Drop Dead Gorgeous, page 11
“More black eye shadow.” This is the sixth time in two weeks now that Katrina has sat in my chair. She never earns a seat on the minibus, but she gives money to the others to buy black makeup and red lipstick.
“It’s not eye shadow. It’s eyeliner, and you know I can’t give you more since you acted like a zombie and scared Helen at movie night.”
“It’s Ellen.”
“I know.”
She laughs as I back-comb her black hair. “You’re not as boring as you look.”
“And you’re not as demented as you act.” I’ve learned that the key to getting along with Katrina is to never show fear.
At first, the women were just walking into my room for makeovers and updos, but it got so busy that I had to make an appointment book and set my hours.
The staff didn’t know what to think about my skills. Edie doesn’t have a history with cosmetology but can suddenly style hair and apply cosmetics like a pro. When asked about it, I just shrug and give them my usual answer: “I don’t know.” Shortly after, a doctor found a case study from Denmark in which a plumber with a ninth-grade education fell asleep in a train station after hitting his head and woke seeing the world as triangles and waves. He started writing equations everywhere and talking about quantum physics. He amazed top mathematicians and physicists and solved some sort of complex system that everyone had been working on.
Now, I don’t know the first thing about all that brainiac stuff, but if an uneducated plumber can wake up solving the mysteries of the universe, a Michigan socialite can wake up knowing how to style hair.
The staff at Livingston eventually agreed that self-esteem boosts could be a part of everyone’s therapy. There are limits and rules and I’m more than okay with that. Every woman has to bring her own cosmetics and hairbrushes for sanitary reasons. I can’t cut hair for obvious potentially lethal consequences, but I can give them a Brittany Lynn Snider fashionable style. Some arrive with the jumbo self-gripping rollers and the teasing combs (without picks) that I recommended. I can’t exactly keep up on the latest tricks and trends without a computer, but it’s good to practice the skills I do have for when I go home. With half of my left hand still numb and my grip still weak, braiding is difficult, but I’m adapting and getting better. It helps that I give them all the Do or Dye signature finish: enough extreme-hold to survive a cat-five hurricane.
After three weeks, it became necessary to make a list of rules and tape them to my door:
Absolutely NO walk-ins—that means everyone!
Be on TIME.
Take your meds BEFORE appointment!
That means YOU!
The next time we meet in group, Ellen tells everyone she sees a hidden meaning in the rules and thinks “No Time Before You” is the name of my “salon.”
Of course, Katrina objects. “It’s a list of rules, Helen.” I’ve given Katrina three French braids like she wanted. They aren’t quite as tight as I’d like because of the mobility in my left hand, and she’s stuck about ten bird feathers in them.
“It’s Ellen.”
These two women are relentless and I don’t get between them.
“Edie gets to name her beauty shop.”
I look across at Carol and her comb-over bouffant and apple-green eye shadow. The hair is great and hides her biggest bald spot. The eye shadow… Well, she likes it.
No Time Before You Salon sticks, and I guess it’s fitting, given my amnesia situation. The salon gives me back a piece of myself and helps me pass the time from one month to the other. It reminds me of who I am and where I come from. Not that I need to be reminded that I’m not in Texas. It might be September now, but it’s cold as heck in Michigan.
Not all the women who book appointments are happy, though. Renee from room 10b thought her eyebrows were too dark and Michelle from 23b didn’t like the side ponytail she asked for. I point out that they got what they paid for. They argue, and I get so aggravated that I do something I’ve dreamed of since the day I started cutting and styling hair in beauty school. I draw a red arrow on a piece of paper and tape it above my trash can. I call it “the complaint department.”
Katrina thinks my complaint department is hysterical. While I wouldn’t go that far, I’m so pleased with all the X’s filling my calendar, I lose my mind for real and agree to an appointment with Twitchy Lisa for a makeover. She says it’s her fifteenth wedding anniversary, and Roy’s coming to have dinner with her in her room. I wouldn’t know what to say or do if Edie’s family came for dinner or anything else. Not that I have to worry—no one has even called and I’m fine with that.
