Pieces of Me

by Amber Kizer

  “Isn’t it awful?” my mother commented under her breath, but loud enough to draw sympathetic glances from middle-aged women around us who wore diamonds to get their hair done. They shared her pain.

  Dmitry didn’t talk to me. He spoke directly to my mother … when he talked … but mostly he simply made sounds of a panicked crow trapped in a plastic bag. All hands and fingers, he tugged and yanked, lifted and stared at my hair. At my face. He called over other black-clad shiny airbrushed professionals, holding my hair just so while they fussed and babbled and studied each strand with emphatic nods and clacking combs. Finally, like a sports team, they broke apart and Dmitry turned me to face the softly lit mirror.

  “You have Emma Watson cheekbones and Halle Berry lips,” he declared before huddling with my mother six feet away.

  “Thanks?” I said, unable to even glance at my reflection.

  “I’ll be in the spa. Dmitry will make you beautiful.” Mother disappeared behind frosted doors, and that was when the work began in earnest. Smiles were replaced by concentrated scowls; someone covered the mirror at Dmitry’s station. Do I look bad enough to break glass?

  I felt as if I was being readied to be sacrificed to the great hair god volcano.

  There was a girl who washed, another girl who dried, one who rewet; there were several different applications of sweet-smelling glop, a rinse, another dry, until I closed my eyes and stopped counting. Then Dmitry hovered over me with flashing blades and lightning reflexes. I was afraid to move and thereby risk mortal wounds. We didn’t speak. He only stopped to repeat things I thought had already happened. Like everything else, my knowledge of hair care was insignificant and wrong.

  He snapped. Literally snapped his fingers, and a team of hovering sprites, also head to toe in black and clicking in towering heels, bustled around my face. Applying brushes dabbed in potions and lotions and other applications of color to my face. I held my body immobile like a rabbit fixed in the gaze of a coyote. I watched with an odd detachment but never caught a random glimpse of my reflection.

  Then, after three hours and twelve minutes, six different goop applications, pieces of foil and something that looked like it came off a spaceship, three shampoos, and four different products applied during the blow-drying process, Dmitry appeared satisfied.

  My mother gawked at me with tears in her eyes.

  I didn’t know if they were happy tears or horrified ones, because her face remained smoothly youthful and devoid of expression.

  “Oh, my baby. She’s finally—”

  “Supreme,” Dmitry declared. “Now close eyes and I spin you.” He made eye contact with me for the first time.

  I squeezed them, bracing myself against the expectation that seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room. All activity ceased; even the musicians seemed to hold their notes.

  As Dmitry turned the chair around he commanded, “Open your eyes.”

  The first thing I saw in the mirror was Mother standing behind me, her hands clasped in prayer-like fervor.

  Then I focused on the woman reflected back at me.

  Woman? Me?

  My naturally white-blond hair seemed to be spun of gold and sunlight and moonlight. A fairy pixie with huge eyes framed by long full lashes stared back at me. Brows of melted gold arched in question, and in statement, above them. My skin glowed as if polished and dusted with light. My hair was so short, it served as more of a cap of fringe around my face. Facets of diamonds seemed to float and caress the air around my head. Twin curls caressed my cheeks and cradled my ears. My lips were shiny and pink, as if I’d gorged on the freshest berries. Even my hated upturned nose seemed itself a cute addition to an otherwise orchestrated collection of perfected features.

  “That’s me?” I asked, my voice breathy and unsure.

  The salon broke into amazed applause, subdued and polite, but I saw the expressions on the faces of the stylists—not at my surprise beauty, but at Dmitry’s astonishing skill in finding it. As if they’d decided there was nothing that could be done for me when I’d first walked in.

  My mother had never seemed so proud to claim me. She walked with her arm around me to Allehambra’s and treated the crowds to a deferent tolerance, as if she were the Queen of England.

  From our corner table, Mother scanned the restaurant as if waiting for someone more important, or at least more interesting, than me. I saw the flash of panic when she realized she hadn’t spent this kind of time with me since I was a baby. Why had I let her reel me in this time?

