Rope and Veil

This story was prompted by another Lit writer who favourited my previous story. As I usually do, I go check out their writing, and found a nice read about a guy with quadraplegic girl. But what moved me more, and inspired this story, was a long, impassioned response to that tale from a PWD, who was torn in her own response to that story.

So this one is for her, if ever she finds it.

Any and all errors in my understanding - or lack thereof - of the issues facing PWD are mine alone, and are the result of poor research and ignorance on my part. If I inadvertently give offence, please forgive me.

Note: the story has been edited slightly following feedback received, especially from Missy (who found it).

-- ooo OOO ooo --

"Hey, hold the lift, would you?"

My finger automatically went to the double out arrow button, and the door stayed open for the woman, girl, who called out. It was the end of another long day at work, and I was going into "switch off now, before I get home" mode, a half hour bus ride and then a ten minute drive home from the park-and-ride. I had to step back quickly from the swing and turn of a wheelchair, as she spun into the lift and turned on a wheel to face the doors, closing now.

"Thanks," she said, looking up at me from under a shag of rainbow twisted hair, her finger jabbing at the G button, impatiently.

"Going down, all the way?"

"Yeah, home time for me, long day."

"Me too, can't wait to get out of this thing," she said, tapping the arm rest on the wheelchair with her finger tips. Long, black nails.

Forthright then, about her disability. Forthright too, in her attitude and sass. She was in her late twenties, early thirties maybe, still carrying the edgy look of some of the art and design students I had known during my uni days.

Her brightly coloured hair was shaved up one side of her head, razor cut close to her skull, and on the other side, a long twisted braid fell down over her shoulder, with a long sweeping fringe flicked over an eye. Each twist of her hair was a colour of the rainbow. Her face was pale, with black cat's eyes, Cleopatra's eyes, done with cleverly applied mascara, full red lips.

She pulled a pair of leather gloves from the bag resting in her lap, and wriggled her fingers into them. The gloves were in fact mitts, strong padded palms to grip the rim of her wheels. The flick and straighten of her fingers into the dark leather drew attention to the many silver and black rings on her fingers, beautifully made jewellery.

In contrast to her hair, cat's eyes and ruby lips, her clothes were black. A pair of leather boots were on her feet, intricately laced up her ankles, her feet wedged to the sides of the foot plates of the wheelchair. This woman clearly liked well crafted things about her and on her. Like those objects, she too was a piece of art in her own right. She was making a statement, that's for sure. Look at me. Fuck the wheelchair, look at me.

She reached again into the depths of her bag, pulled out a bottle of water, and tilted it to her lips. Her teeth pulled, pearly white, on the white nub of the bottle to let the water flow. She tilted her head back and took a long gulp. Her throat was long, the rainbow hair falling past her neck, tumbling off her shoulder in a twist of colour.

With a ching, the lift shuddered to a stop, and the doors slid apart.

"Have a good one," she said, as she firmly rotated her palms on the rubber tyres and accelerated out of the lift. I followed her to the security gates, where she quickly tapped a swipe card onto the red cross. The light went green, the two gates slid open, and she was through.

I walked through the single gate behind her. By the time I got to the main doors and out to the street, she was moving swiftly down the pavement, her hair flashing like a rise of exotic birds as she disappeared into the milling pedestrians.

Gorgeous looking woman, I thought, my eyes on the bus across the road. I wonder how long she's been in the wheelchair?

The next afternoon I was later out of the office than usual, and just as I reached the lifts I could see a door sliding shut.

"Could you hold the lift?" I shouted, and the doors stopped their slide, and opened. "Thanks for that."

"Going down, all the way?" She looked up at me and grinned, pushing her finger to the G button. Her colours swirled with the movement.

"Yeah, another long day. You too, by the looks."

"Yes, starting any new job is always hard, as I have to figure out the job, plus the politics and the bullshit."

Her voice was low for a woman, with a huskiness and a slight edge to it. An accent I couldn't quite place.

"Plus, I have to scope out the place, to work out the best routes and access for this little baby."

She tapped the tyre of her wheelchair with her hand, her ring threaded fingers curled from the holes of her mitts.

"That's a hassle. What's this building like for you?"

