Her (Episode 1/3)

vanity

THERE IS A TIM HORTONS across the street from a tattoo parlor by the station, but Wonda and I grab a Subway coffee. We then cut through some smokers waiting on the greyhound bus, too, to sit on the blue hard seats in the terminal. We've already paid for our tickets out of London to Toronto, long pieces of white papers with bar codes, the departure time and our seat numbers. "I'm glad you could come with me," I say to Wonda. "You didn't have to."

She nods vigorously, taking a sip of coffee, which splashes on her red blouse. "Oh!" she cries, then we both chuckle. Wiping her chin, "You know I'll always be there for you whenever I can. So, did your parents enjoy their vacation?"

"Oh, yes," I enthuse. "Mom has a tan. The sunscreen must have been good because she usually just burns lobster-red like me." We laugh again.

Our number is called and we rise. The bus is blue and big. Looks like a double-decker, only the bottom layer is where the luggage goes. I don't have anything but a carry-on. My sister ensured me that her hubby planned on gifting me with a new wardrobe I can handle, nothing too tight or revealing, and that I need only to bring myself. Of course, I tucked my special lotions and eye drops into my bag and a second wig.

I really hate how this one feels and looks on me. It is just like the one in my bag, stiff and synthetic-looking. It was supposed to be great, too, the website promised—made specifically for people with hair loss tragedies like cancer and alopecia. For me, the situation is two things. The fire had damaged most of the hair-growing skin on the right half of my scalp. Then, for some reason, after a while only a wisp of sandy hair in the middle would ever grow and my general practitioner blamed it on stress.

Wonda and I take the front row seats. I am too frazzled to walk any further. I feel a wavy sensation take a hold of my entire being. The other travelers sway inside my vision. I grip the seat and ease myself down as Wonda places our belongings overhead in the luggage rack. These damn nerves. The driver closes the door and I'm instantly suffocating even though Wonda has given me the window spot. It is just too many people and too little space to move. I rest my head against the grimy glass. Wonda notices my tension and probably my complexion is gray, too. She's not supposed to, and she could lose her job, but after popping a Xanax, she hands me the pill bottle.

I've taken one of Dad's flasks of whiskey. But Wonda doesn't know that. When she turns to smile and chat with our neighbor across the aisle, I quickly pour three Xanax into my gnarled palm, fish the flask from my jacket, and wash the pills down with the whiskey. I'm so grateful. I sneak back the bottle into her lap and bite my lip, wringing my hands until I fall into a nap where I gladly block out my anxiety.

***

Toronto is buzzing with vigor, a dynamic metropolis of soaring skyscrapers dwarfed by the CN tower. The people are so fashionable compared to my small town I feel like I've just come from a nunnery. My insides are jittery and butterflies flutter in my stomach as I step out the bus after Wonda. We are facing an impressive building with flags from all over the world. Shining silver letters let us know it is the Royal York Hotel. Wonda and I slide inside through revolving doors and order beer at the pub. I have the coolest social worker in the world, I think.

My cell phone pings and we make wobbly strides back outside after burping air left from our pitcher of Stella. On the busy road, the thing is black-and-yellow like a bee and sculpted provocatively with wing-like doors ready to take flight. Inside, my sister sits beside her hubby, waving dramatically.

I hug Wonda goodbye. "I'll text you, okay?"

"Don't worry about it, just have fun. Now I go... I go do a little bit of shopping," she slurs, stepping unsteadily to the side. I laugh with a bit of concern because I know she's not only boozed up but "Xanaxed up," if that's a thing.

I'm wearing shades, thank God. Big buggy ones and, clutching my knapsack, I sprint over to my brother-in-law's swanky ride.

***

I'm beyond amazed by the brightness of their walk-in closet. It is antiseptic-white, feels decontaminated, and is the size of Elise's foyer. I have already slept and had my shower, but even still, standing in my pajamas before the back wall that is complete glass, I feel dirty. I've never seen myself so clearly. The floor-to-ceiling mirror, along with the decorative bulbs that line it like glowing beads of crystals, makes everything look four-dimensional.

I gawk at my wrinkly scars in the white lights, that are now highly defined with their raw-looking threads of pale and rosy patterns. There is a line slanting down from the corner of one eye to my cheek, making me look like a China doll cracking in half.

The mirror, I love it and hate it. In a way it's soothing, the intimate feeling you get gazing at a perfect head-to-toe reflection of yourself, but it is also horrifying. Especially for the deeply flawed, like me...

"We just want to make you happy," my sister's hubby says. His name is Calder and she's Mariah. They love each other dearly; the kind of love people only dream of. And he can afford to give her anything she desires.

She nods, walking deeper into the room to stand by me. She's usually a sight to behold but with her recent cosmetic work, her face looks all snatched up and her skin is raw and like a pepperoni pizza with no cheese from a chemical peel. I feel bad but inside I thank my luck because otherwise standing beside her before this mirror would have been painful.

Hubby wheels a mobile table full of miscellaneous items like tweezers and glues, fleshy silicone prosthetics and skin paint. My brain goes north and south and I'm in one of my quietly panicked states. I swallow as Calder steps closer to me. He's tall, smells of fresh laundry and has perfectly trimmed salt and pepper hair. "I hope you're excited," he says, smiling down at me. "I've worked hard on it. And your sister has helped me a lot, being a guinea pig. If you look at you guys closely, you will see your complexions and even skin textures are the same. Very beautiful and pearly."

Again, I swallow, but this time it's because Calder has my chin in his hand. "You are very beautiful, Tinsley, this will just help you believe in that again." My sister stands, smiling, a still statue all the while as he paints and plasters me. I can hardly breathe as I watch what I find is the most peculiar thing—myself being unpeeled, unburned, the melting and trauma to my skin all reversing.

He works like a magician, like the Master of His craft he is. There are tears in my eyes. I want to kiss him. I want to say thank you thank you. All I can say though is "My, God," as he puts me back together again. He's even covered the burns on my hand and arm. Save for my palm and leg, which I cannot see in my striped PJ's, I look just like your average redheaded lass. But I do notice a sparkle in my blue-green eyes that I've never witnessed before. And for the first time in the longest while, I think I am beautiful.

But he's not yet through with me. I cringe as he removes my wig, closing my eyes against the remaining reality that is me, until I feel my head covered again. "There," Calder says, stepping back. Now I am not just any redhead. But. Oh, my God...

The auburn hair feels real and alive. It is feather light and ripples like a waving waterfall down my back. It is so delicate that I bet anyone with it on would look as soft as I do now. I can only kiss Cal on his cheek as more tears spring to my eyes. They make a toast with champagne and we drink for a while until I am flushed from more excitement than anything else. Alone, I stare into the mirror. The redhead is gorgeous and I can't believe she's me. But maybe she's not only me, for in her eyes I see a glimmer of something magical, a glimmer and sparkle of Becky who is also so very happy. And I can't stop staring. I just can't stop.