  Silence stretched until even the waiter filling our water glasses looked like he wanted to present a conversation topic to break the ice. I nibbled on a cracker. Turned out we weren’t eating tapas at a tapas restaurant. How many Michelin stars does a salad rate?

  “So, Jessica, have you thought about your college major? As a legacy, you have options.”

  I think it was always assumed I’d go to college, but the closer I got, the more I felt as if my parents were sizing me up to see if I was worth the quarter-of-a-million-dollar investment that their private alma matter required. Assuming I get in.

  I nodded. “Um, sure. I took the PSAT last week.”

  “I thought you had to be a junior to take that?” Some people’s foreheads creased with questions, but not my mother’s.

  “They have sophomores take it too—they say it helps the school with scheduling.” Basically, they used it to weed out the vocational kids and the borderline mediocre ones from the smart and genius ones. My high school had close to two thousand students—most of us tracked classes based on how smart we appeared on tests. It was acceptable segregation.

  “Oh, well, how did you do?” She sipped her water as if to make it last.

  “It went okay.” Say something else, tell her more, make up something if you have to.

  The waiter set down the half-size house salads in front of us. Hers without dressing and mine with a barely there vinaigrette. I saw Mother’s half sneer as I dripped the dressing over the lettuce. The plate was barely larger than a teacup saucer, and there were maybe six bites of produce, total. We never lingered over dessert, not even birthday cakes, and heaven forbid we have a substantial lunch. My mother wasn’t fat, but by all memory I’d never seen her indulge in anything fatty, or hearty, for that matter. It was as if she was so tightly controlled that any given bite might mean the whole of her soul unraveling.

  A dozen deep breaths later, she offered a new topic. “I have my book club meeting Monday night.” She spoke while cutting a lettuce leaf into sixteen tiny pieces. One so small it barely stayed on a single fork tine long enough to make it into her mouth.

  Grab and hold on. “Oh? What’s the book?”

  She blotted her lips with the napkin and finished chewing. I almost counted along with her. Sixteen chews, then swallow. She’d tried to instill this magical number in me from toddler time on. “Some novel about friends and divorces. It got wonderful reviews on Amazon.”

  “You didn’t read it?” I knew she hadn’t. She didn’t read. She went to book club for the gossip and the wine. She left the reading to online reviewers. I highly doubted anyone in her club actually read the book itself. Ever.

  “No time. You know how busy I am.”

  I nodded, trying to keep my mouth full. I didn’t want to hear about weight creeping in when I wasn’t watching. Ninja calories.

  Mother shooed away the dessert tray and set her credit card on the table without even checking the bill. “Shall we go find a lovely outfit for us?” She seemed relieved to move again.

  We hadn’t been inside the city’s oldest, and most notable, department store ten minutes before she tried to make me into her, one piece of clothing at a time.

  “This would look lovely on you.” Mother held up a pair of slacks and a beige blouse that had the personality of a uniform and the ability to insult no one. Of course, they cost more than most car payments, and we were two floors from any department my peers might frequent. Was money the reason my
parents split? All Father talked about was saving, and Mother seemed to shop as her hobby.

  “Hmm.” I was noncommittal. What do I say? She’s trying. Right?

  “Something else, then?” She set them back and shooed away a salesperson. She oohed and aahed over a tweed pantsuit and a silk blouse that looked like variations on the theme of her closet. We worked our way around the floor until we were within eyesight of the special-occasion section. Sequins and ruffles, shiny jewels sparkled against midnight draping on mannequins with ballerina proportions. Something eager must have shown on my face, because Mother picked up on my expression and nudged me closer to the gowns. Maybe she hopes we can bond over sparkles?

  “I need a suitable dress for the Art Museum Gala. I have one I can wear, but I’d rather get a new piece of fabulous.” Mother shared this as if I knew about all of her social events, as if I was invited to any.

  “The black and white gala?” I winced, hoping it wasn’t the masquerade- or the ocean-themed.

  “Something black, I think.” She nodded.

