by Rhett DeVane
“Oh?” In New Orleans, the same declaration could mean someone had ended up in some muddy bayou. Gator bait.
“Elvina fell last night. Broken ankle. Had to have surgery, pins and all.” The woman flicked her fingers through her bangs. “Where are my manners? I’m Mandy. Mandy Andrews.” She stuck out one hand and Mary-Esther shook it.
So this was the famous local hair wizard. Mary-Esther had expected an older, wizened female with a strange-shaded beehive. Hard to tell her age. Late thirties? Mandy had that smooth, unlined skin, even around her eyes.
“Your appointment is with me in about . . .” Mandy consulted the wall clock. “Fifteen minutes or so. There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen, next room over, if you’d like a cup.”
Local protocol included coffee. No problem.
“There’s creamer in the fridge, and sugar and fake sweeteners on the counter. Mugs are in the cabinet over the coffeemaker. Tea bags are in the glass jar by the sink, if you’d prefer. Help yourself, then join us back in the hair salon. No need to sit alone, and besides, you might miss something.” Mandy flashed even, white teeth. “We don’t ever repeat gossip, Mary-Esther. So you have to learn to listen closely the first time.”
The stylist laughed as she turned to leave.
The place was loaded with antique gee-gaws. Mary-Esther didn’t know a lot about such, but bet they were worth some bucks. Unbelievable, how folks in Chattahoochee assumed everyone trustworthy. Perhaps this was the way it was supposed to be, and once was, before everyone became so afraid.
Mary-Esther served herself a cup of coffee and took a long, appreciative sip. Not the cheap brand, for sure. If she ever settled down, her first purchase would be a new Cuisinart brewer and a coffee grinder. The heck with how much it would set her back.
She walked from the kitchen and paused at a mahogany archway leading to an elongated room. Mandy occupied one workstation and a red-haired woman Mary-Esther assumed to be Wanda commandeered the second. Three professional hair dryers whirred nearby, filled with seated patrons either perusing magazines or one-ear-outing the ongoing conversation. A few feet from the stylists, a blonde woman held court in a spacious nail care center in front of a humming exhaust fan.
Mandy glanced up through a fog of hair spray. “Don’t be shy. C’mon in, hon.”
Mary-Esther passed through the archway and settled into a tone-on-tone beige director’s chair. Every female eye in the room studied her.
“Y’all, this is Mary-Esther Sloat. She’s new in town. Works up at the Homeplace for Mr. Bill.” Mandy motioned to each woman in turn with the pointed end of a rat-tail comb as she made introductions.
How would she recall all those names? She barely noted the regular patrons at Bill’s, except the ones who took the time to call her by name. Or the decent tippers.
“You look familiar,” one of the women under a dryer said in a too-loud voice. “You have people from around here?”
I don’t know, do I? Mary-Esther pressed down a wave of dismay and formed a reply. “My family is . . . was . . . from New Orleans.”
The women reacted as a group, nodding and clucking in sympathy.
“So,” Mandy led off, “you’re here following that dreadful Katrina.”
“Not directly. I lived here and there for a bit.”
Stylist Wanda Orenstein, a perky red-haired, green-eyed bundle of perpetual motion, spoke next. “It’s as good a place as any to land, Mary-Esther. I’ve been all over, and I love it here.”
Wanda’s New Jersey accent caught Mary-Esther off-guard. Again, an assumption, that everyone in town would speak Deep-fried Southern.
Mandy’s client, a young woman Mandy had introduced as local beauty queen and model Ladonna O’Donnell, held up a large, round hand mirror and studied the back of her new hairdo. “Looks real good, Mandy. Thanks!”
“When are you getting out of nursing school, Ladonna?” Melody the nail specialist looked up from the crabapple-colored polish she applied for her nail patron.
“This coming spring. Then I’ll have to take board exams.” The leggy blonde stood and shook the last of the hair snippets from her shoulders. “I dread that like having my nether hairs waxed. I never have been one much for those big tests.”
Nether hairs? Mary-Esther stuffed a grin. I need a translation book.
