To whom are you speaking?" Ami asked. She stood in-the bedroom doorway in her
bathrobe. Her face was covered in a white skin cream, luminescent in the hallway light. I glanced back at where I thought I had seen Noble, but he was gone.
"I--" I looked toward the stairway. "Mrs. Cukor . . . she put this in my bed under the pillow," I blurted, and extended my arms to show Ami the leaves.
"What is that?" she asked, grimacing and stepping back as though I had a handful of bugs.
"Dill, basil, and clove, herbs."
"What? Why would she put that under anyone's pillow?"
"These are herbs that have certain magical qualities," I said. "She put them under my pillow to drive away evil, the evil eye."
"The evil eye? Is that what she told you? That woman. Something has to be done about her. I'm sorry. I'll speak to Wade about her. This has just got to stop."
"I don't want to be responsible for anyone losing her job," I said quickly.
"I wouldn't worry about it. I doubt she'll lose her job. Throw that junk away and get ready. We have to look like dynamite on heels," she said, backed into her room, and closed the door.
She doubted she would lose her job? What was the hold Mrs. Cukor had on this family? I wondered. I re-turned to my room, crumpled the leaves in my hand, and flushed them down the toilet. I immediately felt guilty about it. Maybe it was important, I thought. Maybe she was trying to help me by keeping the evil eye away. Maybe I shouldn't have been so angry. Maybe . . . visions flowed by, memories of Mama, shadows over the lawn, an owl perched on a gravestone.
I shuddered.
"Noble?" I whispered. "I know you're here. Where are you? I need to speak with you. I need your advice."
It felt strange calling to him, speaking to him. It had been so long.
The curtains on the windows fluttered, even though the windows were closed. I waited, but he did not appear. He's punishing me, I thought. He's punishing me because I have ignored him so long.
After another moment, I felt my heartbeat slow and my breathing get more regular.
Get hold of yourself, Celeste, I told myself. Don't spook Ami. Don't risk losing all this now.
I put on the rhinestone-trimmed tube dress and looked at myself again. I wasn't sure wheth
er I looked beautiful and sexy or simply sexy. Was this a good makeover that I was permitting Ami to accomplish for me, or would I be sorry? Being brought up under such dire and in many ways strict circumstances at the orphanage, I rarely, if ever, thought of myself in the way Ami thought of herself and me: sticks of dynamite, ready to explode in the eyes of every man who looked our way. I never experimented with clothes, with my hair, or of course with makeup. What people saw was what they got.
How different it was now. hi Ann's world, just like her, I could cast myself into different roles, move through life as if we were in a movie of our own making, treat clothing more like costuming, and listen to our own music in our heads. Every time we left our bedrooms, dressed to go out, we were literally making an entrance onto a stage, imagining a spotlight always on us. I didn't have Ami's confidence yet, and I might never have, but I saw how she anticipated and expected applause, admiration, attention. I had only been here a few days, and I was already moving in lockstep with her.
Was this what I really wanted? Was I so desperate for love and for family that I would willingly trade my own identity to have it? Or was this my true identity, hidden and waiting all this time for the opportunity to rise to the surface? Was I more Ami's sister than I imagined I was or could be?
I was usually so good at seeing what lay in waiting for other people. Why was I so poor at doing it for myself?
I heard a knock on my door and grabbed the purse Ann had bought for my dress. One more glance at myself in the mirror sent me to the door, my heart pounding. I opened it and stepped out. At first I didn't see Ami, and then she stepped forward on my right, and I felt my jaw unhinge.
I was expecting her to be wearing something similar to what I was wearing, what she wanted me to wear, so we would look like that pair of dynamite sticks she had described. Instead, she looked years older and far more conservative in her jacket and ankle-length violet column dress. The jacket had three-quarter-length sleeves, and the dress a straight neckline. It was far from a revealing garment. What was the most shocking, however, was the wig she was wearing. We no longer had similar hairstyles. Her wig was shoulder length with straight bangs and a slight curl at the shoulder. Most surprising, however, was the color. It was black.
"Oh," she said, smiling. "You're looking at my hair. Well, I just couldn't get it to do what I wanted in so short a time. That's why I have my collection of wigs. Sometimes I like being a black-haired woman. It's more mysterious, don't you think? Watch, Wade won't say a word. He never does. He'll never question why I wear something or don't wear something.
"But look at you!" she exclaimed, seizing my hands to hold up my arms and turn me about. "You're absolutely a heartbreaker. I can't wait to see how the men look at you."
"I feel half-dressed compared to you," I said.
"Nonsense. I dress to fit my moods, and this just happens to be my mood tonight. That's probably why I chose the black hair. I'm more secretive about everything, even my body, whereas," she added before I could say anything, "you've been kept a secret far too long."
She took my hand.
"And we're putting an end to that!" she cried, leading me to the stairway.