The Makeover

by Karen Buscemi

  “What is it?”

  She grabbed her napkin and held it at her face, hiding the majority of it from sight. “I was going to fire an emotionally unstable girl who had been doing a good job to make a point.” Her breath hitched as the memory resurfaced. The tears flowed. “It would have been the absolute lowest thing I had ever done. And I was practically reveling in it.”

  “But you said ‘almost did.’”

  “Yeah. Funny enough, Tray fired me first.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “I understand protecting myself, but I don’t know how I became this person.” Camellia dabbed at her face then set down the napkin, revealing blotchy skin and puffy eyes. “I don’t like me.”

  “Well you can’t de-shithead yourself overnight,” Henry said, picking up a leftover menu from the table, a smile playing on his lips, “so don’t worry too much. You’ll find yourself again. Now how about that dessert?”

  Two hearty slices of pie and two steaming cups of coffee later, they were back on the road. Though Camellia didn’t think she would be able to sleep, she drifted off easily, the sound of the tires on the road like a one-note lullaby. She woke to dim light coming in through the tinted windows, surprised to find it was already early morning. Hitting the lever to raise the seat back, she turned to Henry, who was winding his way along a two-lane road that was flanked by massive fir trees. “Are you okay?”

  “Tired,” Henry said, his hands tight on the wheel.

  She looked at the little clock on the dash. It was just after five a.m. “Have you been driving all night?”

  “I took a little break just after crossing the Michigan border. Stopped for a coffee and some snacks at a truck stop.”

  “Oh honey,” she said, reaching over to rub Henry’s neck. “I’m sorry I slept so long.”

  “It’s okay. You’re in charge of telling the movers where to put everything, so you’re going to need to be thinking straight.”

  He made a sharp turn onto a quiet road with little wooden houses spread far apart, surrounded by large plots of land. “Where are we?” Camellia asked, running a hand through her hair.

  “We’re here.” Henry made a right into a gravel driveway, reminiscent of the one at his parent’s place. But the little wooden structure overshadowed by giant trees that was aglow from the SUV’s headlights was a far cry from Carl and Lena’s quaint getaway.

  “This isn’t a house, it’s barely a cottage,” Camellia said, alarmed. “Please tell me this is a mistake.”

  “Don’t worry,” Henry said, already out of the car, shaking out his legs. “It’s rather cute. And I’m sure it’s great inside.” He walked up to the door and bent down to pull a set of keys out from under the welcome mat.

  “People really do that here?” she scoffed, as Henry dangled the keys at her.

  “Come on, let’s go in,” he called out.

  “It’s five o’clock in the morning, keep your voice down,” she reprimanded, trudging up the path to the door.

  “I don’t think anyone could hear me if I screamed,” he said, motioning around at the lack of neighbors.

  “That’s comforting,” she mumbled, stepping past the screen door Henry was holding open. She felt for the light to the right of the door and flicked it on. Her Valentino handbag fell to the linoleum floor.

  In front of her were the main rooms of the house: a living room, kitchen, and dining area, and they were already furnished. The living room featured a matching oversized sofa and chair in country blue and tiny white flowers, with the same blue used for the carpet and valences. A wooden coat rack, floor lamp, and an old TV pushed into the corner all surrounded what appeared to be the room’s centerpiece – a wood-burning stove with an ugly pipe that traveled up and out the wall behind it.

  The dining area had the same carpet and valences, with a black rectangular table and six simple round-back chairs. A large pendant light hung over the table about ten feet in the air, dangling from the pitched ceiling.

  The kitchen was very small, with a refrigerator and stove at one end, a peninsula with two barstools at the other end, and a counter with a sink and cabinets above and below connecting both ends. A little microwave sat on the counter. There was no dishwasher. The wall over the stove was decorated with ducks and fish and a

  square clock.

  All three rooms were painted the same salmon color and had stained oak trim around the windows and up the narrow stairway to what Camellia assumed were the bedrooms. She hadn’t yet seen a bathroom, and was concerned it could be located outside.