I back-comb and spray Lisa’s hair halfway to heaven, and she never once accuses me of hiding her husband somewhere. Her mind does wander around in her head, but it’s the first time I actually have a coherent conversation with her.
I stick to her neutral color palette and she leaves happy and looking almost normal, but a few hours later, she walks into my room and tries to hand me a three-page letter of complaint written on legal paper. I’m sitting on my bed, working on some music, and point to my trash can and tell her, “File it in there,” under “no good deed ever goes unpunished.”
I write a few more lyrics to “Groan-a-Lisa” and put an extra-thick X through September 27. I have three days of evaluations ahead of me and I can’t get distracted by a schizophrenic woman. If all goes well, I’ll get released on time. I’m already anxious and excited and, yes, a little bit worried.
I sail through the first evaluations, but I know my last appointment with Dr. Lindbloom won’t be as easy. I don’t have to lie on the couch, and he stares at me until I start to feel uncomfortable and count my fingertips. “I don’t know what I did the last time I was here at Livingston,” I say to fill the awkward silence. “But you obviously didn’t like me.”
“On the contrary, Edie.” He uncrosses his legs and shuts my file. “You’re brilliant and we had some extraordinary conversations.”
He doesn’t hate Edie? I’m confused. “Like what?”
“Art, philosophy, the brilliance of Debussy, the symbolism of Angkor Wat.”
“Angkor what?”
“Wat.”
“That’s what I asked you.” I shake my head. “I know a little bit about art, but the other three are a mystery.”
“Talk about art, then.”
“I know what I like.” He just stares at me again, waiting. “Well, in Marfa, Texas, there was an artist named Donald Judd.” There isn’t a soul that was born and raised in Marfa who can’t recite everything there is to know about Donald Judd. His art museum, studios, and foundation are about the only things that keeps tourists coming to the small town. “He was a Minimalist and created oversize art that represents the existence of space, scale, and time with already existin’ things. He installed fifteen huge concrete blocks in the desert and created smaller stacks of blocks made out of wood, aluminum, and plexiglass. Some of his boxes are in the Guggenheim.”
“When were you at the Guggenheim?”
“I don’t know if I was ever there.”
He sits forward in his chair. “Hmm… How do you know so much about Donald Judd’s work?”
Okay, I walked right into that trap. I can’t lie and say I read it, because there aren’t Donald Judd art books around here. It isn’t likely that I saw a biography on TV, so I fall back to my usual answer. “Beats the heck out of me. I guess it’s the same as knowin’ how to braid hair and stylin’ updos.” I shrug. “Like that one fella from Denmark who was a plumber before he hit his head and now he’s smarter than Einstein. Doctor Barbara told me about a woman who woke up from a coma speakin’ three different languages that she never spoke before.”
“I’m aware of what she says.” He sits back looking dejected and defeated. Even his ponytail looks sadder than usual. “You said you appreciate Donald Judd’s art forms. Continue with that.”
“I said I know what I like.” And I like painted skulls and horns more than installation art.
“And you like this artist.” It occurs to me that he’s been trying so hard to trip me because he wants the old Edie back. It isn’t Edie he dislikes, but me.
“I wouldn’t go that far. There’s a magazine about the Southwest in Doctor Ryan’s waitin’ room,” I say, which is true, but I thumb through People instead. “I appreciate a paintin’ called Dawn at the Alamo I saw in there.” He raises a hand to his forehead like he always does, like it’s the sound of my voice coming from brilliant Edie’s mouth that’s been paining him all along. So naturally I add, “Painted cow skulls are pure genius, and if I get my hands on some tie-dye longhorns, I’ll be happier than a tornado in a trailer park.” I smile, and he can’t get me out of his office fast enough.