"Not too bad. The toilet's at the other end of the floor though, that's a pain. Otherwise, access is pretty good. Except when people leave their bags on the floor, sticking into the aisles."

She laughed. "But when there's a tyre mark over the top of their bag, they get the hint, and next day it's tucked under their desk!"

"What, can't they see the wheelchair? People just don't think, do they?"

"That's why I've kept the hair. They notice that. Mummy, look at the lady in the wheelchair, look at her hair. Can I get hair that colour?"

Her mimicry of a little girl's voice was brilliant, high pitched and innocent.

"Don't stare, honey, she's an invalid, the nice lady might not like people staring at her."

Equally devastating, acting out the hushed, awkward tones of the ignorant mother in the shopping mall, not wanting her child to see.

"You rock, kid, seeing the hair first. Pity every one else just sees the fucking wheelchair." Her voice rose with an edge of anger to it.

At that point, the lift shuddered to its stop on the ground floor, and she prepared to get rolling.

"Have a good one. See ya." Her anger had dropped, I wasn't the stupid mother.

"Hey," I called after her. She stopped and turned her head to me.

"I like the colour of your lipstick, that's what I see, today."

She held her eyes on mine for a two count, and with a big smile, she turned her arms to the wheels and circled away, head down in concentration.

Wow, she's got a cute smile. I smiled to myself.

The next day I got an email < hi, I'm Amelia, I'm new here. Need help understanding how to get contracts written, people tell me you're the guy? >

So I wander down to the other end of the floor, and Amelia is the woman with the brightly coloured hair, the sass, the red lips and the wheelchair. From the door, though, she is seated behind her desk and I can't see the wheelchair. She's not defined by the wheels. But she sure as hell is defined by those ruby red lips and her Cleopatra eyes, and her rainbow twisted hair.

As I talk the work and we work the talk, getting the job done, I see that Amelia is not only the kind of woman who stands out in a room but the kind of woman who owns the room. I realise I am in the presence of a seriously smart woman here. Which, to be honest, makes a change from the pony-tail flicking blondes with their long legs and swaying hips, but dumb as a row of lipsticks on their dressing tables.

Amelia though, wow. Sitting across from her, pointing out this and that in the documents in front of us, I'm finding it hard to keep my eyes on her face. I've got to be professional here, but her edgy twist of hair draping down her shoulder, fuck, it's like a rainbow leading down to a pot of gold. And in her case, the pot of gold at the end of her rainbow, Rapunzel with a paint brush, is the most delightful cleft of cleavage I've seen for a while.

In the lifts, looking down on her, you'd think I might have noticed that. But I realised she hid herself there with her carry bag and her big baggy coat to keep the cold away.

Even now, she's speaking with her hands, and nothing is still. In between all the movement I catch snippets and glimpses of Amelia's throat and the smooth slide of pale skin into a sweet divide of breast.

"Ah, Alex, did you get that last point? Stay with me, here."

Fuck, my mind's drifted. I lift my eyes from where my gaze has settled, and I mentally shake away the gorgeous glimmer of flesh that stayed my look. My focus sharpens, but her's is sharper. As my eyes move back to her face I see that she has stilled a perfectly arched eyebrow, slightly raised and quizzical. She knows the answer already. There's no point pretending.

"Um, yes, sorry, my mind drifted a bit, got distracted for a moment there."

Amelia took a twist of hair in her hand, coiled it around twice, then straightened the fall of colour against her shoulder and down her arm.

"What, not seen a woman with brightly coloured hair before?"

Then rested one black tipped finger on her ruby red lips, and tapped them, once.

"Or is it this shade of red that's off putting? I'm not putting you off am I, not little old me?"

She laughed, the most delightful contralto laugh, rich and amused, joyous in the effect she had on me. Me the cool one, not.

"Let's go for lunch," she said, and pushed back from her desk to reach for her jacket from the coat-stand behind. I'd forgotten the wheels, there was too much else to remember.

"Are you OK with your coat, can I help you on with that?"

"What, I'm in a wheelchair, I can't put my own coat on?"

"Ah no, I always offer to help a woman into her coat. Same as I let a woman go through a door first. And you know, I'll even walk on the outside of the pavement for you, to stop the splashes from the horse's hooves wetting your ankles. And if there's a puddle, I'll lay my own cloak down over it, so you don't get your feet dirty."

