The New Normal (5 page)

“You're beautiful. You know that, right?”

I shrugged.

She kissed me on the forehead and smoothed strands of hair away from my eyes. “I'll see you in a couple hours. There's some leftover stir-fry in the fridge.”

“Okay.”

She tousled my hair. “It looks really good, Tamar.”

“Thanks.”

“Very natural.”

“Good.”

“Do you want to come to yoga tonight?”

“Nope.”

“Sure?”

“Sure don't.”

She sighed. “All righty, I'll see you in a bit.”

“Yep.”

I heard her close and lock the front door. She always did that when she left, but it had the disturbing effect of making me feel trapped inside the house. I unlocked the door and went to the fridge for a glass of milk. As I was pouring it, from the corner of my eye I saw some bushes moving in the backyard. I thought it might be a deer eating the new crocus shoots and went to investigate. I slid the glass door open and saw a ladder leaning up against the side of our house, and then I heard a low groan. I stepped outside and saw my dad lying on the ground. His right leg was twisted under him at a sickening angle. “DAD!” I ran to his side. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“I fell down.” His eyes were bleary, and his skin was pea-green. There was a rip in his pants, and I could see the pale, jagged bone of his shin where it had burst through the skin of his leg. It glistened with droplets of blood and tissue. I turned away from him and vomited onto the grass. Then I ran inside to call
9-1-1
. The dispatcher told me to put a blanket over him and wait with him until the ambulance got there, so that's what I did.

I was scared. I had never seen my dad hurt before. He mumbled a lot and wasn't making sense.

“When are they coming home?”

“Who?”

“The girls.”

“Dad, it's okay. Just be quiet. You need to rest.”

He grimaced and closed his eyes. “They're way past their curfew.”

I sighed and tipped my head back. I saw two vultures floating in smooth circles miles above us.

“How long have you been like this, Dad?”

“Forty-two years.”

The ambulance screamed up and two paramedics—one male, one female—hopped out and put Dad on an orange spine board and loaded him into the back of the ambulance. I was impressed by the speed and efficiency of their movements. There was something graceful about it, like an emergency-medical-team dance. They had him strapped in there in less than a minute.

“You're the daughter?” the female paramedic asked.

“Yeah.”

“No one else home?” asked the male paramedic.

“No.”

“Come with us, please.” He held open the back door of the ambulance for me to climb in.

I sat beside Dad, and he reached for my hand. He kept asking questions, and the woman had to keep telling him to be quiet and take it easy. Finally, she put the oxygen mask over his face so he couldn't talk anymore. It was kind of funny because he hadn't said much of anything for months, and now that he was talking, he wasn't allowed to.

There was an amazing amount of equipment in the back of the ambulance, and as I looked around, I wondered if they had anything that could stimulate hair growth, like those electric-shock paddles or a shot of adrenaline or something. I didn't ask them, though, because I knew they had to focus on my dad. The paramedic asked me if I was okay. He gave me a bottle of water and a smile.

I called home from the waiting room and left a message for Mom on the answering machine. I didn't know the number of the yoga studio or even what it was called, so I couldn't reach her there. The parents and I didn't have cell phones because my mom thinks they give off radioactive waves and cause brain tumors. Maybe she'll change her mind after this. There was nothing she could do for Dad right now anyway. I wasn't even allowed in the room until the doctor was finished examining him.

I wandered around a bit and found the hospital chapel. I pulled open the heavy door. Candles flickered at the front of the room, and there were flower arrangements all over the stage. No one else was there, so I went in and sat down in one of the hard wooden pews. The air felt heavy and stale, but at least it was quiet. The solid oak doors blocked out the hospital beeps and buzzes, cries and shouts. I sat in the thick silence for a few minutes, then closed my eyes and bowed my head. I said a prayer for my dad. I prayed that he would be okay. I prayed that he wasn't paralyzed. I prayed that he didn't have brain damage. I didn't know if I could handle it if he did.