I don’t have too long a wait before I learn that I am being discharged on time. Even Dr. Mensa recommended my release. The day before I leave, my therapy group gives me a little party in the game room. There’s a cake with bright flowers and red punch, and I get talked into back-combing hair. I bust out my can of super-hold for the last time and try not to think about tomorrow. I’m excited to leave, but leaving doesn’t mean I’m free to do as I please. It feels like I’m leaving one involuntary confinement for another, and I’m not sure living with Edie’s family isn’t going to be worse. I don’t have money or credit cards or even a cell phone. I was trapped here for five months, and I’ll be trapped with Marv and Claire for… I don’t really know.
I don’t know Marv and Claire’s rules, and all I’ve been told by the nurses is that someone named Donovan is coming to drive me home to Hawthorne. I don’t know who Donovan is. I don’t know one thing about Hawthorne and no one’s asked if I want to be driven there.
“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” Katrina tells me that night as she helps me pack.
She reminds me of Valentina, only older and nutty. “You’ve been a good friend,” I say, and given the circumstances, I guess that’s true. “You’ve made livin’ here better, and I would have been bored without you.”
“I need to say something but I don’t want you to think I’m crazy.”
Too late. “Okay.”
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Sometimes when I look at you, I see something’s different.”
That stops me, and the shirt I’m folding falls to the bed. “What do you see?”
“I see that your spiritual energy is at odds with your physical being,” she says, and her hazel eyes turn a deeper shade of green.
I wonder if this is a test, if Ingrid’s testing me before I leave the mental hospital, and I carefully say, “That’s real interestin’.” Is Katrina only acting deranged as part of Ingrid’s plan?
“You have a mysterious aura. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I didn’t know you’re psychic.” She shrugs a shoulder and I breathe a sigh of relief. There’s no plan. She really is deranged. “Give me a holler when you get out,” I tell her, but I doubt that will ever happen.
“What’s your phone number?”
“I don’t know.” Which is the truth. “I don’t know where I live, either.”
“I’ll figure it out. Everyone’s information is on the internet if you know how to find it.”
I’ve done my share of stalking, but I’ve never been able to find everyone’s information. “We can have coffee and catch up.” Where there are people around and she can’t stab me.
She nods and hugs me tight, stunning me with her sudden emotion. Now I feel lower than a snake for thinking she could stab me. That probably wouldn’t happen. At least not in broad daylight.
I never was the popular girl. Not in my hometown, or at school, or when I sang at competitions. I was always just there. Even on Daddy’s side of the family, I was “Pudge’s girl,” like they didn’t remember the name of his only child.
I’ve never known what it’s like to be the center of attention until I walk toward the front doors at Livingston the next morning. A lot of the women have gathered to say goodbye to me, Brittany, the No Time Before You cosmetologist, and I feel as if I should have bedazzled my blue tracksuit and stuck a tiara on top of my Carhartt hat. If I didn’t have my red vanity case in one hand and a plastic personal belongings bag in the other, I’d wave back. It feels like I’ve been voted the most popular girl at Livingston Mental Health, and that makes me smile with mixed emotion as the doors sweep open to let me out.
A crisp morning breeze brushes my face and carries with it the smell of what I now associate with autumn. There is a world of difference between Marfa and Michigan, and I breathe this new kind of fresh air deep into my lungs. I wish it was my first breath of freedom, but it’s not.
A silver car with suicide doors is parked at the curb and a man is loading my cardboard box of clothing into the trunk. He’s wearing a sharp navy suit, white dress shirt, and blue tie, and I gather he must be Donovan. I stop by the back bumper because I don’t know what to do. Should I introduce myself or not?
“May I stow those for you?” He points to my plastic bag and red case.
“Yes. Thank you, sir.” The trunk is spotless and looks like it just came from the showroom. “What kind of car is this?”
He shuts the trunk and says, “It’s the Phantom.”