  “This can’t be the right house,” she said, still hopeful Henry had gotten the address wrong.

  “I’m afraid it is.” Henry set the keys on a ledge beside the door. “Come on, let’s see where we’re going to be sleeping.” They climbed the stairs to find a single, cramped bedroom, just large enough to fit a double bed, two narrow nightstands, and a little wooden dresser. The bedspread was a patchwork quilt with bears, leaves, and cabins surrounded by a border of diamond-shape patches in a palette of beige, brown, and hunter green. “It’s a back-country bedroom,” Henry said, his voice too tired to be sarcastic.

  Off the bedroom was the only bathroom, one of the more roomy areas of the house, with toilet, sink, a free-standing vanity with built-in mirror, and a shower stall. “Oh my God, there’s no tub,” Camellia realized.

  “There’s probably a rain barrel in the yard you can soak in.”

  “Henry, that’s not funny. We can’t live here.”

  “We’re going to have to, for a little while.” He squeezed past Camellia to get from the bathroom back to the top of the stairs. “I’ll grab our bags. For now, we need to get some sleep. The movers will be here in a few hours.”

  “They won’t have much to do, will they?” she muttered, going back into the bedroom and flinging herself on the bed. The old mattress springs bounced her up and down, squeaking as they went. “Oh good God.”

  Henry reappeared with their overnight bags in hand, which he tucked on either side of the dresser. He stripped down to his boxers, dug in his bag for his toiletries kit, and trudged into the bathroom. “We have water,” he announced, the thunderous sound of the groaning pipes that carried the water to the second floor

  negating explanation.

  Sliding into bed, Henry kissed his wife on the cheek and turned back to extinguish the ceramic lamp on his nightstand. Within minutes, he was snoring. Camellia, however, was unable to sleep. The long nap in the SUV mixed with the surreal surroundings of this ramshackle cottage kept her eyes peeled open, her mind whirling with alternative housing options. They could easily tuck the keys back under the doormat and check into a nearby hotel. At least they would have a bed that didn’t sound like it was rescued from her great-grandmother’s attic, and a restaurant where she could have her meals when she didn’t feel like ordering room service. She could also hire a real estate agent first thing in the morning, and find the type of well-appointed home on the water she had anticipated. Better yet, they could do both – move to a hotel in the morning and be out scouting properties by afternoon. With a plan of action settled on, Camellia finally drifted into slumber, only to be awakened three hours later by a pounding on the front door. The movers had arrived.

  Henry wasn’t budging from his deep sleep, so she slithered out of bed, still fully dressed from the drive, and stumbled downstairs, opening the door to bright light and two burly moving men standing in the front yard smoking cigarettes.

  “We have a bit of a problem,” she called out, shielding her eyes from the sun that was reflecting off the snow. “Place is furnished and it’s way too small to hold our things. Everything needs to go into storage.”

  One of the guys with a blue bandana tied around his head nodded and flicked the butt of his cigarette into the street. Camellia shook her head and closed the door on them, heading into the kitchen to look for a phone book. She found it in the cupboard under the sink, damp with curling pages. Disgusted, she placed the th
in book on the counter and flipped through the Yellow Pages to the entries for storage units. There was one listing for a place called U Store Stuff. She realized she had absolutely no idea where it was in relation to the cottage. In fact, she had no idea what city the cottage was in. “Where the hell am I?” she wondered aloud. She climbed the stairs again and burst into the bedroom. “Henry, what city is this?”

  Henry rolled over, his groaning mostly drowned out by the rattling mattress springs. He sat up and looked around, his expression dazed. “Are the movers here?”

  “Yes, and we need a storage unit fast. I have no idea where we are to judge the distance of the storage facility.”

  “Markleeville,” he said, yawning and scratching at his back.

  “Seriously?” Camellia questioned, glaring at him. “You moved me to a place called Markleeville?” She laughed out loud. “That’s just fabulous.” She plodded back down the stairs to call the storage unit. “Fab-u-lous!” she cried, her shrill voice ringing through the tiny house.