Wanda peeled the Velcro neck strip apart and removed the plastic drape then patted Ladonna fondly on the back. “You’ll do fine, hon. Anyone who can handle the rigors of beauty competitions and live to tell tale can do anything she sets her mind to.”
The young woman gave the most exaggerated sigh Mary-Esther had ever witnessed. “This is so important to me. I don’t want to blow it.” She waved goodbye around the room. “Mandy, Mama said she’ll pay when she comes in for her appointment later this week.”
“Don’t worry, sugar. I know where y’all live. It’s not like you’re some stranger just walked in off the street.”
Was that comment aimed in her direction? Get past it, Mary-Esther. No need to dive into paranoia.
The women watched the ex-beauty queen turned nurse-wannabe sashay from the room. Every inch of her backside swayed.
Wanda used a broom to whisk sheared hair into a dustpan and dumped it into a waste container. “If Ladonna doesn’t lose that wiggle, she’ll cause more heart attacks than she helps prevent.”
A titter of laughter rolled around the room.
“I bet her mama and daddy are relieved,” commented a dark-haired woman seated in one of the side chairs. “Ladonna didn’t have a sense of direction until she did that volunteer work over at Tallahassee Hospital.”
“A woman can’t rely on her good looks for her whole life. If she does, she’s in for a rude surprise,” Mandy said.
“I dunno,” Wanda supplied. “It’s worked for me for years.”
Mandy cut her eyes at her coworker. “Humility certainly is one of your strong suits, Wanda Sue.”
The tension eased from Mary-Esther’s shoulders and back. The easy, familiar female banter offered a comfort she hadn’t experienced in months.
Mandy patted the stylist’s chair. “Okay, Miz Mary-Esther. Park your fanny. You’re my next victim.”
Mary-Esther slid into the vinyl seat and Mandy whipped the drape across her shoulders like a magician handling a cape.
“Don’t worry. I’m in a passable mood this afternoon.” The assuredness in Mandy’s initial exploratory touches spoke of years of experience. “You want a cut too, right?”
Mary-Esther frowned at her own reflection in the mirror. “The ends are shot. Do what you can.”
Mandy ran her fingers from Mary-Esther’s scalp to the tips of her hair. “If you don’t mind, I think we should go a tad below ear length. I’ll shape it around your face for a little fullness. Maybe, some wispy bangs. A few layers. You really do have nice hair with a little natural wave. The real color isn’t bad.”
“Has to be heredity. If I’m not completely gray, or bald, after the last few months, it’s a miracle.” The irony of the statement caused her to pause. Heredity? How could she even venture a guess at her gene pool?
“I can use a couple of shades and put in some subtle streaking. The highlights will hide the bit of gray but look much better growing out. No roots to shine through.”
“Do what you want. I’m ready to shave it to the scalp.”
Wanda popped her gum. “Look at it this way, Mary-Esther. If you don’t like the way it turns out, you can spit in her food. She’s always ordering take-out from Bill’s.”
Mandy lobbed a damp white towel toward her coworker, but Wanda ducked in time and stuck out her tongue. No small wonder women hung out in hair salons. The stand-up humor was better than late-night TV improv.
A thin, older woman with shoulder-length brown hair bounced into the room holding a puffy crimson jacket in front of her like a banner. “What do y’all think of my new Teddy Bear Christmas sweater-jacket? It’s part of a new line I’ll have ready in time fo
r the holidays.”
The woman promenaded around the room and allowed the others to admire the piece. When she stopped in front of Mandy and her client, her skin paled.
“Mary-Esther, this is Evelyn Fletcher, our resident designer. I don’t know if you noticed her handiwork when you first came in. Evelyn, this is Mary-Esther Sloat, new in town from Louisiana.”
Mary-Esther tipped her head. Evelyn managed to squeak out a meager greeting.
After Evelyn left the room, Wanda raised her eyebrows and said, “Wonder what’s gotten into her?”
Mandy shot a knowing glance Wanda’s way. “Looked like she was about to faint.”