A beat.

"Or, in your case, your tyres dirty. Come on, proud Mary, let's go."

She reached out her hand as she rolled past, just a touch on my sleeve, to acknowledge what I was on about. Apology accepted, Amelia.

And that started an occasional pattern of lunches with Amelia, not often, every couple, three weeks or so. We worked in the same company, so our work roles coincided every now and then, and we were professional colleagues. We just happened to get on. Mostly though, unless we organised ourselves to get together, it was the lift that kept us connected.

"Hold that lift, would you?"

"Going down, all the way?"

"See ya, have a good one."

Over the next several months Amelia's hair went through a couple of different shades and cuts. She favoured a short, shaved or buzz cut up the one side of her skull, and different lengths of shag or spike or layers down the other. Her skull was the perfect shape for short hair, beautifully contoured.

"I do hair modelling," she revealed, "and my hair-dresser loves me, because I never say no. I think I'm a natural brunette, but I've not seen that colour since I was about sixteen. I got really bored with the long haired blonde biddy look, all girls the same, and just went and changed my hair one day, bright red. Me mums almost died!"

She smiled, remembering the reaction from her parents.

"Still, they couldn't really complain, given their lifestyle and choices. Sent a pic to my dad, he loved it - 'apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it hon?' he said - once a family is on the edge, always on the edge."

I was used by now to Amelia's cryptic reveals, little one liners dropped along the way, as if it was all perfectly natural, just part of her life. And of course, all these things were part of what made her, what forged her, her life.

I soon saw a pattern in her. Amelia would realise she had just let slip a reveal, like a magician weaving a spell slowly, and pause. Her eyes would focus a million miles away, just for a second, and then she would be back. With a small nod of her head, she would tell me something about herself. Or with a small shake, she would decide, no. Or not yet. Don't know about never - we've not got that far, not yet.

I found myself doing a similar thing. I would tell her some things about myself, or I would choose not to tell. I revealed, once, that I had taken myself off to life drawing classes a few times, and had kept on drawing, from photos mostly, but occasionally live models.

"I'd invite you up to my attic to see my etchings, but I've got two problems with that."

"Oh, what are the problems?"

"Well, I've not got an attic, for a start. Plus, if I did have an attic, it would have high, narrow stairs. And I'm fucked if I know how I'd get you up there. Don't think you'd like a fireman's lift. Too undignified for you, to be draped over a shoulder. Proud Mary, you."

Amelia smiled at this - we'd got to a point where we could laugh about the inconvenience of her wheelchair. She would take the piss, herself, mostly, and after a while I'd figured out what was OK, what was not.

"Maybe you could go check out my tumblr blog, I post my drawings there."

"I might do that. What's your blog's name?"

The next day was a Saturday. Amelia called me. She'd not done that before.

"A, can you come over to my place?"

She didn't sound her usual confident self, even over the phone.

"Some of your drawings. They touched me. It's important."

I could sense something was different in her voice. A quietness, but a tension at the same time. What was it in my drawings that had struck a chord? Which drawings?

Amelia's place was a ground floor apartment, a single wide corridor with practical open spaces off to one side, a line of four bay windows down the other, sunlight streaming in. Each alcove contained a low window seat, scattered with cushions and comfortable quilts. Amelia buzzed me in the front door. She was in one of the alcoves, her back propped up on a set of cushions, her thin legs stretched out on the quilted bench.

As usual with Amelia, she was dressed in black. This day she was wearing a folded Japanese style jacket, long sleeves wrapped around her arms, and a panel across her breasts. The pants were made from the same material, a soft cotton. Her feet were covered by a pair of thick socks, warm on her feet. Today though, her usual rings and braids and bangles weren't on her fingers, nor her forearms. This day, her flesh was bare from its usual metal and leather adornments.

Her hair was twisted high and coiled up on her head, the colours held in place with two long ivory hair pins. She looked different today, a touch of Japanese about her, a geisha. She gestured me to sit in a chair beside her, and as her arm settled to her lap the sleeve rose up her arm, and I saw the white coil of a rope, a thin white rope about her wrist.

"What is it Amelia, what's happened?"