  U Store Stuff was only two miles away. Henry and Camellia got back into the Range Rover and led the way, the moving truck laboring behind. To get to the storage unit, Henry had to drive north along Beech Street through downtown Markleeville, a sleepy town with a storybook quality, especially covered in a layer of snow. The sidewalks were empty of pedestrians, and only a handful of cars were parallel parked along the main thoroughfare. The buildings held a hodgepodge of services, with a post office, pharmacy, hardware store, and real estate office anchoring the ends of the diminutive downtown. Interspersed were a toy store, candy store, ice cream parlor, bakery, bait shop, bookstore, frame shop, and a narrow business offering backyard décor. There was a barbershop and salon sitting side-by-side, with a pizzeria and a diner bookending them. On opposite sides of the street were two women’s boutiques. From the looks of their front windows, they were sharing an inventory of crew-neck sweaters and tapered trousers.

  Just up the road, a car wash, animal hospital, and church were clustered together, as if they had seceded from the downtown. From there to the storage unit, they passed two more churches, a party store, a run-down motel, a hidden campground, two trailer parks, a seasonal farmers market, a boat and kayak rental company, a cemetery, and an equipment rental business. The intersection of Beech and Mitchell, where the storage unit was located, was also the site of the US-127 on- and off-ramp; a busier area with a Save-a-Lot, Dollar General, gas station/Taco Bell combo, movie theater, Econo Lodge, and fast-food row of McDonalds, Burger King, and Arby’s.

  Camellia was speechless.

  At the storage unit, she and Henry sorted through boxes, their fingertips turning white from the cold as they searched for clothing, kitchen supplies, and any other easy-to-grab comforts from home to take back to the cottage. Everything else went into neat towers in the ten-by-twenty-five-foot unit. Henry signed papers with both the movers and the storage facility manager, and then locked the unit, adding the key to the rental car keychain that also held the

  cottage key.

  “Want to get some coffee?” Henry asked, unzipping his jacket once he was back in the car.

  “Absolutely,” Camellia replied, rubbing her hands together for warmth.

  They drove back into town, parking in front of the Beech Street Diner. Henry held the door to the diner for his wife, a tinny bell announcing them. The diner, painted pink and green, was large enough to hold ten tables plus the L-shaped counter with stools bolted to the tan and white checkerboard floor. The only other customers were two middle-age men with considerable bellies, wearing navy work pants and rugged brown jackets. A stout, dark-skinned woman behind the counter made coffee. On the radio, which was sitting on the end of the counter, a weepy country singer with a deep, twangy voice sang about a lost love.

  Henry and Camellia sat at the short side of the counter near the door. The waitress, named Irene, according to the tag on her apron, set two cups down in front of them and poured coffee without asking. “You folks lost?” she asked, her voice loud enough to address the entire restaurant, had there been more than four

  customers present.

  “Just moved to town last night, actually,” Henry explained, clutching the warm cup in his hands.

  Irene eyed them both in disbelief. “You two...moved here? What, are you in the Witness Protection Program or something?”

  Henry laughed. “No. I took a job with a radiology practice a few miles away.”

  Irene set the coffee pot on the counter and leaned on her elbows, engrossed. “Oh, a doctor! My papa always wanted me to marry a doctor,” she said with a note of disdain to Camellia. “Instead, I married a carpenter with a tendency to fall off of things. He’s currently at home nursing a broken collarbone.”

  Camellia gave the waitress a weak smile and drank her equally weak coffee. Irene frowned and turned her attention back to Henry. “You at Northern Medical Center?”

  “Yes, and Mercy, too. There’s also supposed to be an imaging center around here, right?”

  “Yep, I see that place when I get up to Walmart. It’s right next-door.”

  “Get up to Walmart?” Camellia piped in.

  “Oh yeah, it’s a bit of a drive, four miles I’d say, but it’s worth knocking out a little gas in my tank. They have everything at Walmart.”

  Camellia groaned, slipped on her coat, and grabbed the keys from the counter. “I have to make a phone call,” she lied. “I’ll be in the car.”