Chapter Twelve
A nurse glanced over Hattie’s intake form. “Do you have any metal in your body? Have you had any joint replacements? Do you have any pins, plates, screws, or staples?”
“No, no, and no,” Hattie answered.
Thank goodness she didn’t have any of that stuff. Aging provided enough little surprises. Wolf-like chin whiskers. Gas after every meal. Wiry gray hair sticking up from her scalp like mini horns. Even pimples.
The nurse’s questions continued. “Have you ever had an MRI? Are you claustrophobic?”
“No, this will be the first. Not especially claustrophobic.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Lewis. You’ll go first to Radiology for an injection into the shoulder. Then you’re scheduled an hour later for your contrast MRI at the Imaging Center two blocks down.”
Sounded harmless enough. Wait . . . “Injection?”
“A contrast medium will be injected into the joint area to improve the image.”
Nothing could be worse than the colonoscopy and the cancer surgery. Even those weren’t horrible, especially since she hadn’t died.
*
Hattie entered Radiology, filled out reams of forms, and a worker ushered her to the back. She stripped to her underwear and socks and donned one of the butt-flashing robes in a fetching shade of mint green.
“What’s going on with your shoulder?” the radiologist asked.
She reclined on the padded vinyl table. “Don’t really know. Hope it’s not a tendon tear.”
The doctor rotated Hattie’s arm backward. She flinched and instinctively arched her upper back to relieve the pain.
“I’m going to take a quick positioning x-ray, Mrs. Lewis. Think you can handle this pose for a couple of minutes?”
Hattie bared her teeth. “I’m a tough farm girl.”
With the digital x-ray image completed, the radiologist gently placed a heavy padded weight on her forearm, wiped the top of her shoulder with a cleaning solution, and applied a sterile drape. “You’ll feel a pinch. Then a little pressure and a slight burning sensation. Keep very still.”
Hattie took a slow, even breath, closed her eyes, and focused on maintaining the awkward position.
“There you go. Let me help you get up. Try to avoid moving this arm as much as possible. Is your driver here?”
Hattie shot him a questioning look. “Driver?”
“You must keep movement to a minimum. Didn’t the person who confirmed your appointment inform you of this?”
“Nope. But I can drive fine with one arm. I’ve done it for the past few weeks.”
“Can’t allow that.” The doctor’s words came out in snips. “More you move, more the contrast medium liquid dissipates. The MRI image will suffer.”
“I could call a cab, I suppose.”
The doctor scowled and turned to his nurse. “We really need to address this issue. This isn’t the first time there’s been a breakdown in communication.”
The nurse smiled. “I’m getting ready to leave. I can take her over. I don’t mind.”
“Still, that leaves me with a little problem,” Hattie said. “My car will be here.”
The doctor scribbled on a logbook, bearing down so hard, Mary-Esther could hear the letters screech. “There’s no one you can call?”
Hattie shook her head.
The doctor frowned. “They’ll have to bring you back to your car after your MRI.”
Best not to point out to Dr. Crab-cake that she’d still be driving home alone.
By the time the nurse deposited Hattie in front of the Imaging building, her shoulder throbbed with an insistent reggae beat.
More paperwork.
“Do you have any metal in your body?” the radiology technician asked when she showed Hattie to the dressing area.
“No metal. No staples. No plates in my head,” Hattie rattled off before he could ask the same questions she had already answered.
“Are you claustrophobic?”
“I might be if y’all keep bringing it up.” Hattie twisted her upper lip. The tech grinned. At least this one was in a decent mood.
Again she stripped, stowed her clothes and bag, and donned another, this time baby blue, butt-flash cotton robe. Her arm wouldn’t move high enough to tie the neck or back closure, so she held it shut as best she could and padded across the hall behind yet another technician.
This is where having a big sister would’ve come in handy.
She reclined on the padded table as instructed and admired the pyramidal glass ceiling. Nice view. Easy to believe the master ship could beam her up. No, no alien abductions. They do weird probing tests on humans. Had to be worse than what she was about to go through.
“Here are some earplugs. It’s a bit noisy. Do you need a blanket?”
“How long is the procedure? Five, ten minutes?”