"Two of your drawings. Two of your drawings in particular, they moved me."

"Which ones? Why?"

Amelia looked at me, more seriously than I had ever seen her look at me, more intensely than ever before.

"Stand by me, give me your hand."

And she took my hand in hers, raised it to the side of her face, and placed it upon her cheek. As she did so, the wide sleeve opened wide, and around her forearm I saw rope was intricately knotted and wrapped, doubled and looped, making a complex pattern on her flesh. She was still, her only touch a lightness on my arm.

"Touch my hair, run your fingers through my hair. You've seen the smooth shaved side of my skull. Now touch the other side. I don't show it."

Curious, but just a little scared now, a little uncertain, I slowly ran my fingers through her hair, tentatively tracing my finger tips over her skull. At first, as I slowly moved my fingers off her cheek, her skin was smooth, and my fingers ran through her hair. And then, I felt ripples, a roughness, scars. I stopped the movement, and kneeled before her, my knees on the floor, looking up into her big eyes, and she gazed down at me, a huge depth in her dark eyes.

"Your painting, your orange and yellow painting of the slim, nude girl with the pink scarf. Her breast, her gone breast and the scar there. You wrote of her bravery, and you could have written those words for me. I wanted you to write those words for me. You've not seen me, so you couldn't draw me, but those words, you could have written them for me."

The scar on the side of her head, covered always by the long braid and fall of her hair, it was one of Amelia's scars, from the car crash. She was sharing one part of the biggest event in her life. Her life changer.

"You say two drawings moved you, Amelia. Which was the second one?"

My voice was low, a slight tremor in it. The rope around her arm was giving me a clue.

"The one you called Rope and Veil. How did you know to draw that one?"

The drawing was charcoal and pastel - a nude torso of a curved woman, hips wide and belly rounded, breasts high and perfect nipples, the full curves of her breast separated by white thread and turns of rope, intricate patterns laced upon her skin. The face in the drawing was covered, hidden, by the fall of a veil, a pink veil falling past her waist. Pink, like the fall of Amelia's hair, hiding the scars on her skull.

"I've told you that I'm a hair model and my head is a blank canvas. I also found someone else, another artist, and my body is another kind of canvas. Stand there and look. I can see that you will get it, I won't need to explain. Look at me."

She has no pity for herself, and she has none for me. She commands me to look. Amelia doesn't move from the alcove. With her strong arms she pushes herself higher, more upright, and places her legs before her, straight on the bench, not moving. They can't move unless hands move them or her body drags them. Her legs can't move.

She lifts both her arms high and the sleeves fall and open. Both forearms are twisted and patterned with rope, fine cords maybe a quarter of an inch wide, double cords wrapped around her flesh. The coils are not tight, she can move her arms freely. But the ropes mark her skin. The white of the rope is whiter than her skin, and her flesh is pale. Other than her hair, her eyes, her lips, Amelia's skin is a pale glimmer from within the blackness of her wrapped gown, twisted around with the stranded rope.

Her gaze on mine is steady, her lips full, their natural colour but still a rich redness, but serious, no smile now. Amelia looks down, and my eyes follow her new gaze, and she looks at her hand as it goes to the first of the five buttons down the edge of cloth, tight over her full breasts.

Amelia's long fingers undo the first button, and the cloth falls forward, revealing more of the pale skin at the base of her throat, a shadow of the clavicle a line towards the curve of her shoulder, but the curve of her arm not seen yet.

The second button undone, and she pulls the panel of cloth forward and it folds on the rise of her breast. I realise her breasts are not their usual softly rounded, high curved shape, but a longer, more tubular shape under the cloth. The undoing of the second button reveals a high pair of ropes angled down from her shoulders, disappearing over the high rise of her breasts and down into her cleavage.

Her eyes rise and her gaze is to my face, and my eyes keep hers. I am watching, and following her slowness. Her eyes drop once more, and I see her fingers undo the third button, and it is half way down her torso, and there is now a big triangle of folded cloth, and one breast is almost fully exposed. The rope twists under the flesh of her breast and around the base of it, two turns coiled around, and the rope separates the flesh of her breast from her body, and it's a long cylinder of flesh, slightly darkening, a pink blush of colour on her skin.