I stayed there about fifteen minutes, and then my stomach started rumbling, and I left to find a vending machine. I had a bag of Cheetos and a Coke for dinner.

When I got back to the waiting room, Mom was sitting there, bouncing her knees up and down, clutching her purse in her hands. Her knuckles were white, and so was her face. She stood up when she saw me.

“Tamar! What happened? Is he okay?”

“I don't know. I think he fell off the roof.”

“Oh for Christ's sake. What the hell was he doing on the roof?”

“Don't know.”

“The hail,” she said after a few seconds. “He was probably checking to see if it damaged the roof.” She put her hand on her forehead, shook her head and rolled her eyes.

We waited together on the hard orange plastic chairs. I flipped through an old
National Geographic
, and my mom bounced her knees and clenched and unclenched her hands. Occasionally, she looked up at a
TV
that was playing the news. It was the same old: floods, fire and famine, pedophiles, perverts and freaks. Please, spare me.

Finally, the doctor came to get us.

“Mrs. Robinson?”

“Yes!” My mom jumped up and shook his hand.

“I'm Doctor Zwicky.”

Doctor Zwicky was young and handsome, with jet-black hair that fell in a slant across his eyebrows. He looked like he belonged in an underwear commercial, not a hospital.

“How is he?” Mom asked.

“Well, he has a badly fractured tibia, a sprained ankle and a bruised tailbone. He also has a mild concussion, and he was severely dehydrated and in shock. But we're getting his fluids back up, and he seems to be through the worst of it. We've run some tests, and there is no sign of a fractured skull or brain damage. But we will need to keep him here for a few days.”

My mom grabbed my hand and squeezed.

“Would you like to see him now?”

“Yes.”

I hesitated, and my mom yanked me up by the arm.

“You can come too.” Doctor Zwicky flashed me a smile that could save lives.

We followed his glowing white coat down the hall and into the elevator, up two floors and into room
308
.

“Dad!”

“Hey T,” he whispered. “Sheila.” He smiled at Mom. His lips were cracked and white.

“David, what happened?” My mom reached for his hand.

“The hail completely destroyed our roof. We'll need to reshingle.” His voice was scratchy, like he had laryngitis. His leg was in a cast already and was elevated by some kind of hook-and-pulley system. There were plastic tubes running from a bag of liquid into his arm.

He looked down at the mint-green sheet. “I don't know what happened. I'm sorry.”

“Oh, honey. You didn't do anything wrong.”

“Yes, I did. I fell.”

We all laughed, even Doctor Zwicky.

“In six to eight weeks you'll be good as new, Mr. Robinson.
But I'm afraid you'll have to get someone else to repair your
roof.”

Dad nodded, defeated.

“I'll give you a few minutes alone, and then I'll have to ask you to let our patient rest. He's had a very long day.” Doctor Zwicky disappeared through the curtain.

I sat on the edge of the high hospital bed beside my Dad's good leg. I flipped some of my new hair behind my shoulder. “So, what do you think?”

“About what?”

I pointed to my head.

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Glossy.”

I smiled.

Mom told him she loved him and was glad he was okay. She kissed him on the forehead. “Get some rest. We'll see you tomorrow.” She smoothed his face with the back of her hand, and his eyes fluttered closed.

We didn't say anything on the drive home. Maybe we were both too relieved to talk. I had a bath and went to bed, and my mom did the same.

From then on, I wore my wig all the time—except at night, when I kept it on its wig stand so it would keep its shape. If properly taken care of, a human-hair wig can last around twenty-five years. But I'm hoping (and praying) that my real hair will grow back way before then.

Dad came home after three days in the hospital. On Friday
I got to stay home from school and help him, because Mom was at an all-day meditation intensive. Dad just watched
TV
and asked me to bring him his lunch and a few beers, and then he said it was a beautiful day and I had two good legs, so I should go for a bike ride. So I did. I found a sweet new single track in Fish Creek that was really challenging, and for a little while, I forgot all about being bald.