  I tried to appear interested but felt a pull away from the artfully displayed but interchangeable little black dresses and toward a creation the color of clear sunlit sky. I’d never seen anything like it. Layers of every shade of blue blended together and floated like clouds; just a hint of glimmer, like the first stars in the evening sky, hinted that there was something spectacular to come around the bend.

  “Oh my.” Mother stopped behind me. Her sigh danced the hairs on the back of my neck and sent a shiver down my spine.

  I waited for her to make a comment about it being garish, or too much, or pointing out that I didn’t have any gala to wear it to. There’s only one and it’s my size.

  “You should try that on,” she said.

  Really?

  The salesperson hovering nearby studied me head to toe and grabbed the padded hanger, whisking it toward the fitting lounge. How did she know my size by glancing? That’s talent. How do you figure out that’s your talent?

  I felt my breath leave my body and my heart thump. Was it possible to fall in love with a dress? “I don’t—” I felt Mother’s enthusiasm deflate as if I was purposefully being difficult. “Sure.”

  Mother beamed and asked the sales associate to help her find a suitable black dress.

  A dressing room large enough to accommodate the football team, and a fainting couch, filled with the gaggle of women. According to them, it was the flecks of Swarovski crystals that made the layers of tulle and chiffon dance. I felt like a shooting star in the magic of space. The material was hand-dyed and hand-stitched.

  There were the right undergarments and height of slipper heels to haggle over—Mother and the team of three sales associates discussed and lobbied and thrust opinions at me. They could have been trading stock futures, or baseball statistics, for all I understood or cared. My heart melted, and I couldn’t stop smiling at myself in the mirror. I was elfin, fairy princess–esque, utterly and completely not myself. I had the slightest of curves in the right places, and my pale skin almost seemed to glow against the fabric.

  I didn’t want to take the dress off, but the attention slowly turned from me to her, as it was bound to do. The retail team worked hard, running and suggesting, making sure we headed toward the counter with every possible piece. The saleswomen blended seemingly back in the racks and nooks around them, as if by magic.

  Mother saw friends and air-kissed over small talk. They suggested quick coffee. I had no desire to sit and try not to look bored out of my mind.

  “I must talk to Cynthia,” Mother told me under her breath, and walked me toward the checkout counter.

  Quick! Come up with a getaway plan. “I’ve been invited to a Halloween party.” My dress floated as if it were alive. I couldn’t wait to wrap myself in it again and be the girl who wore it. She was interesting and beautiful and noticeable.

  The briefest of shocks flickered in Mother’s eyes before she smoothly replied, “Of course you have. I should have asked what your plans were for tomorrow night. Well then, I’ll speak with my friends and these lovely associates will find you something more appropriate for a Halloween party.” Again the flock flapped forward as if on cue.

  Brilliant. As much as I hated the idea of having help from strangers while I shopped, it was better than trying to make small talk about people I didn’t know, or care about, with my mother’s frenemies. I saw their expressions—they were vultures clothed in couture. No way were they real friends. Not that I knew what real friends looked, or sounded, like. I didn’t have any of my own to compare. Call it a gut feeling.

  “We don’t have to get the dress,” I offered, my heart pangs ignored.

  “Nonsense, I’m sure there will be an upcoming occasion that will be perfection for.”

  I smiled and kissed her on the cheek. She couldn’t cover the surprise and handed me her card. “I’ll see you in about an hour? Take care of those beautiful gowns for us, please,” she instructed.

  I nodded, we all nodded, as Mother squared her shoulders and headed toward the café and her friends. Part of me wondered why she needed to talk to Cynthia and part of me focused on trying to ditch the commissioned help. “I don’t need help—I’m heading down to the juniors’ floor,” I said, and they looked relieved to not leave their department.

  I touched the hem of the wishing-star dress as it disappeared into the fabric bag. I couldn’t wait to wear it again.

  If Mother had known she was buying the dress she’d bury me in, I wonder if she’d have chosen something different, or if she’d have still gone to java talk with those biddies.

