No one would believe me, and I’d get sent back to Livingston. “We can talk about that and other things, too.”
I think she’s going to ask me what other things, but she gives me a hard look through her mirror and says, “Have we met? I don’t recognize your face but the
re’s somethin’ familiar about you.”
Yes! Momma recognizes me in her heart. I knew she would, but I didn’t think it would happen so fast.
“Maybe it’s your voice.”
Dang Tara Sue. Her heart doesn’t recognize me. I think fast and say like a Michigander, “My maahm says I ki-nah have one of those voices.”
“I guess that’s not it.” Momma sections my hair and clips it to my head. She’s already mentioned the rapture, and I don’t have to wait long before she brings up her second-favorite subject.
“We were at Caesar’s Palace, and we’d been pluggin’ money in the slots when I hit it big at the Lucky Seven. Pudge looks at me and says, ‘Carla Jean, we should have Elvis marry us right here and now.’ I about died right there. Pudge and me, we’ve had our share of problems, but I agreed on the spot, because I knew winnin’ that hundred dollars was my sweet Brittany Lynn’s way of givin’ her approval from heaven.” Momma weaves my hair through the barrel crimper, and I keep a close eye on it just in case it starts smoking. “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.”
She opens the crimper and a perfect curly wave falls out. She pins it to my head and adds, “That Paula Abdul was jealous of her voice and voted her off American Idol.”
That’s a big old whopper.
Momma keeps talking about how perfect I am as she piles up my hair, and I keep an eye on my phone. I lived on that iPhone, and I can’t help but think it has the answers to some of my questions about the car wreck. I need it. It’s mine and I want it back. I get my opportunity when Momma takes the cap from my shoulders and moves behind the front counter. Lorna is busy with Rosita’s perm, and I slip the phone into my leather tote. Maybe because I’m home and around my momma, I pause for a second and ask myself, What would Jesus do? I shrug on my way to the front. If Jesus had paid for the upgrade and his name was on the contract, I’m pretty sure he’d say that you can’t steal something that belongs to you.
I walk out of the Do or Dye and a cool afternoon breeze rebounds off my “custom do.” If it was warmer, I’d be walking bug bait for sure.
Yes, I still give my hair a fluff bump, but I have so many clip-ins right now, my head feels heavier. Momma transformed her signature “halfway to heaven” style into her first-ever “Loretta Lynn at the Grand Ole Opry” custom do. Don’t get me wrong, I love Loretta, but I don’t want to look like the coal miner’s daughter.
Everyone in the salon oohed and aahed, and Momma was so proud of herself, she took a photo for her portfolio. Of course, I smiled and said I love it, but I can’t wait to wash out the gravity-defying super-hold and gel molding compound. I’ve only been gone eight months, but my definition of hair dos and don’ts has changed. This heavy “Loretta Lynn at the Grand Ole Opry” custom do is a HELL NO YOU DON’T!
Still, I make another appointment for Monday.
I jump in the F-150 and plug my old cell phone into the car charger. It doesn’t light up right away and I wonder if that’s because it’s really dead or broken. I head to the Hotel Paisano to check in, but I only get a block down Dallas and stop. Elliot Franco is out of his home gym and walking into the coffee shop across the street. It’s been a while since I had my favorite horchata latte with cinnamon milk, please, and I make an unscheduled stop.
The coffee shop is the same as I remember, except they don’t offer cinnamon milk these days, so I order an espresso. I find a little bistro table where El Fuego is available for my viewing pleasure. He’s as handsome and buff as ever, but he’s nowhere near as hot as Oliver. His hands probably aren’t nearly as good as Oliver’s either, but for the first time in my life, he notices me. He does one of those head-jerk acknowledgments that men give when they think they’re God’s gift. He’s got the smooth, sexy Latino look to him, and eight months ago, I would have been thrilled with a head-jerk.
I guess since I don’t look away, he takes it as a sign to join me. “You’re new around here.”
So he does talk. “How did you guess?”
His perfect lips turn up at the corners and a dimple dents one cheek as he slides into the chair across from me. “I’d remember you.” So he can smile, too.
“Yep, this is my first time.” I’ve dreamed of flirting with this man, but I blow on my espresso instead and say, “I planned on visitin’ a good friend of mine, but I just found out she died eight months ago. I’m all choked up.” I take a sip before I set down my cup. “Her name was Brittany Lynn Snider. Did you know her?”
He gives it some thought, and I think he’s going to say no and get me aggravated. “Big girl? Two and a half axe handles?”
He did not just say that! He couldn’t just leave it at two axe handles? “She was full-figured.”
“She used to drink coffee here most days.”
So he did know I was alive.
“She used to stare at me.”
I prefer “admired from afar,” thank you.
“I’d look out my window, and she’d be sittin’ over here watchin’ me. She had a screw loose.”
My screws were never loose! “How dare you? She was a beautiful person. Inside and out.” I grab my tote bag and stand before I give into my impulses and dump coffee on his head. “You weren’t raised right.” All those years I thought I was a faithful admirer, and he thought I was a crazy fat stalker. Heat flushes my neck and cheeks, and I can’t get out of the shop fast enough. I hold it together long enough to climb inside my truck before my vision blurs. I’m as hurt today as I would have been eight months ago. As embarrassed too.
You can get used to a lot of things, but being called fat isn’t one of them. You can smile and pretend it doesn’t bother you, but it always will. Being called stupid gets me riled, but I can fight back. There was nothing I could say or do when someone called me fat. Momma always said it didn’t matter what ornery folks thought, but a little part of my heart died each time.