“I’m not socializin’ with you fat people.”
This has got to be a test. God knows my weight is a sore subject right now. “Television programming is provided by Paradise Inc. The drop-down menu shows dates and times for each listing.”
“Did you hear me or are you slow?”
I’ll work on a good deed later. “Did someone accidentally run over your head with a lawn mower, or did you eat one too many Tide Pods?”
Hannah smiles with one side of her mouth and gives a slight nod as if acknowledging a worthy opponent.
She’s rude and exploits weakness. We’re going to get along just fine, and I return her nod. I’d rather trade insults with Hannah all day than listen to the details of Ruby’s cataract surgery.
23
November starts off with a double dose of crazy.
It gets crazy cold, and I learn the hard way about windchill when I grab my trench coat and take Magnus for a walk in the park. I start to shake standing in line to get Magnus his snack. People around me are wearing light jackets and acting like freezing wind gusts are normal.
It gets crazy weird when I have cappuccino and crepes with Katrina at a café within walking distance of the Book Cadillac.
She looks good and healthy and her hazel eyes look clear, but then she starts talking about The Time Traveler’s Wife. I never read the book or watched the movie, but about five minutes in, I figure I don’t need to now. She goes on and on about a guy name Henry trav
eling through time and turning up naked, and I tune her out for my own sanity and think about someone more interesting, like Oliver. I haven’t seen or heard from him since Halloween. I’m not surprised since it’s only been a few days, but I’ve been thinking about him. I’ve been thinking about his and Edie’s past and wondering if he’s let it go. I’ve been thinking a lot about the look in his eyes when I was pressed against his chest. I’m proud of myself for taking a step back instead of going horizontal, but there’s still that old part me of that thinks I blew it and he’ll never like me now.
“The book reminds me of you.”
I look up from my crepe. I don’t know what the heck Katrina is talking about. I have a feeling I don’t want to know, either.
“I come from a family of mystics and clairvoyants. I’m not as gifted as my mom and gramma, but I see a person’s aura and read energy.” She shrugs as if what she said is perfectly normal. “You’re metaphysical.”
I don’t know what in tarnation that means, so I use some of the polite manners I learned in boot camp to say, “That’s fascinatin’,” and change the subject. Later, I look it up, and I gather it means a reality that exists beyond understanding. Like my life.
I really don’t think Katrina knows anything about my reality. I think she’s confused and trying to make sense of my amnesia, and I add her to the ELAA list under Jury’s Still Out.
Not that the list is going to matter after January. My plans to return home have been delayed, not forgotten. I hadn’t tried to call Momma since Daddy blocked me on her phone. I decided to give it a few weeks before I changed my phone number and tried again. This time I had a plan. I play on my momma’s love of God and gab, and I tell her I’m Tara Sue from Dalhart, the daughter of her third cousin, twice removed. She says she doesn’t recall a third cousin twice removed from Dalhart, but I have so many details about our family, it doesn’t take much to convince her.
“I’m a good Christian woman,” I tell her. “Reachin’ out to kin in turbulent times.”
She quotes Bible verses that I’ve heard a thousand times before, but it’s so good to hear her voice, I just listen. “The Bible tells us to prepare for the great turmoil and such. I pray you’re ready for the rapture, Tara Sue. I’d sure hate to see you left behind.”
“Praise the Lord and his mercy,” I say as I lie on my bed and stare up at the swirly patterns on the ceiling. I swear Momma never tires of the rapture. Since she and Daddy are vacationing together these days—which is still disturbing—I wonder who she is going to wave at when she floats away on her cloud. I guess there’s still Floozy Face.
“It was the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me,” she says. “He even got down on one knee.”
“What?” I sit up. “Who?”
“Pudge. We was at Caesar’s Palace, pluggin’ money in the Lucky Seven slots for about an hour, when he looks at me and says…” She pauses for dramatic effect. “He says, ‘Carla Jean, we should have Elvis marry us right here and now.’ I about died right there on that ugly carpet. All a sudden I hit it big at Lucky Seven and the lights were flashin’, there was such a ruckus. I took it as a sign, and I agreed on the spot. I know winnin’ that hundred dollars was my sweet Brittany Lynn’s way of givin’ her approval from heaven.”
What? No, it wasn’t.
“I know she’s happy that me and her daddy are back together. Sometimes I feel her spirit sittin’ right next to me in church. She loved singin’ for Jesus, and Johnny J. says he can hear her voice in heaven’s holy choir.”
I open my mouth, but I have no words. She and Daddy are married? By an Elvis impersonator? Johnny J. hears my voice in “heaven’s holy choir”?
I’m as shocked as a mosquito in a bug zapper. My brain goes blank and I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the wall. Maybe I need to wait a while before Tara Sue from Dalhart makes another call.
I’m still in shock but trying not to think about it a week later when I have tea with Claire. She has me fill out a style questionnaire and says our “stylist,” Arianna (no last name), needs to learn my fashion preferences that reflect my new personal style. That’s great and all, but I don’t have a personal style. Before the accident, my biggest concern was finding the right size. If I had to guess, I’d say tight and sparkly. These days my style is whatever is in the closet.
Claire has decided we’re now calling the New Year’s Eve party we’re cohosting “New Beginnings.” She worries that some people might dismiss our theme as unimaginative, as if “Golden Years” was so much more creative.