“Why not? We’re friends.”
Well, the jury’s still out on that.
“Friends look out for each other.”
She’s looking out for me? Like Lida? I feel horrible for thinking she has a crazy smile. Maybe she can’t help it, like a person can’t help hitchhiker thumb or wonk eye.
“Your heart rate fell and I thought you were going to die.” She raises one hand toward me, then drops it at her side. “But here you are.”
I think about Lida and how we left things. It was my fault. I got emotional and flew off the handle, and now I might never get the chance to say I’m sorry. Maybe Detroit isn’t all bad. Maybe she was just having a bad day. “How long have you been standin’ here?”
“Since your parents left.” She shakes her head and says, “Wow. What a pair.” Like earlier when she was talking about Momma’s van, it isn’t what she says but how she says it, like she’s on her high horse looking down at cow patties. Just when I start to feel bad for her, she makes me think my first impression of her was right.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh.” Her tone sweetens with her smile. “Just that they seem lovely.”
I’m not buying it, but maybe she’s trying.
“How does your mother get her hair that high?”
“Practice and a butt-load of super-hold.”
“Charming.”
“She’s had the same hairdo since before I was born. Kind of a cross between a tumbleweed and an artsy installation.”
Detroit smirks, looks like she’s caught between shaking her head and nodding. “Artsy is always good.”
“Yeah. If you wanna appear like you strapped a tumbleweed helmet on your head. And Daddy thinks that buckle hides his beer gut, God love ’em both.”
Her quiet laughter softens her face and makes her even more beautiful. “Well, your parents are here and they love you.” She goes from sounding snotty to sincere in less than a second. I wonder how she does that, and I wonder if I’m the crazy one.
“Are your folks here yet?”
She waves away my question. “My parents wouldn’t dream of cutting their vacation short just because I’m in the hospital.”
Wow. I can’t even wrap my mind around that.
She blinks a couple of times and changes the subject. “I assume you’re from Marfa. Home of the Prada installation.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“Not in person. I studied interventionist art in college.”
Inter what? “?‘Marfa Prada is a surrealist comment on Western consumerism.’?” She looks kind of impressed, but I just shrug. “Art forms are serious business in Marfa.” I don’t think you get to graduate high school if you haven’t written at least ten essays on each one. Lida forgot about the Stardust sign and almost didn’t make it out of ninth grade.
Together we move from my room and walk toward the Limbo Lounge. “When I eavesdropped on you and the little cheerleader, you mentioned that you died and went to heaven.” She crosses her arms over her chest and grabs her elbows.
My boobs always get in the way if I try to cross my arms. “I didn’t go to heaven. I was on a path, but then I came back because I guess it wasn’t quite my time.”
“Talk to me about the path.”
“It’s about what you’d expect. Warm. Bright.”
“Is it short? Long? Straight? Curved? Did you see heaven?”
“Yes, it’s a brilliant gold light at the very end.”