I’d really rather she didn’t, but I suck it up and follow her into the bathroom. She helps me with the snaps on the hospital gown and moves to the shower. The gown slips to the floor and Edie’s nude body fills a mirror above the sink. That’s the new me, but my face burns like I’ve been caught looking at something I shouldn’t. Like I’m standing outside some skinny woman’s bathroom window peeking in. I turn away and step into the shower. There’s nothing I love more than a long, warm shower, but there are three of us in here today and I can’t wait to get it over with.
I focus on my pretend amnesia while the nurse shows me how to wash myself. She teaches me how to shampoo and condition my hair, then gives me two thin towels. She dries me off and helps me into a clean gown. If I’d survived my accident, this would be my life. Someone else washing my body and dressing me. Likely that someone would be my momma. As much as I’m sad that I died, as sorry as I am that I left her all alone, I’m glad she doesn’t have to change my diapers and clean my privates.
The nurse shows me how to brush my teeth and pats my shoulder because I’m a fast learner. She leaves to get my underwear and returns with something black and tiny that fits in each of her palms. I don’t have to pretend amnesia when I ask, “What’s that?”
She holds it up. “A bra.” It’s black and sheer with little velvet hearts, and I know that in my entire life I’ve never fit into something that small. Or the matching thong she holds up either.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
Good. I’d rather have comfy undies that don’t ride up on me.
“Three pairs of black pants and blue sweaters, black pumps, three more thongs with matching bras, and a nightie.”
“Is the underwear all the same kind?”
“Identical.”
The nurse helps me into the lingerie, and I assume the nightie isn’t appropriate when she hands me a clean hospital gown. I can tell right off that me and the thong are not going to get along, and I resist pulling at it.
There’s no 1,600-watt Conair stuck to the wall like at the Super 8, and the nurse towel-dries my hair and shows me how to brush out the tangles. She cuts the cellophane from my forearms, then leaves me alone to finish with my right hand.
I don’t recognize myself on the outside. I don’t recognize my reflection in the mirror or the sound of my voice, but I’m still me. I have a new life, but I don’t have to forget where I come from. I still have the same thoughts and dreams, just different circumstances. If I want to open my own salon, I’ll have to go back to school to get my certificates, which is a pain in the butt, but will be a lot easier this time around. I can go to an Aveda school in Austin or San Antonio. They’re classier than where I graduated from, and I can drive the six hours to see Momma or she can drive down to see me.
I set t
he brush on a side table and wonder what Edie did for a living. Something snobby, no doubt, not that it really matters now. She’s about to be one hell of a cosmetologist, and the irony is sweet.
My idea of heaven has changed throughout the years, but I’ve never envisioned it as a cross between St. Ambrose Parish and the Department of Motor Vehicles, only with harder benches.
As a child, I used to think it was filled with my two favorite things in the world: puppies and sprinkle doughnuts. I thought angels hopped from star to star and wrote my name across the sky. The first time I visited Italy, I was sure heaven must look like St. Peter’s Basilica. Once I thought I found it on a beach in Bora Bora, but that turned out to be too much rum and sun and a Brit named Trevor.
I’ve pictured heaven as sailing at sunset in Key West, attending fashion week in Milan, or lounging on clouds as soft as the seats in Father’s Phantom, while cherubs massage my muscles with their chubby hands. God knows I love a good massage.
This looks like a cloud plateau. There are no pearly gates, no trumpets, no angels singing hallelujah. Nothing but blue sky and white mist. Black windows and blinking numbers, and the never-ending stream of people.
“Now serving number five-zero-two-four at window number seven.”
I don’t know how long I’ve been listening to numbers, watching people move past me to a ticket window, scrutinizing the systems and analytics.
“Now serving five-zero-two-five at window number eighty-seven.”
I watch an older woman in a pink fluffy robe move forward, and I’ve come to the logical conclusion that the zeros on my ticket are an error due to a system glitch or processing mistake.
One of the flashing lights draws my attention to the bank of windows. “Serving number five-zero-two-six at window number ninety-six.”
My number will never get called because I don’t have one. I’ve already looked around for an information booth or window, but there isn’t so much as a mail slot for complaints. No matter how far I wander, I always find myself back where I started.
I’ve pushed my way to blinking windows and showed my ticket and I shouted for help. I asked for the date and how long I’ve been here. The window just flashed a number that wasn’t mine and didn’t answer my questions. People come and go but I’m stuck here with no apparent way out.
A woman plops herself on the hard bench beside me and crosses legs that appear to have been swallowed by faux-python boots with five-inch heels. The rest of her horrendous ensemble includes a black pleather skirt, a sheer white top, and a cheap red bra. There are occasions when tawdry undies are appropriate and fun, but there is never an excuse for cheap lingerie. She looks more 8 Mile than Pretty Woman, and it looks like she’s tried to chew the black polish off her stubby nails.
She does have one thing going for her, though: a real ticket with a real number, and 5,029 is coming up quick.
She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s holding my ticket. “When did you get here?” I hope she voluntarily hands it over and saves us both the indignity of a physical altercation. She won’t be as easy as Brittany, but I’ve taken Krav Maga and can drop her with a jab to her solar plexus if need be.
“Now serving five-zero-two-seven at window number sixteen.”