanse outside the jeep and realized something was off.
‘You missed the turn for the A9 to North Kessock. Where are we? Where are we going?’
Marcy stayed silent and kept her eyes on the road. She refused to panic.
Janet’s shaky hands balled into fists – ready to conclude whatever had just begun.
About the author
Tracy Cozette Moore [she/they] is a poet, creative fiction and screen writer. Their writing is centred on the reconciliatory and transformative utility of literary fantasy and the historical reimagining of Black American history. Their first written and co-produced short film Honey Rain is set to be released this Spring with New Path Media. A New York University alumnus, they currently live in Glasgow pursuing a MLitt degree in Creative Writing at the University of Strathclyde.
- See: Faber, M. (2017). Under the Skin. Edinburgh: Canongate. ↩︎
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