I lean against the door and touch my numb fingertips to my thumb. One, two, three, four, I count in my head. Living in this altered universe is hard and still crazy, but some things have gotten better. I can look in the mirror and take a shower without having a breakdown. Living in a tall, skinny body almost feels normal now. I’m used to feeling my knees knock together and my arms swing at my sides. When I eat or write or reach for something, I don’t see her hands now. I don’t get mentally tripped up over where she stops and I begin… unless I look at Edie’s wrists. The ugly scars remind me that some things will always be a mystery.
When I push away from the door my gaze falls on an empty spot next to my plastic vanity case. My pink grapefruit body lotion filled the empty space before lunch. I don’t have to wonder what happened to it. That’s twice this week. I yank open the door.
“What have you done with Roy?” Great, Lisa is still waiting to interrogate me.
I don’t even bother to answer as she follows me down the hall to Anna’s room, where I storm in and pull my lotion from her klepto grip. “Touch it again and I’ll break your fingers,” I say, and walk out. Of course, Twitchy is waiting and starts in on me again.
“Where’s Roy?”
“He’s hidin’ in Anna’s room.” I know Lisa’s mental illness is not her fault and that she can’t help it. I know I should feel bad about lying to her and threatening Anna’s sticky fingers, but I don’t. Momma would say I should be more Christian, but Momma isn’t locked up 24/7 with crazy folks.
Which brings me to one more thing: I’m not as nice as I used to be.
I can’t blame all of that on Edie.
12
A few days after Katrina poked her eye with my mascara, women start knocking on my door for makeovers. I never signed up to be Livingston’s resident cosmetologist, but I’m not mad about it. It helps break the tedium of doctor appointments and group, game night and music night, and I need to use my right hand to practice the professional makeup courses I took online last year. It passes the hours between X’s on my calendar.
“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.”