I’ve never heard of a Phantom, but it sure is fancy. “You must be Donovan.” I don’t know what he’s been told, but it feels awkward not to introduce myself, so I stick out my hand. “I’m Edie.”
He nods and gives my hand a quick shake. “Good to see you again, Young Edie.”
That stops me. “Is there an Old Edie?”
“Your grandmother,” he answers in an even tone, so I can’t tell if he believes the amnesia story or not.
“Is she still alive?”
“Alive and well.” He moves to the back door and opens it for me. “Your mother arranged an appointment for you at Chantal.”
“What’s Chantal?”
“A ladies’ spa. Your mother knows you’d want a massage with Ginger first thing when you arrive in town. It’s been a while since you pampered yourself.”
I don’t know if this is her way of pampering me or putting off my homecoming. The closest I’ve ever been to a spa was when Lida and I made appointments at Tina’s Tranquility off Highway 90 in Alpine. Tina’s idea of tranquility turned out to be a grueling massage and a flute CD playing in the background. I was sore for days and never went back. I suspect Tina and Ginger have different ideas when it comes to spa treatments. “Do I go to Chantal very often?”
“Regularly.”
That’s what makes me nervous. What do they know about Edie? What have they heard, and what questions will they ask that I can’t answer?
“They’re ready for you.”
I’m not sure I’m ready for Chantal. I climb into the car and sink into soft white leather. I am engulfed in luxury and don’t think anything will ever top this. Then Donovan gets in and asks, “Can I turn on the seat massage for you, Young Edie?”
Massage? Two massages in one day? “Yes, sir.”
As we pull away from Livingston, classical music surrounds me from all sides and warm massage rollers start at my shoulders and slowly move down my back, working out months of stress from my kinked-up muscles.
I’ve died a couple of times, but this is the closest I’ve ever been to heaven.
13
Before getting shipped off to Livingston, I knew very little about Michigan. I knew it was the state on the Great Lake that looked like an oven mitt. I knew that Kid Rock and Eminem were from Michigan and that Detroit was about as far from Marfa as you can get and still be in the US. Everything else I know about the state came from movies, the History Channel, or human-interest stories that give the impression of burned-out buildings and rampant poverty.
I still don’t know a lot about Michigan, but today I can add to my limited information. The scenery is filled with so much color, my eyes don’t know where to land.
I look past the wet road and broken highway lines flashing past my window to green rolling hills crammed with trees turning colors with the season. The leaves are yellow and orange and red and combinations in between. I’ve never seen anything like it outside of movies and books. It’s like driving through a beautiful photograph and as different as can be from the Chihuahuan Desert.
With each mile, my nerves unravel like a frayed rope and I’m holding on tighter and tighter. Since the day I wrecked Momma’s van, other people have directed my life. In all that time, I’ve only been given one choice: live or die. The only say I’ve had in my life has been whether I wanted baked or mashed potatoes.
One Sunday I was Brittany Lynn Snider and by Wednesday I was Edie Randolph Chatsworth-Jones. One Sunday I controlled my life, and that Friday I was shipped off to a mental hospital. Everyone but me has determined where I go, what I do from hour to hour, and when I go to bed.
No one asked me if I want to live with Marv and Claire. Maybe I could have said “hell no” if I had been asked, but the thing I’ve learned since I died is that no one has to ask if there’s only one option.
My stomach starts to ache as I think about Marv and Claire and what they might say and what I shouldn’t say when we see each other again. I start talking to Donovan and asking questions so I don’t have to think about it.
He turns off the music and politely responds as before, but now his answers are brief, like he doesn’t need to explain things that I already know. As if I know that Michigan is known for fishing, Ford Motors, the Red Wings—and that oak trees have orange leaves in the fall.
I assume Hawthorne is some kind of mansion, because people don’t name their houses or double-wide trailers. “Do I live in Detroit with my parents?” I know that’s where we’re headed, but I hope Edie lives in a different house or apartment so I won’t have to stay with the parents for very long.
