The Makeover (14 page)

Camellia cocked her head, her eyebrows furrowed. “You do?”

“Like I said, it’s a small town,” Deb said, signaling the bartender. “Who’s up for another bottle?”

TWENTY-ONE

Camellia didn’t remember much about getting home that night, but when she woke up the next morning, she was fully clothed on the couch, nestled under a faux-fur throw. She tried sitting up, but the sensation of being punched repeatedly in the head put her back down again. Her mouth tasted stale with a tinge of old vomit. She needed water, but there was no way she was going to try sitting up again. Her stomach felt like it had twisted around itself.

She tried closing her eyes to shut out the brightness, but lying there with her eyes closed made her nauseated, so she opened them again, covering part of her face with the blanket instead.
What time is it?
she wondered.
Where’s Henry?

There were footsteps on the stairs. Henry’s footsteps, solid and rhythmic. “Henry,” she murmur
ed, placing a shaky hand on her pounding head.

“There’s my party girl,” he said brightly. “How’s the head?”

She moaned. “Hurts.”

“I’ll bet. When the ladies carted you in here last night, you barely knew your own name.”

“Deb and Lisa?” Camellia searched for the memory but came up empty. “They had to help me into the house?”

Henry retrieved a washcloth from a pile of laundry on the kitchen table. He wet it then placed it on Camellia forehead. “More like carried you.” He sat on the edge of the couch and stroked Camellia
’s cheek.

“Stop it, that hurts,” she whined.

He grinned. “I didn’t know you made some friends. They seemed pretty nice.”

“I hadn’t. Not until last night anyway.”

“So are they nice?”

“They’re so nice.” Camellia unfolded the washcloth and placed it over her entire face. “Henry, a lot has happened since yesterday.”

“I can only imagine.”

Camellia detected a hint of mockery and gave Henry a weak pinch on the arm. “I’m serious. I think life in Markleeville is about to change.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Not like this.”

By evening, Camellia’s hangover had mostly subsided, save for a dull headache. She had managed to shower and get dressed, tying up her air-dried hair with a silk scarf. Henry, having left late for the hospital in order to first tend to his wife’s disastrous state, was working late to stay on top of his patient load. To show her appreciation, Camellia decided to attempt a home-cooked meal of penne pasta with marinara sauce and crusty Italian bread. Her apron was spattered with tomato paste she had forced loose from the can, making her look like the loser of a bloody battle. With the sauce finally simmering on the stove, she filled a large pot with water, generously salted it, and set it on the back burner to boil, placing the lid firmly. She wiped her hands on one
of the apron’s few clean spots and sighed.

She had been in a state of melancholy all day. How much was due to the hangover, she couldn’t say. But she guessed come tomorrow, when her body was once again clear of any residual alcohol, she would be feeling the exact same way. Sharene had breast cancer. Shelby would be devastated by the news. And she had nothing to look forward to except for a big, fancy house that suddenly seemed so garish and pointless.

She had known women who had nothing in their lives but their homes, from spacious apartments in the city to stretching summer homes in the Hamptons, and they threw themselves into making their spaces magazine-worthy retreats. They invented reasons to showcase their surroundings, from half-hearted dinner parties to hosting fundraisers, so other socialites would be forced into their homes to admire the splendor.

Camellia did not want that to be her future. But with her dreams of bringing Shelby to New York quashed, at least until Sharene had recovered, which could easily take a year or longer, Camellia had no clue what her future held. And this state of limbo felt like a vacuum, sucking her into nothingness.

The doorbell rang. Camellia put her hands to her head to check her scarf, forgetting about the signs of war on her apron, and opened the door. Shelby collapsed into her arms.

The sauce had burned and the pasta never made it into the water. Camellia sat on the sofa with the dirty apron still on, holding Shelby’s head as the girl sobbed into her lap. Henry, who had arrived only moments after Shelby, added logs to the fire before driving two towns over to fetch Shelby’s favorite Chinese food.

The three of them sat in a row on the sofa, working through their chicken fried rice in silence. The only sounds permeating the room were the clicking of chopsticks, the crackling fire, and Shelby’s intermittent sniffles and quick catches of breath. And then, as if a switch had turned on, Shelby started talking.

