I look across at Carol and her comb-over bouffant and apple-green eye shadow. The hair is great and hides her biggest bald spot. The eye shadow… Well, she likes it.
No Time Before You Salon sticks, and I guess it’s fitting, given my amnesia situation. The salon gives me back a piece of myself and helps me pass the time from one month to the other. It reminds me of who I am and where I come from. Not that I need to be reminded that I’m not in Texas. It might be September now, but it’s cold as heck in Michigan.
Not all the women who book appointments are happy, though. Renee from room 10b thought her eyebrows were too dark and Michelle from 23b didn’t like the side ponytail she asked for. I point out that they got what they paid for. They argue, and I get so aggravated that I do something I’ve dreamed of since the day I started cutting and styling hair in beauty school. I draw a red arrow on a piece of paper and tape it above my trash can. I call it “the complaint department.”
Katrina thinks my complaint department is hysterical. While I wouldn’t go that far, I’m so pleased with all the X’s filling my calendar, I lose my mind for real and agree to an appointment with Twitchy Lisa for a makeover. She says it’s her fifteenth wedding anniversary, and Roy’s coming to have dinner with her in her room. I wouldn’t know what to say or do if Edie’s family came for dinner or anything else. Not that I have to worry—no one has even called and I’m fine with that.
I back-comb and spray Lisa’s hair halfway to heaven, and she never once accuses me of hiding her husband somewhere. Her mind does wander around in her head, but it’s the first time I actually have a coherent conversation with her.
I stick to her neutral color palette and she leaves happy and looking almost normal, but a few hours later, she walks into my room and tries to hand me a three-page letter of complaint written on legal paper. I’m sitting on my bed, working on some music, and point to my trash can and tell her, “File it in there,” under “no good deed ever goes unpunished.”
I write a few more lyrics to “Groan-a-Lisa” and put an extra-thick X through September 27. I have three days of evaluations ahead of me and I can’t get distracted by a schizophrenic woman. If all goes well, I’ll get released on time. I’m already anxious and excited and, yes, a little bit worried.
I sail through the first evaluations, but I know my last appointment with Dr. Lindbloom won’t be as easy. I don’t have to lie on the couch, and he stares at me until I start to feel uncomfortable and count my fingertips. “I don’t know what I did the last time I was here at Livingston,” I say to fill the awkward silence. “But you obviously didn’t like me.”
“On the contrary, Edie.” He uncrosses his legs and shuts my file. “You’re brilliant and we had some extraordinary conversations.”
He doesn’t hate Edie? I’m confused. “Like what?”
“Art, philosophy, the brilliance of Debussy, the symbolism of Angkor Wat.”
“Angkor what?”
“Wat.”
“That’s what I asked you.” I shake my head. “I know a little bit about art, but the other three are a mystery.”
“Talk about art, then.”
“I know what I like.” He just stares at me again, waiting. “Well, in Marfa, Texas, there was an artist named Donald Judd.” There isn’t a soul that was born and raised in Marfa who can’t recite everything there is to know about Donald Judd. His art museum, studios, and foundation are about the only things that keeps tourists coming to the small town. “He was a Minimalist and created oversize art that represents the existence of space, scale, and time with already existin’ things. He installed fifteen huge concrete blocks in the desert and created smaller stacks of blocks made out of wood, aluminum, and plexiglass. Some of his boxes are in the Guggenheim.”
“When were you at the Guggenheim?”
“I don’t know if I was ever there.”
He sits forward in his chair. “Hmm… How do you know so much about Donald Judd’s work?”
Okay, I walked right into that trap. I can’t lie and say I read it, because there aren’t Donald Judd art books around here. It isn’t likely that I saw a biography on TV, so I fall back to my usual answer. “Beats the heck out of me. I guess it’s the same as knowin’ how to braid hair and stylin’ updos.” I shrug. “Like that one fella from Denmark who was a plumber before he hit his head and now he’s smarter than Einstein. Doctor Barbara told me about a woman who woke up from a coma speakin’ three different languages that she never spoke before.”
“I’m aware of what she says.” He sits back looking dejected and defeated. Even his ponytail looks sadder than usual. “You said you appreciate Donald Judd’s art forms. Continue with that.”
“I said I know what I like.” And I like painted skulls and horns more than installation art.
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“And you like this artist.” It occurs to me that he’s been trying so hard to trip me because he wants the old Edie back. It isn’t Edie he dislikes, but me.
“I wouldn’t go that far. There’s a magazine about the Southwest in Doctor Ryan’s waitin’ room,” I say, which is true, but I thumb through People instead. “I appreciate a paintin’ called Dawn at the Alamo I saw in there.” He raises a hand to his forehead like he always does, like it’s the sound of my voice coming from brilliant Edie’s mouth that’s been paining him all along. So naturally I add, “Painted cow skulls are pure genius, and if I get my hands on some tie-dye longhorns, I’ll be happier than a tornado in a trailer park.” I smile, and he can’t get me out of his office fast enough.
I don’t have too long a wait before I learn that I am being discharged on time. Even Dr. Mensa recommended my release. The day before I leave, my therapy group gives me a little party in the game room. There’s a cake with bright flowers and red punch, and I get talked into back-combing hair. I bust out my can of super-hold for the last time and try not to think about tomorrow. I’m excited to leave, but leaving doesn’t mean I’m free to do as I please. It feels like I’m leaving one involuntary confinement for another, and I’m not sure living with Edie’s family isn’t going to be worse. I don’t have money or credit cards or even a cell phone. I was trapped here for five months, and I’ll be trapped with Marv and Claire for… I don’t really know.
I don’t know Marv and Claire’s rules, and all I’ve been told by the nurses is that someone named Donovan is coming to drive me home to Hawthorne. I don’t know who Donovan is. I don’t know one thing about Hawthorne and no one’s asked if I want to be driven there.
“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” Katrina tells me that night as she helps me pack.
She reminds me of Valentina, only older and nutty. “You’ve been a good friend,” I say, and given the circumstances, I guess that’s true. “You’ve made livin’ here better, and I would have been bored without you.”
“I need to say something but I don’t want you to think I’m crazy.”