It Heals You
By Delaney S. Saul
The spa is in the smoggiest part of the city, right off the freeway where the streets are clogged with traffic and the car horns are relentless. An air of hopeless drudgery permeates the route. This is a part of the city you avoid. You scowl and lean into your steering wheel, desperate to be free of the area’s choking haze. You are sick of its rutted potholes and uneven pavement. You curse, swerving to avoid a flat tire. Despite the potholes, the other drivers are reckless, and you witness a fender bender that day, on the dreadful road leading to the spa.
The spa itself is a large, gray building that sits on the edge of a large, gray parking lot. It appears rundown and there is no signage to announce its business. Windowless, it is innocuous, blending in with the convention center and strip mall that border it. The convention center hosts conferences where men in cheap suits sit together in narrow chairs and discuss corporate things like morally gray tax incentives and union-busting strategies. The strip mall contains a shabby mattress shop whose owner can often be found napping at his desk—ironic, isn’t it?—and a steamy pizzeria that serves sopping wet slices dripping with watery red sauce.
The spa is a hidden gem amidst the rubbish surrounding it. It’s a well-kept secret due to its destitute location but also due to its clientele. The women who frequent the spa are not vocal about it and when they choose to share their secret they do so in private areas and hushed tones.
From the parking lot it’s impossible to estimate the number of people inside the spa at any time and there is never a soul milling around the entrance. Rarely is anyone glimpsed entering or exiting. When women are witnessed leaving they are elusive, as slippery as eels, but all look calm and wear eerie little smiles as they whisk to their cars and are gone.
If you are fortunate enough to hear of the spa and bold enough to enter the seemingly abandoned building, your efforts will be rewarded—if you are a woman. If a man tries to enter, he will be rejected and offered to the coyotes in the woods beyond the convention center.
You don’t know any of this. All you know is that a vague sense of drab squalor permeates the area. You park your modest car in the deserted parking lot and exit. All is still besides a McDonald’s soda cup rolling across the pavement, pushed along by a light breeze. You close the car door lightly, feeling as though your presence might disturb something unseen.
You escape the smog and the grim monotony of the parking lot as you step through the doorway of the spa. The scent of jasmine wafts over you. You inhale deeply through your nose, invigorated. You are standing in a small, almost empty room. Gentle erhu music plays quietly in the background.
The floors, the walls, even the neat woman behind the smooth, granite front counter are all clean and shining. To your right is a small refrigerator containing bottles of infused water. You select one, noting the slivers of cucumber and lemon floating in the bottle, buoyed by translucent ice. You walk along the black stone path framed by soft green plants that leads to the front counter.
The willowy woman who greets you is named Emily, according to her shiny silver nametag. Sometimes it’s Soo-jin at the front counter instead of Emily, but you don’t know this. Meeting Emily now, you notice her flawless, dewy skin and delicate, elfin features. She has a soft, fluttery way of speaking that reminds you of a bird rustling its feathers. You tell Emily your name and mention that you were referred to the spa by your dermatologist, who swears by its healing properties. The dermatologist said she doesn’t refer all her patients to the spa, but that it would be the perfect place for you.
Emily asks if you have any ailments as she slides a tan linen robe and a nondisclosure agreement across the counter toward you. You tell her that you might have skin cancer as you scrawl your messy signature across the paper. She tells you that you probably do, but not to worry because soon you won’t. She slips a silver key with a numbered fob into your hand. Today, you are 126.
With one graceful hand, Emily gestures you through the lobby, into a small area with cubbies containing shoes. The little heels on your shoes clack conspicuously as you walk along the black stone path toward the cubbies. Half of them are occupied, but the one labeled 126 is empty. You reach down and slip your shoes off, glad to leave them behind. Around a discrete corner there is a white door with a frosted glass window. You glance back and see that Emily is watching you. She makes a small gesture for you to enter, but you don’t need to be told to go through the door.
You find yourself in a rotunda populated with supple leather couches. Many women lounge on these couches, not speaking, all barefoot and dressed in linen robes like the one Emily handed you in the lobby. Several of the women are reading gossip magazines, or pulpy paperbacks. A few are dozing, their heads lolling backward, mouths parted. Others are gazing into middle distance, and then at you as you walk by. It seems they are waiting for something, but you don’t know what.
You avert your eyes, clutching your linen robe and infused water to your chest as you walk past them, through a door marked “Locker Room.” Just as you round the corner, you hear a voice call out the number 67.