“I should have known something was wrong,” she whimpered, staring down at the take-out box. “She hasn’t been herself for weeks. I let her convince me that some new diet was responsible for her weight loss.”

“Is losing weight a symptom of breast cancer?” Camellia asked, trying to remember an article
Flair
had run on the topic a couple of years back.

“It is when it’s spread to other part
s of the body.” Shelby began to cry again.

Camellia put an arm around the girl and pulled her close. “Oh Shelby, I didn’t realize it was that advanced.”

“Stage four. She never got it checked out. ‘Too busy at the diner’ was how she justified neglecting her health. And I just found out her aunt died of it. So it’s in the family. It’s in the family and she didn’t get it checked out.” Her swollen eyes managed to produce more tears, which Camellia wiped away with a tissue pulled from a full box wedged between them.

“I imagine her oncologist has recommended an aggressive treatment plan,” Henry said.

Shelby blew her nose and dropped the wadded tissue into her lap. “Yes, but she’s not doing it.” She grabbed another tissue and held it against her eyelids, her body convulsing.

Camellia and Henry exch
anged worried looks. “Why not?” Camellia questioned.

“She doesn’t want it,” Shelby stammered, as her body continued to shake. “She doesn’t think it will make enough of a difference to go through it.” She peered at Camellia through a red eye. “The cancer is in her bones now.”

“Oh baby,” Camellia cooed, rocking Shelby back and forth. She pushed away a strand of hair that was covering Shelby’s face. “Would you like to stay here tonight?”

Shelby shook her head. “No, she needs me with her. I just don’t want her to see me like this.”

“Of course not,” Camellia agreed. She looked up at Henry, who was clearing away their half-eaten dinner. “Would you get her some Ibuprofen and a glass of water? I’m going to get a few supplies and freshen her up a bit.”

After Shelby had left, cleaned up but still looking physically worn, Camellia and Henry sat up in bed in the darkness, neither able to sleep.

“I keep wondering about the diner,” Camellia mused. “Sharene’s real reason for selling it. Was it to pay medical bills? Or to ensure Shelby had a nest egg to live off of after she’s gone?”

“The only person who can answer that is Sharene,” Henry said, adjusting his pillow and turning to face Camellia. “It’s a sad situation.”

“It’s beyond sad. It’s tragic. We have to do something, Henry. We have to help them.”

“Agreed,” he said, reaching for her hand. “What would you like to do?”

“If she doesn’t get treatment, she’s going to die, right?”

“Yes. Sooner rather than later. I don’t blame her. When the cancer is that advanced, the only thing treatment is going to do is prolong her life, and there’s no saying for how long. It can be a very painful and time-consuming way to spend your final months.”

“Months? Is that all she has left?”

“I’m not an oncologist, but based
on what Shelby said, that’s my best guess.”

She exhaled, staring up at the dim ceiling. “I think I know what to do.” She smirked as the idea that came out of nowhere took hold of her. Just when she thought her future held no promise, she was proven wrong again.

TWENTY-TWO

Monday morning, just as Deb was flipping the closed sign to open, Camellia burst into Do or Dye. “I need a haircut,” she pleaded.

“’Bout damn time, girlie.” She led Camellia to the first chair next to the front window and tied a black cape around her neck. “You here for my Markleeville Mullet Special?”

“Oh yes,” Camellia said, enjoying the sarcastic banter that Deb did so well. “A girl can’t be all business all the time.”

“So true. However, before I start chopping, what do you
really
want?”

“I want a pixie.”

Deb gulped. “Really? You don’t want me to shorten it in stages so it’s not such a big change?”

“I want the change,” Camellia said, studying her face in the mirror. “I need low maintenance.”

“That’s about as low maintenance as you can get.” Deb shrugged her broad shoulders. “Okay, brave one, let’s head over to the shampoo bowl, shall we?”

A half hour later, after cutting and gelling and blow-drying, Deb removed the cape and turned Camellia back to the mirror for the moment of truth.

“It’s stunning,” Deb said.

It was true. The super short haircut flattered Camellia’s elegant bone structure. Camellia smiled widely into the mirror at Deb. “I love it,” she said.

