“Skin Deep” by Sahil Mehta

Skin Deep

Have you ever had your skin run away from you? Mine runs away from me all the time. I joke about it. I tell everyone my skin eloped with the milkman and then cheated on him with the mailman. I’m tempted to blame the moonshine and gin or the sweet liqueur that swallows my teeth and bones, but I haven’t touched a drink in weeks and months. Yet my skin sprints away without a second thought.
The white coats don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve been poked and prodded a million ways, medicated, sedated, dilated, discombobulated, and more. I see Dr. White once a week and Dr. Philips every other week. Mama and Papa fret and fume, upset that their endless prayers bear no fruit. Pastor Greg performs exorcisms on me. We even attended a revival once, but with the wagging tongues and fainting spells, I felt like I was the normal one.
I envy my sisters. I do. Their skin doesn’t abscond at will, unlike mine which loves playing vagabond. Then again, my sisters and I are nothing alike. Their skin is the color of milk and cream. A constellation of strawberry-colored stars emerges on their shoulders in the summer heat. My skin is brown, the color of old-fashioned caramel chews. I was adopted, I know. It’s hard to hide that kind of thing, even from a child.
When my skin runs away, I dream of my mother, whom I’ve never met. I pine for a father I know must exist. I search for an origin story. I long for roots and a place to belong. All I know is this: my place of birth was a fire station. Not literally, of course. That’s where they found me. The date and time of my birth are approximations made with the best of intentions. I can’t ask the stars and planets to explain why my skin keeps running away. Celestial predictions require precision that I’m in no position to provide. So I scan every room and crowd for people the color of old-fashioned caramel chews. I am looking for the parents who gave me away, hoping to unlock the secrets of my runaway skin. How can I be comfortable in my skin if it won’t agree to stay awhile?
One day, I got myself a passport and packed up my bags. Mama cried. Papa, too, tried to hold me back. There was no stopping me, though. I bought a one-way ticket to the land of caramel-colored people, where, upon arrival, I disappeared. I melted into a sea of brown, waves of ochre and beige, mahogany depths, a cinnamon tide that carried me along. My existence, which had always felt like a question mark in every space I occupied, now seemed like a period — or a full-stop as the locals call it here. Here, it didn’t matter if my skin ran away because I didn’t know where mine ended and my neighbor’s began. My skin and I could be happy here.
My euphoria turned out to be short-lived.
The slack syllables and cursive cadence of my Southern speech outed me every time I spoke. Without a banyan-sized family tree, I was left to float. No grannies pushed pickles on me or forced me to try their special sauce. No aunt, no mother, no sisters taught me how to sing their sacred songs. The men looked away or they leered at me. I had no pedigree or a place to perch. Even the multi-limbed temple gods scoffed at my unitary faith. The priests told me to lower my eyes, the prophets warned me to cover my face. I watched the feasts and festivities around me with hungry eyes, alone and outcast, dark monsoon clouds of orphanhood converging upon me once again.
With a twinge in my lonely heart, I remembered Mama’s Sunday roast. Does Papa still miss me now? I wallowed in old memories then — Mama’s hugs filling the air with the scent of lavender and mace, Christmas carols, birthday cakes, secret sibling games, summer storms, county fairs, Teddy bears, Papa’s whiskers dancing to the beat of his full-bellied laugh — but the memories mocked me, reminding me of everything I’d lost or left behind. I felt the nostalgic pull of the past grow strong as the cruel present crushed my hopes and dreams and the future looked murky, destiny and doom separated by an invisible line. I called Mama, tears in my eyes, tail tucked, and told her what she’d always hoped to hear: she’s all the mother I need. I’m coming home, Mama. My skin and I will be happy there.
The truth is that I don’t know if my skin and I will be happy anywhere. Mysterious (and, sometimes, thoroughly banal) allegiances that ebb and grow lie scattered around the globe, alternatively pushing and pulling my skin and me into their orbital paths. I fear that my skin, chafing and stretched so taut, will one day tear away and flee to unknown parts.

Sahil Mehta

Sahil Mehta was born and raised in India. He currently lives in Boston, Massachusetts, where he works in the hospitality industry. He has over two decades of experience in educational publishing, but his foray into fiction is much more recent. His short fiction has appeared in Foglifter Journal (nominated for the PEN / Robert J. Dau Short Story Prize for Emerging Writers), Roadrunner Review, South 85 Journal (2023 Julia Peterkin Flash Fiction Award, second runner-up), Tint Journal, and Ink in Thirds.

Headshot: Magali Rust

Photo Credit: Staff