Inside the locker room, you find the locker labeled 126. You catch a whiff of your sweaty clothes as you stuff them inside. The linen robe is soft and comfortable when you wrap it around yourself. You lock the locker door but think it unnecessary. You don’t suspect anyone is there to steal your old clothes and battered purse.
Across the locker room there is a door propped open and you hear rushing water coming from the other side. You hold your breath, not sure what to expect, and step through.
You are in a nude bathhouse. There are small, rippling pools labelled with varying temperatures and a waterfall whose rushing noise echoes throughout the room. As you step inside the poolroom you find that it smells of chlorine and the warm bodies of the women basking in the water. You grip your infused water tighter in your hand, wondering if you are making the right choice. The mole on your thigh is ugly, and you are nervous to be naked in front of strangers. You remove your robe, and hastily slip into the closest pool. It is warm, like bathwater, and you sit on an underwater ledge, leaning back and letting your arms float to the surface. You notice the women without staring directly. They are of every shape and composition possible, and your reservations fade away.
A woman with a snake tattoo winding up her leg stands near the edge of your pool. She has loose arm fat that wobbles as she puts her hands on her hips. A deep caesarian scar slashes across her lower belly like a knife wound. Another woman, this one with a mottled red burn covering most of her right breast, eases into the water near you. You glance at the irregular mole on your thigh. It grows larger by the month, eating away at your flesh.
A woman to your right in the warm, bubbly water asks if you’ve been to the spa before. She has a wide, bright face that reminds you of the moon. You say no, you haven’t. She smiles, says she could tell from your expression. She tells you to be sure to drink plenty of water. You nod, gesturing toward your bottle. The ice has melted in the heat of the poolroom, but the fruit still floats, suspended. The woman’s face darkens as she looks down into the water, comments what a nasty mole you have on your thigh. Then she asks you your number. You say 126. She nods and leans closer, says not to go wait in the rotunda right away, that it’s not your time in the backroom yet. She tells you to just relax and enjoy the pools for now. Her low tone is almost inaudible over the rushing of the waterfall. You nod and thank her for the advice, even though you don’t know what the backroom is. Moments later, the woman stumbles as she leaves the pool. You notice she walks with a limp.
There is a wet sauna and a dry sauna in the poolroom. The interior of the dry sauna is dark and wooden, like the inside of a hot barrel. It smells of cedar. There are four women already inside, one laying on the floor and the others laying on wooden benches. You spread a towel on an empty bench and move carefully to sprawl on it. The other women are silent, and the only sound is the faint hissing of the hot coals in the corner. Rivulets of sweat run down your forehead into your hair. You feel like you could fall asleep.
You don’t like the wet sauna as much. The blinding steam makes you feel suffocated and claustrophobic. You can’t be sure if there are other women in the room with you.
You spend more time switching between the pools. The coldest is sixty degrees. You sink in up to your chin and shake with the cold, your toes curling and nipples puckering. You can’t stand it for longer than a minute and you hop out when your shivering becomes violent, scampering across the blue tile floor and slipping into the hottest pool, set at a hundred degrees. The hot water feels like a thousand tiny pinpricks after being in the frigid pool.
This is the most crowded pool, but you are feeling more comfortable in your nakedness as you squeeze onto the underwater ledge next to a tall, narrow-shouldered woman. She has long, dark hair and poor posture. You think for a moment that she looks rather like you. You have a bad habit of comparing yourself to others.
The narrow woman turns and asks you what you are there for. You don’t understand the question. She tries again, asks what ails you. You point to the large, irregular mole on your submerged thigh and confide that you fear you have skin cancer. Then you remember that the woman at the front counter, Emily, has confirmed this fear. Trying to deflect your worry, you smile at the narrow woman and ask her the same question. She tells you that she has a heart murmur, that her body is a ticking clock. You tell her you are sorry to hear that, that you hope it gets better. The woman makes an odd face, pursing her lips and tightening her brow. You think she’s about to say more, but she doesn’t. The hot water roils around you and steam rises in clouds. The quiet murmuring of the other women and the sound of the waterfall prevail.
Time goes on and you grow tired of the pools and saunas. Your skin is pink and wrinkled like a baby’s. You don your linen robe and exit into the locker room again, your bare feet slapping against the damp tile floor. The women in the locker room are all in various states of undress, standing in the rows of lockers and preening in front of the mirrors in the vanity area. The woman with the angry red burn is blow-drying her hair into a luxurious, curly cloud. She turns and you see her breasts are unblemished. She looks at you and smiles, with a slyness that suggests you are in on a secret together. The moon-faced woman who advised you about the backroom passes you. She is dressed and no longer limping. In fact, her gait is lithe. She disappears beyond the rows of lockers. You glance around the corner, but she’s gone.