  SAMUEL

  Samuel pulled a postcard from his stack, barely glancing at the photograph of adobe caves. His mother was at it again. He smacked the stamp down and picked up his pen to jot the next address and a quick note. Four hours of dialysis a day required inventive ways to pass the time: snail mail to relatives and friends, The-Daily-Miracle.com, and inventing video games.

  “You’re not listening to me.” Ma slapped her hand over his. The pressure forced the pen to drag a black line down the side of the card.

  Sam sighed. She didn’t understand. He couldn’t make her see it his way, but he wished she’d give it a rest. “I will not pray for a transplant,” he repeated. Again.

  “Samuel—you must. We’ve tried everything else. You must pray.”

  Pray for someone to die? How can she be serious?

  “I will pray for a miracle. Miracles are okay.” Miracles didn’t necessarily mean tragedy for another family. Death was a thin blade—who it cut and when was unknown. Why didn’t she understand that?

  “You and your miracles.” She paced to the window.

  He knew she thought his website, The-Daily-Miracle.com, a silly waste of his energy. His snail mail even sillier. She wanted him to go conquer and piss on trees and be a man outside among the bears and warriors. Not inside with screens and nerds. Her desperation for him to live at all morphed into something else entirely. They’d had this fight so many times he didn’t need to see the script to know his lines. “A transplant means someone else died.”

  “And that’s not a miracle? You know, with your PRA count—” She broke off, stifling a sob before suppressing it and turning with fire in her eyes. “You believe Christ died for you and that you’re worthy of that. Why not someone else?”

  “It’s not that simple, Ma.” Sam turned back to his computer. “Christ died for everyone. All of us. Not just me. As did Juan Martinez of Balbao, a supposed and little-known reincarnation of the Messiah from the twentieth century. Buddha lived for the world’s enlightenment. How’s that? Muhammad was a prophet bearing Allah’s words. Christ was not alone.”

  She leaned over his back and squeezed his shoulders. “Don’t start quoting your hobby to me. Yes, yes, it is that simple.”

  Sam shook his head. “Christ died for all of humanity, for all time.”

  “Who says you’re not going to impact the entire
world? You are not going to die, Samuel. I forbid it.” She stomped out and slammed the door. There was no arguing with her when she was in one of these moods.

  He logged on to MiracleMakers; his online gaming community understood him. Twenty-one thousand, three hundred, and forty-seven people currently playing to save the world understood his dilemma. He prayed for a miracle, but he wouldn’t pray for someone to die to save him. How could he be more worthy of a long life than someone else?

  VIVIAN

  There was a ten-ton moon-rock (Pantone 17-1210) elephant sitting on Vivian’s chest. There had to be. It was the only plausible explanation. The elephant began dancing. Swing dancing in bottle-green (Pantone 17-5722) Chuck Taylors. And giggling.

  Vivian forced the elephant to sit next to her and be quiet so she could listen to the doctor talk to her parents. She hated when they talked about her as if she wasn’t in the room. Dr. Feilstone didn’t usually; he knew better after all these years. She must be really sick. The kind of sick that buried her friends.

  Dr. Feilstone continued. “She’s been very healthy and shown she can manage her disease well up until this point. There’s nothing she could have done to prevent this attack. So I see no reason why they won’t move her up the donor list for lungs and, now, a heart.”

  A transplant? She didn’t need new lungs; she needed the zoo-keepers to come take the elephant home and she’d be okay. Her heart was fine. She had a painting to finish. It was important. If only she could remember who she’d been painting. She tried to speak, but they weren’t listening and couldn’t have understood her over the machine crammed into her throat and mouth. Adding machines to aid her breathing and body functions meant it was bad. Say good-bye kind of bad.

  Dr. Feilstone frowned. “I have to caution you. Even if a set of donor lungs and a heart become available, it won’t stop the CF issues she has elsewhere. It will merely make it possible for her to live right now.”

  Donor lungs? A heart? How did someone donate vital organs and keep liv—? They didn’t. They couldn’t. These meds made Vivian loopy and slow. Of course she knew transplants happened all the time. But those were vague conversations about down the road. When she was older and the CF took its exacting toll on her body. When they were all out of options and all other treatments failed.