“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 hi
ghway 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.
“Your parents live at Hawthorne in Grosse Pointe Shores, where you and your brother were born and raised.”
Grosse what? “Where’s that?”
“Northern shore of Grosse Pointe.”
If Edie lives in Grosse Pointe, why was her name Detroit? “Where do I live?”
“The Westin Book Cadillac in downtown Detroit.”
“That sounds like a hotel.”
“You live in a residence above the hotel, Young Edie,” he explains, more briefly now, like he thinks my amnesia is a pile of BS and I’m annoying him.
“I’m sorry about askin’ so many questions,” I say, and catch his gaze as he looks at me through the rearview mirror. “But I don’t remember.”
“I was told that you might have some memory loss.”
Some? “You don’t have to believe it.” We look into each other’s eyes and I say to him, “Just please know that I do.” I roll down the passenger window and let in the autumn air. I don’t blame Donovan for not believing me. No one is going to believe me. Heck, I wouldn’t believe me either.
Donovan says something about Detroit and I roll up the window. “Pardon me, sir?”
“We’re an hour outside of Detroit,” he tells me.
“Thank you.”
I don’t have a way to tell time, but I think we travel about forty-five more minutes before the hills flatten and the occasional house gives way to rural spread. Rural spread gives way to compact cities and congested traffic, and then we cross a bridge and drive between towering buildings that block out the sky. I’m fascinated and terrified all at the same time and feel like I’ve been drop-kicked to a new planet.