You return to the rotunda, still in your robe. Different women are lounging on the leather couches now. Most seem relaxed, but others appear anxious, with jaws set like they are steeling themselves for something. Someone is tapping her foot and the sound of her bare heel meeting the tile floor is amplified throughout the rotunda. One woman looks like she’s been crying, her eyes red and glassy. She makes eye contact with you and pats the empty space on the couch next to her. You hesitate, then take a seat. A pile of magazines sits on a small coffee table next to the couch and you sift through them. There are several copies of Health & Wellness and one tattered copy of People. You pluck a Health & Wellness from the stack and stick your feet in a foot massager on the floor. You skim an article about rheumatoid arthritis.
Only moments later you look up to see two women emerge from an unmarked room. One is Soo-jin, according to her nametag. Sometimes it’s Emily who helps the women navigate the backroom, but today it’s Soo-jin. You don’t know this. All you know is that the other woman wears nothing but a linen robe and her blonde head is resting on Soo-jin’s shoulder as they walk together across the rotunda. You track their progress as they move past you, toward the locker room, the woman shuffling and Soo-jin supporting her. A few tendrils of Soo-jin’s dark hair fall across the woman’s face as Soo-jin speaks quietly into her ear. Soo-jin’s ethereal face is stone, her words unintelligible. The moment is tender, but you don’t know why.
They reach the door to the locker room and Soo-jin takes the woman by the shoulders. The woman stands a little straighter, rubs one eye with her palm. You can see how bleary and unfocused her eyes are, even from where you are sitting on the couch.
The blonde woman slips through the door marked “Locker Room.” Soo-jin turns toward the rotunda at large and calls out a number. 125. The woman with red eyes and traces of tears on her cheeks gets up and follows Soo-jin into the unmarked room. Quietly, Soo-jin shuts herself and the woman inside.
Your number is 126. It’s almost your turn. You pick at your nails without thinking about it, stripping off your hangnails and leaving your fingertips bloody and raw.
When Soo-jin finally calls 126 you follow her, suspecting that you are treading the path of many women before you. You take a last look back, at the rotunda. All the other women stare back at you. One places a hand over her heart. Then, you step through the door, and you see it.
You are standing in a vast room with dull yellow walls. The light is dim, and it takes you a moment to even remotely comprehend what you are looking at. The thing Soo-jin is leading you toward is about the size of a small car, resting on a dais in the middle of the yellow room. It appears to be made of flesh. You gag, and bile rises in your throat, hot and acrid.
It is women. Many women, lumped together into one twisted, heaving mass. Arms and legs protrude here and there, the limbs jutting out at angles, but much of the thing is an indiscernible, tumescent clot. It has deep ruts, and wrinkles of cellulite with ruddy, tumorous protuberances jutting out of it. While much of the flesh has various mottled skin tones, it is also ripe and red with infection. It writhes and twitches, a sweaty, gray slime dripping from it, leaving wet spots on the dais. You can make out several individual heads, one with its eyes half-open, mouth agape in a silent scream. The head is not connected to shoulders, instead it blends into the thing with only a crooked seam as evidence. There is another face bulging out the side, but it is completely merged, nose flattened as though pressed against cellophane. The arms wave and the eyes blink, but the thing seems only semi-conscious. It does not speak, does not plead to you.
The bile is bitter in your mouth. You can’t bear to look any longer and you cover your eyes, turn to escape, but Soo-jin gently blocks you. You ask her why, why does this exist? Soo-jin tells you that she had no hand in its creation, only its caretaking. That when you are part of it, it heals you. She retrieves a bucket of water from near the door and trickles it over the thing, soothing the infection that runs along its seams. One of the heads groans.
Soo-jin asks if you want to be healed. It’s a simple question, one that should have an obvious answer, but instead you pull on your hair, conflicted. You think of the large, cancerous mole on your thigh that continues to get darker, more irregular by the month. You ask how you get out once you are in. Soo-jin says it’s a simple cycle, when someone joins another is released. You put one finger in your mouth. You can’t help it, it’s as though you are reverting to childhood comforts, when you felt an incomprehensible fear of the monsters that lurk out of sight. Except, now you are looking at one. You suck the blood off your hangnail.
