“A while.” Her cheeks are smudged with mascara-stained tears, and she holds up her ticket. “Only one more to go, then I’m next in line for heaven.”
A whore in heaven? She looks like she’s been dragged through hell backward. Her circumstances are certainly pitiable, but no more distressing than mine. I sit on the board of several charitable organizations, I’m a shareholder in my family’s multinational conglomeration, and I’m a distinguished art buyer. I deserve a real number more than a prostitute does. “I wish you were staying longer. I’m sure we’d be great friends.”
She looks me up and down. “I doubt it, Paris Hilton.”
I gasp. Paris Hilton! I’m younger and prettier, and I don’t have to make myself sound ridiculous for attention. I smile like I don’t want to choke her. “Good one,” I say with a laugh and stick out my hand. “I’m Edie.”
When she shakes my hand, I can feel the ticket. “Chablis Chardonnay.”
Of course that’s her name. “Is that French?” I know when I hand her number through the window, they’ll be expecting a hooker, not me, but I’m more important than a woman who gives twenty-dollar blow jobs on Michigan and Livernois.
“Sure.”
“Le chic.” She tries to pull her hand free but I clasp it tight in both of mine. “Everyone else around here is so boring.”
“I’m not your scissor sister.”
What? What? With a streetwalker? Oh, good Lord. “Charming.” I almost let go of her hand in disgust, but I keep my eye on the prize.
“What’s your problem?”
“I want your ticket.” I yank her wrist toward me.
“No!” She pulls back.
“Now serving five-zero-two-eight at window one-three-three.”
“I’ll pay you a million dollars for it.” I’m running out of time and we go back and forth in a tug-of-war with her hand.
“There’s no money in heaven. Let go of me!”
“What’s your hurry? You’re going to hell.” Chablis Chardonnay is stronger than she looks, but playtime is over. “Stay here where it’s nice and cool.”
“Dumb-ass bitch!”
“Cretin.”
I yank hard but she breaks free. The ticket flies from her hand, and before it lands on her python-covered thighs, I snatch it out of the air.
“Who’s the dumb-ass now?” I toss my ticket in her face and run like a pissed-off hooker is chasing me, because she is. In those heels, she’s no more a match for me than Doreen and Dan. I can hear her cussing me out as I bob and weave and finally stop when I no longer hear her foul mouth. I position myself behind a group of tall Swedes for better cover. I stand on tiptoe but can hardly see over their shoulders. Not that it matters. A green light flashes toward the first few windows and I run toward it with the ticket clenched in my tight fist. “I’m coming, God!”
“Serving number zero-zero-zero, zero-zero-zero, zero-zero-zero at window number five.”
What? I stop near window five as Chablis Chardonnay hands over my ticket. I’m confused. The number in my hand should have been called next. Did God make a mistake? Did I fight for a new ticket only to have my old number called? Is that ragged hooker taking my place in heaven? What the hell is happening?
10
I don’t know how many doctors one person needs, but during breakfast the next morning of toast and coffee, an orthopedic specialist pays me a visit. He unwraps my bandages, has me try to touch my fingers and thumb on both hands, then wraps me up again. He says my right hand will heal, but my left will likely need surgery to repair the nerve damage. Both need therapy and rehab, and no one will say how long that will take.
The orthopedic specialist is barely out the door when Dr. Perez and the shrink I met earlier stop by. Both doctors question me and ask about where I was born and the names of Edie’s parents. I tell them I don’t know, which happens to be true. Dr. Perez asks my age.
“I don’t know.” But I think Edie is the same as me. “How old am I?”
“Thirty.”
“What?” My jaw drops and I sit straight up in bed. “Thirty!”
“How old do you think you are?”