The who-I-am-today tells stupid jokes just to hear Marv sigh, although I think he secretly loves it when I do.
Home is where both my heart and soul live, with a man who lov
es me for me, and who looks forward to my return. Just the other night, he had me hitting high notes that inspired a brand-new song in his honor.
I am not Brittany Lynn Snider or Edie before El Paso. I’m me. My life is a book of blank pages, and I get to write the next chapter.
I think I’ll title it “Macarons at Ladurée.”
“Welcome to UMC El Paso,” I say to the newest patient. She’s wearing a silver pageant gown and her two-foot crown is askew. A year ago, the size of that crown would have seemed excessive, but I’ve learned that everything really is bigger in Texas.
She has the same frightened stare as the others when they first arrive. She watches the doctors cut the bloody dress from her physical body, and over the usual sounds of controlled chaos, I hear her say, “That’s my Badgley Mischka.”
“That hole in your chest is a bigger problem than a ruined gown, but I understand.”
She turns to me and blinks several times. “You can see me?”
“Yes. You have a crown on your head.”
“Am I dead?”
“No.”
“Where am I?”
They never listen the first time. “UMC El Paso.”
“Why am I here?” she asks as she moves toward me.
“You were shot in the chest and transported here from the Texas Jewel Pageant at the convention center.”
“Who won?”
“By the size of that crown, I’ll go out on a limb and guess you did.”
“I’m Miss Texas Jewel?” She gasps and puts a hand to her throat. “I better not die now. Am I goin’ to die?”
“Questions of life or death are not for me to know.” I turn my attention to the gurney. “Our trauma doctors stubbornly fight for every life. We are the best trauma hospital in the state, but it doesn’t look promising from here.”
“Are you an angel?”
I like to think so. “Not yet.”
“Are you dead?”
“Yes. I died in the finest suite at the Plaza hotel in El Paso, which could never be confused with the Plaza in Manhattan, I can assure you. I was sipping Tito’s and wearing a La Perla silk slip from the Maison collection. There was an incident with a razor,” I say, then cut to the pertinent information. “You are a spirit. You have left your body and currently reside in the spiritual realm. You will remain here until the time you pass, wake, or are moved to a different facility.” Now that the preamble is over, I ask, “What’s your name?”
“Linda Price.”
We have a Linda watching Ghostbusters in the Limbo Lounge. “Where were you born?”
“Kermit.”
Oh dear. We walk across the hall as Kermit’s body is rushed to an operating room.
“Where’s my boyfriend, Ronnie Pete Peterson? Folks call him Topper.”
Of course they do. “He isn’t here yet.”