You ask Soo-jin if the thing is evil, and she says it’s not. You ask her if it suffers. Her beautiful, expressionless face reveals nothing, but she pauses before saying it does. She tells you the thing lives in a waking dream and little of the experience will be remembered by the individual women when they emerge. You ask how long you’ll be part of it. She says it depends on how much healing you need. You touch your thigh and feel the rough outline of the mole, even through your linen robe. You draw the edge of the robe aside, show Soo-jin the mole, and ask again, how long. She studies the mole, then says a few hours, but it will feel like much longer. That you will come out tired but healed. All you must do is touch it.
You close your eyes and exhale. Then, letting your robe fall to the floor, you grit your teeth and inch toward the thing, holding out a trembling hand. Working against your revulsion, you place your palm against its mass. The flesh is warm, and slippery with sweat. You’ve placed your hand near a protruding arm, and it flaps back and forth, waving its fingers. The thing shudders, and your hand begins to melt into it. The process only takes moments, and you soon find yourself up to your elbow, your limb becoming one with the united flesh of the other women. Near you, you see a head begin to roll and clench its jaw. Its shoulders emerge, then its chest and elbows. It is like watching a birth. When her hands emerge, the woman uses them to push against the thing. Her skin is glistening, she looks radiant. She collapses onto the floor.
You are up to your shoulder. You can no longer feel the arm that’s been engulfed. The last thing you see consciously is Soo-jin taking the woman’s damp hand, pulling her to her feet like she is hauling her onto a raft, out of stormy waters.
It’s as though a milky film has been pulled over your eyes, and you know you are part of the thing. It is you, and you are the other women. The mole on your thigh burns and festers, as the slow torment of healing begins. You can feel her broken arm twisting into place, her fever being sweat out. You feel the sickness oozing through her blood like gray water, the rusty disease that coats her throat. You are part of a community of illness and disorder. A community of flesh where healing is pain, and pain is dealt equally to all. You feel every inch of the thing you are part of. It is torture.
You hear the door open, others coming in and out. You know someone has been extracted and another has been enveloped when there are changes in the pain. You feel Soo-jin’s cool water bathe your aggravated flesh. She feeds you creamy nectar from a bottle. The feeding mouth is not your mouth, but you can still taste the sweet liquid, feel it trickle down her chin.
You are entombed for untold ages. Spirals of hot pain wrack you, and you shiver and contort. You think of all your wrongdoings, all the times you’ve been bad. Is this your punishment? You feel the thoughts of the other women, their torment. You hear echoes of their pain, hollow pangs of guilt and worry and fear. Sometimes there is laughter, wild and depraved. You are pushed to the brink of sanity.
You hear the door open with ears that are not yours, and Soo-jin leads yet another woman in. You can see her only dimly, from many angles and through many filmy eyes. When she places her hand against you, against it, you feel your body start to separate and you know it is finally your time. You push and squirm until you are free, and you fall wetly onto the dais. Soo-jin stands above you, offers you her hand and your legs quiver as you find your feet. The thing is still there, drooling, behind you. Already, memories of the pain are fading, and you look over your shoulder at it with sympathy rather than fear.
Soo-jin hands you a linen robe. You look down at your body as you put it on. The mole is gone without a trace, leaving your thigh bare. Your fingernails are no longer jagged and bloody. You are weak, so weak you have to lean on Soo-jin as you leave the backroom. You are wobbly as you walk together through the rotunda room, and again you feel the eyes of the waiting women. Now you are the shuffling woman, unsteady and reborn. You offer the others a tremulous smile. Soo-jin leaves you at the entrance to the locker room after reminding you not to disclose the activities of the spa to anyone. You already know you won’t. No sane person would believe you.
You enter the locker room and peek again at the lush pleasures of the poolroom, where women go to relax before their turn in the backroom. You wonder how many of them have been to the spa before and who doesn’t know yet, like you.
Lingering in the shower, you help yourself to the spa’s luxe shampoo. You use the expensive body wash to clean the sticky sweat from your skin and you feel the last of the pain sluice down the drain with the hot water. Rejuvenated, you blow-dry your hair, put on makeup, and smile knowingly at the other women preparing to leave. You put your linen robe in a hamper and don your old clothes. It seems like eons ago that you tentatively shed them and stuffed them in the locker. You feel like a completely different person from when you took them off. You are.
You wave to Emily at the front counter as you walk out of the spa, healed.
THE END
Author Bio: Delaney S. Saul is a regular, normal person. She is the Associate Editor of Voyage YA and her fiction has been featured in Gone Lawn, The Molotov Cocktail, Fast Flesh, Barrelhouse, and elsewhere. Her Instagram handles are @delaneyssaul and @slimegrrl.