HALFWAY DOWN THE BLOCK I REALIZED I HAD NO ONE to call and nowhere to go. My roommate was out of town with her boyfriend, visiting his family in DC, and I had no desire to tell Tabitha she now had her own kitchen. That was Paul’s job. And she deserved it.
I turned into a coffee shop. It was small and dark. No armchairs, no fireplace, no antipasto platter. I felt my shoulders slump. With all I’d lost in Seattle and now all I had given up in New York, it was the coffee shop that made my lip quiver. I ordered a latte and sat at a table in the window, staring at my cup and missing the fireplace and the little brown Starbucks sleeve.
I had never once in my wildest dreams imagined giving up Feast, not really. Sure, I’d flirted with vapors—other dreams, musings, and what-ifs—but I knew perfectly well what ingredients bound my life. Yet as I stood in that kitchen, my hand running from the warm to the cold, I knew. I knew I could no longer justify my existence. No work could accomplish that. And if it couldn’t, then it meant that I was more. I could be more, live more, give more—live large and thankful and with no regrets.
I wondered how such revelations could dance within me without a lightning bolt accompanying them. Hadn’t I just turned all I knew upside down?
I needed a list . . . There was nothing to write with. I glanced around, trying to force a next step. The lack of a fireplace in the coffee shop bothered me . . . and the uncomfortable chairs . . . and the . . . the shop across the street . . .
I finished my drink, disposed of the cup on my way out the door, and waited impatiently for the light to change so I could rush across to the door beneath the sign: Wigs for Cancer Patients.
The salon was small and well lit, and wigs covered the shelves floor to ceiling. A saleswoman, Saskia, introduced herself and politely gave me space to roam. I needed it. I was overwhelmed by the styles, the colors, the quantity—and the need such variety implied. I had scoffed at Jane’s request, equating it with putting a Band-Aid over an amputation, but these wigs looked real, soft to the touch. They were as complex and varied as the spice mixtures I created with my mortar and pestle and could be as unique and comforting to her as my spices are to me. I closed my eyes, sorry that in this small way, too, I had belittled my sister.
“Are you shopping for yourself?”
“For my sister . . . I had no idea.” I grasped a long swath of hair, thicker than my own ponytail.
“That one is made of real hair, but the synthetic wigs over here are easier to style.”
“She lives in Seattle.”
Saskia nodded, perhaps agreeing but not understanding the relevance.
“Let’s just say she won’t spend time styling it. She won’t find that enjoyable.”
“Was her hair that color?” Saskia motioned to the ponytail I still held.
“Blonder.”
“Come look at these tones. Many patients want to match their former color because it feels familiar.”
“Former?”
“Hair often doesn’t come back the same. Some blondes become brunettes, some straight hair comes back in ringlets, some perfectly white or a shade of red. There isn’t a rule, but it’s never precisely the same.”
“Nothing is,” I muttered and looked at her color samples. I picked one. “Can I have it wavy, though? She had straight hair, and I think she’d prefer some waves.”
Saskia pulled out an order form and began recording my choices. “I just need the circumference of her head.”
“I don’t have that.”
“Can you call her?”
I shook my head and sighed. It was over—my starting point, my opener in a plea for forgiveness. “I can’t. I don’t think she’d even answer the phone.”
I shoved my wallet back into my handbag and brushed across a swath of fabric. I pulled it out. It was the scarf Jane had pulled off at Snoqualmie Falls. I balled it into a fist. “I’ll just get her more of these; then she can tie them where she chooses . . .”
I stepped from the counter, fingering the scarf. “Wait . . .” I turned back, spread it on the counter, and folded it into a diagonal, noting the firm wrinkles where the knot had been tied. “Look. Look where she tied it. That’s the circumference of her head. Can you use that?”
“Show me how she wore it.”
I put it on my head, clasping it behind where the knot formed.
I laid it back on the counter as Saskia pulled out her measuring tape and carefully measured from the center of each wrinkled pock. “If you’re willing to take the risk, I estimate we’ll add a quarter of an inch to compensate for the angle. It should work, but I can’t guarantee it, and the sale is final.”
“I’ll take that risk.” I reached again for my wallet. “It’ll work, right?”
I took a deep breath and let it out in a huge puff. “I wasn’t really talking about the wig.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
Saskia finished recording all my details and assured me that my custom wig would arrive within three days.