  Irene huffed and refilled Henry’s cup. “What’s her problem?”

  “My wife just needs a little time to adjust. It’s a big change from New York to Markleeville.”

  “New York to Markleeville?” Irene screeched. “That’s like going from a Ferrari to a Model T. Your wife’s gonna need a whole load of time to get used to this place.”

  THIRTEEN

  Two days after arriving in Markleeville, Henry started his new job with a meeting at the radiology practice’s office, located across the street from Northern Medical Center, just a mile and a half west of Markleeville. It was Camellia’s first time alone in the cottage, and she was determined to keep busy.

  It had been years since she had cleaned up anything more than her own breakfast dishes, but the cottage had been sitting unused for some time, and had acquired a thick layer of dust. She searched the kitchen cabinets as well as the shelves in the tiny mudroom that joined the house to the garage, and came up empty. The best she could find in the garage was a half-used roll of paper towel. She would have to walk to town. Pulling her tall Gucci boots over black skinny denim, she threw on her short fur coat and a pair of cropped leather gloves and exited the front door, locking it behind her. The cottage was only three blocks from town, but with a cutting, bitter wind hitting her exposed ears, the trek felt like miles.

  The town was just as eerily quiet as it was the morning she and Henry had driven through en route to the storage facility. Only a few cars dotted the street and she was the only soul on foot. As she looked in the store windows, trudging along the single block that made up the heart of the downtown, Camellia realized she had limited choices for cleaning supplies. Limited choices for everything, really. Each store had a monopoly on the goods they were selling, save for the two women’s boutiques that only differentiated themselves by their names. On the same side of the street as the diner was Lisa’s Designs, and directly across the road was Cozy Corner. They both looked and sounded hopelessly outdated.

  Toward the end of the block was a hardware store plainly called Henry’s Hardware, and Camellia stepped inside, grateful for the blast of heat that greeted her, along with the same tinkling bell as the diner’s. Inside was aisle upon aisle of this and that, from placemats to power tools, with a rectangular counter in the center with a cash register and unmissable display for key making. This appeared to be the only source in town willing to wedge any and all household needs into one, overcrowded space.

  “Can I help you ma’am?” The boy behind the counter was young
and somewhat handsome, with freshly buzzed dark hair and strong features. He was staring at her beyond that of friendly customer service.

  “I’m okay, but thanks,” Camellia said, making a legitimate attempt to be friendly. Then, noticing the boy was still gawking at her, her attitude turned defensive. “Anything wrong?” she questioned, with an air of authority.

  The boy broke out into a wide, toothy grin. “Oh, no ma’am. I just never seen anyone dressed like you before.”

  Camellia wasn’t sure if the boy’s declaration was a compliment or mere observation. “What’s your name?” she demanded.

  “Caleb, ma’am.”

  “Caleb, do you think you could point me in the direction of cleaning supplies?”

  “Sure. Aisle seven, ma’am.”

  “Caleb?”

  “Yes ma’am?”

  “You’re going to have to stop calling me ma’am. You’re aging me by the minute.”

  “Sorry ma’am!” Caleb called as Camellia strutted over to cleaning supplies, shaking her head.

  She grabbed a bottle of Windex, a can of cleanser, another roll of paper towel, and a heavy-duty sponge, and carted them back to the counter. Caleb rang up her purchases and placed them in a paper bag. “Seven dollars and fifty seven cents,” he announced, looking pleased for ending a sentence without the unwanted ma’am attached. Camellia pulled out her Visa and handed it to Caleb. “Ten dollar limit on credit cards, ma’am.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I know. Sorry about the ma’am thing. I can’t help it. My grandma would strike me down if I was disrespectful to a lady.”

  “No, I mean, you seriously can’t take my credit card?” Camellia tapped her foot impatiently.

  “Oh sure I can. You just have to get to ten dollars.”

  Camellia huffed. “Fine.” She scanned the contents of the store, noticing a couple of coffee makers on an endcap display. “I take it there aren’t any Starbucks nearby.”