“Of course you do,” Deb said, smugly. “This isn’t that two-bit, buzz-cut factory next door,” she exclaimed, facing the wall that divided the businesses and flipping off the barbershop with both hands. “This is Do or Dye!”

Camellia threw her head back and laughed at Deb’s dramatic gesture. “Deb, honestly,” she said, pretending to be stern with her.

Deb grabbed a broom and pushed Camellia’s cut hair out of the way. “Is there anything else I can do for you today?” she asked.

Camellia set two twenties on the counter to pay for the fourteen-dollar haircut. “Actually, there is.”

That evening, after Deb and Lisa had closed their businesses for the day, they met Camellia in the lot behind Lisa’s Designs where Lisa’s pickup was parked.

“Great hair!” Lisa exclaimed, promenading around Camellia to get a better look.

“I owe it all to Deb,” she said sincerely, nodding in Deb’s direction.

Deb rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I can’t take all this hero worship.” She snatched the truck keys out of Lisa’s hand and dangled them in front of Camellia’s face. “Now, are we going to do this, or what?”

Camellia took a deep breath and closed her hand around the keys. “It’s like riding a bike, right?”

“Sure,” Lisa said, patting Camellia’s back. “You’re just a lot more likely to run down someone’s bike with this truck.”

The women climbed into the truck, with Lisa wedged in the middle and Camellia behind the wheel. Deb made a big show of fastening her seatbelt and bracing herself against the door. Putting the key in the ignition, Camellia gave it a turn and the engine roared to life. She looked around the interior of the truck with eyebrows furrowed. “How do I shift out of park?”

Lisa slapped at the steering column. “It’s up here. Put your foot on the brake first.”

“I remember that.” She successfully put the car in drive – secretly thankful Lisa had backed in to the parking spot – and slowly maneuvered the car onto Beech Street.

“That’s good, but next time you should probably come to a full stop and then look to make sure no cars are coming,” Lisa instructed.

Camellia grimaced. “Sorry!”

“Lucky for you it’s not tourist season yet,” Deb chided, putting her hand up for a high-five from Lisa, which Lisa swatted away.

“Trying to teach here,” she said sternly to Deb.

Deb gulped dramatically. “By all means, do go on. I’ll just continue to hold on for dear life.”

“Deb, you are
not
helping my level of confidence,” Camellia griped. She made it through town without incident, turning right onto the second dirt road.

“Nobody will be on this street, so you can get a little more aggressive,” Lisa said.

“Can I punch it?” Camellia asked eagerly, her eyebrows high.

“Can she punch it?” Lisa reiterated, nudging Deb’s side.

“Why not?” Deb said, grabbing at the handle over the door. “Only live once, right?”

Lisa nodded at Camellia. “Go for it.”

Camellia didn’t need to be told twice. She pushed the gas pedal to the floor, making the old truck fishtail on the loose gravel. She let out a high-pitched whoop, holding the steering wheel at ten and two, as she remembered from driving school, and only letting up the gas enough to stabilize the truck as it sped along the dim,
lonely straightaway.

“Balls to the wall!” Deb shrieked, laughing wildly.

“Better put a little more light on your surroundings,” Lisa yelled over the roaring engine, reaching across the steering wheel and pushing back the brights lever.

The dim road flooded with light, illuminating the low, bordering cornfields and something moving in the road ahead.

“Deer!” Lisa wailed.

Camellia slammed the breaks and held tight to the wheel, fighting with the heavy truck that was pulling them off the road. The gravel under the tires slid the truck sideways. Someone screamed. A cloud of dust choked the evening sky. And then it was silent.

“Hell yes!” Deb cried, eye to eye with one of four white-tailed deer standing motionless in the road. She unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the passenger door, sending the animals prancing into the cornfield. “Oh sure,
that
makes you run, eh?”

“You can let go now,” Lisa said, still in her seat, nodding at Camellia’s white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. “You did good. You did really good.”

Camellia relaxed her hands. Her shoulders ached and her heart raced. “Wow, New York’s got nothing on the treacherous driving in northern Michigan.”

By the end of the week, Camellia was the proud owner of a used Escalade, purchased at Don Deacon’s Cadillac located in Big Rapids. With all the wild beasts roaming freely around Markleeville, Camellia figured bigger was definitely better.