The next day, I wore my wig to go job hunting. I pulled it back into a ponytail because Mom said that looked more professional.

The first place I tried was Mik's Milk and Gas. I thought they were a good bet because the giant sign out front that posts the price of gas said
Now Hring.
I guess they ran out of
i
's. I went inside, and the door beeped.

“Hi,” I said to the lady behind the counter. Her marshmallow-colored hair was cut as if someone had placed a bowl on her head.

“Hi.”

“I'd like to work here.”

She pursed her pale lips and then ducked behind the counter. “Fill out this application form.” She threw a clipboard
down on the counter. Her puffy skin was the color of ashes.

“Thanks.” I went to the back of the store by the slushie machine, sat down at a round orange table and read the first line:
Thank you for your interest in Mik's Milk and Gas!

I looked around. There was no one in the store, and terrible soft rock was crackling out of the speakers. It smelled like burnt coffee and wet mop. A man came in and the door beeped. Another person came in and it beeped again; it seemed to be getting louder. A bell chimed because someone had pulled in for gas. Another bell. Another beep. I got up and went back to the counter. Miss Marshmallow was arranging cigarette packs on the shelf. Her back was as wide as a doorway.

“Excuse me?”

She turned around.

“Do you have a pen?”

She rolled her eyes and unclipped the pen from her shirt pocket, threw it onto the counter and turned back to the wall of cigarettes.

“Thanks.” I picked up the pen. It was yellow and said
Mik's Milk and Gas
in red writing, and there was a stupid-looking cat on it giving the thumbs-up. I took it back to the table and filled out the application as best as I could. But I had no Previous Work Experience, Previous Employer or Reason for Leaving Last Place of Employment, so I had to leave those parts blank. It was a bit of a catch-
22
: you can't get a job without work experience, and you can't get work experience without a job.

As I handed Miss Marshmallow my application, I smiled and said, “Hope to hear from you soon,” just like I was supposed to.

She grunted and scratched her doughy face. I left then and wondered, If I did get a job there, would the chime on the door drive me insane?

The same day I also filled out applications at these places:

a video store

a coffee shop

a drugstore

a fast-food restaurant

a sit-down restaurant

a movie theater

a bookstore

a car wash

a shoe store

a clothing store

a gift shop

a grocery store

a florist

a bakery

a jewelry store

a record shop

a thrift store

It was a long day. But I figured the more applications I filled out, the better chance I had of getting something. Cast a wide net. I was hoping for either the movie theater or the record shop, but everybody wants those jobs, and their application piles were probably four feet tall.

Around five thirty, I walked into a cute little pie shop down a side street in Avenida. It was full of old fogeys drinking coffee and eating butter tarts. The man behind the counter was probably a hundred years old. He had a crown of wispy gray hair. I asked him if he needed any workers, and his milky-blue eyes twinkled.

“Can you start right now?” he croaked.

“Sure, I guess.”

“Fantastic.” He swung the counter door open for me to enter the kitchen and tossed me a crisp white apron.

I have a job. I have a job! I work in a pie shop!

He pointed me in the direction of the sink, where a towering stack of dishes teetered precariously on the countertop.

“You can start with those, and then, when you're finished, we can make some pies.” He winked. Then he ambled back to the front to finish his coffee and gossip with the other blue-hairs.

The dirty dishes were not just cups, saucers, spoons and forks, although they were there too. There were baking pans, muffin pans, pie plates and soup pots. It looked as if a giant blackberry had exploded all over these dishes and hardened on. The sign above the sinks gave directions on what to do: one sink was for washing and rinsing, and one was for sanitizing with bleach. I began to fill the sinks, the bleach stinging my nostrils. I poked around, looking for gloves, but couldn't see any. The old man came back into the kitchen and set a timer.