The male technician shook his head. “More like forty, by the time I get the different aspects.”
Hattie shivered. The MRI room temperature hovered in the sixties, to prevent fainting, no doubt. “Blanket would be good.”
“Most people find it easier to close their eyes. I’ll check in with you between increments. Remember, you must remain still. If you have to cough or anything, squeeze this bulb I’m putting in your hand. That way, I can pause and we don’t have to start over. Okay?” He checked to make sure the earplugs were firmly seated then pulled a sheet around her arm, strapped her down, and layered a cotton blanket over her lower body. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
The table slowly rose, then it slid down into the confining tube. Hattie shut her eyes a moment too late.
The top, inches from her face.
Like a coffin.
Daddy. Mama. Aunt Piddie. Baby Sarah. All, in a box like this.
Her chest constricted. Cut it out, Hattie.
For the next forty minutes, she pulled out every relaxation technique in her repertoire to fight the growing unease. She imagined sunning on a beach with a gentle sea breeze caressing her body, but the machine’s clamor made it difficult to envision circling sea gulls—more like B-52s streaking overhead, dive-bombing close to her head.
She switched visions, projecting the face of a large, institutional-style clock. When the technician’s voice announced the initiation of another series, she counted the minutes as the clock’s secondhand made circles. One, two, three, three-and-a-half, four, five . . . Breathe.
You’re safe. She imagined her big sister saying the words. No, you don’t have a bad, stinging, maddening itch on the side of your nose. Ignore it, sweetie. Her panic subsided.
The final set lasted five minutes. Hattie emerged triumphant. As she dressed, Hattie chatted aloud to her imaginary big sister.
“Surreal experience, Sis. Let me tell you what it felt like. First, wrap yourself in a sheet so you can’t move. Next, cram your body down into an oil drum with a fan blowing a gale across your head.” She whipped the good arm in a circle. “Then, hire a bunch of raving hoodlums to bang hammers on the outside of the drum. Do this for at least a half-hour or more until your head explodes.”
If anyone heard her, they’d lock her up for sure. Hattie peeked from behind the privacy drape. A woman seated in the waiting pen stared at her. Hattie offered a sheepish, sane-person grin. The lady went back to her Southern Living maga
zine.
Had Sarah been alive, she would have been here, laughing at the situation. They would have lunch afterwards, hit the mall for any sales. And she wouldn’t have to drive alone back to Chattahoochee. With a limp arm.
But Sarah had been gone for years.
So why was her dead sister invading her thoughts so often lately? Hattie could pantomime and if only from here to Canada and back, and it wouldn’t change history.
Hattie dropped the used robe into a bin and grabbed her purse. The waiting woman didn’t glance up when she walked past. Probably too scared.
A pleasant young man shuttled Hattie the short distance to her parked car and dropped her off. After she noticed three drivers in a row one-arming while talking on their cell phones, and because she had no choice, Hattie risked driving.
Since she was only one block from the Tallahassee Hospital rehab unit, Hattie decided to visit a recent victim of fate. When she entered the semi-private hospital room, Hattie noted Elvina’s leg, encased in a plastic, puffy, envelope sleeve and propped on a mound of pillows. The old woman motioned Hattie toward a vinyl visitor’s chair and continued with her cell phone conversation.
“I’ve got to go, Angie. Hattie’s here. I’ll have my phone handy. Don’t try to do it all. That job’s not one you can learn in a day. It’s a big help to Mandy and the girls having you there.” Elvina snapped the cell phone shut. “That was Angelina Palazzolo. They broke down and called her to help at the front desk.”
“That has to make you feel more at ease.”
Elvina shifted positions and flinched. “She’s managed to ride herd over her big family for years, and none of those kids turned out bad, so I reckon she can pinch-hit for me for a few weeks. She’s not a computer whiz, but then neither am I. Yet.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Fair to middlin’. They made me get up the second day after I got out of surgery. Prevents blood clots, you know. They have these nifty little pump jackets on my legs while I sleep or if I’m lying down for any length of time. I’ll get a cast on soon.”