Amy Inspired - Bethany Pierce [113]
She poured a cup of coffee. “What?”
“Nothing.”
She went to work in the wig, wearing it matter-of-factly, acting surprised when anyone cared to make an issue of it. Her wardrobe had always been inclined to drastic overhauls. She had a black phase, a lace phase, six months in which she never left the house without striped stockings. She systematically changed her jewelry and skirts. The hair, however, was a surprise to all of us.
She wore the wig for three days. By the time we’d all adjusted to her as a brunette she switched to auburn.
“How many did you keep?” I asked.
“All of them.”
She was in the shower. I sat on the toilet in a face-off with the mute wig head that now presided over our bathroom sink. Today auburn, tomorrow blond. In her closet the wig heads sat in silent rows.
The boxes had arrived the week she’d flown home. I’d assumed they contained the things she hadn’t been able to carry on the plane: shoes, jewelry, books—the entire collection of Zoë miscellany that had slowly migrated from our apartment to Chicago during her many trips home. She carried each box to her room and opened them in secret. “Just a few things to remember Mom by,” she’d said pointedly when I asked.
I’d meant she should take a few scarves or a bottle of perfume or a memorable necklace. But the hair?
“What could I have done with them?” she asked. “They’re real. Hundreds—thousands—of dollars of hair.”
“They’re very beautiful,” I replied.
She peered around the shower curtain. Her real hair stood spiked chaotically, her scalp white and naked beneath. “You know it’s not because I’m self-conscious. I don’t care about my hair.”
“I know, Zoë,” I said. “You don’t have to explain it to me.”
That Zoë would hoard the artifacts of her mother’s illness was surprising. That she wore them was almost too much. But I understood her enough to know this was not a stunt or a cheap grab for attention. It would, perhaps, qualify as a Statement, but that was a good sign: If Zoë already had a Statement to make, she would be all right.
Strangely, the wig days were good days. In those beautiful and horrid relics of her mother’s illness she had found some mysterious source of strength. Together we perfected the art of leisure. We lounged in the living room over whole stacks of books. When we jogged, we jogged slowly. There were no deadlines to run to or prizes to win. We slept. We ate. We clung to each other and waited for our wounds to heal.
The postcard arrived in late June: Glorified Reductions, an exhibition of the Pendleton Residency. All the artists were participating in the final exhibition, a culmination of their six-week studio intensive. Eli’s name appeared on the list of showing artists, but I was disappointed that his work had not been included on the postcard. On the back he had scrawled: Would love to see you both. ~ELI.
He’d been careful to invite us both, but the postcard had been addressed to me.
I clipped it to my bedroom mirror so that his note was one of the first things I saw every morning. Zoë and I hadn’t talked about him. We didn’t talk about Michael, either. It was safer to talk about books and films, to keep our conversations in the abstract. But when I was alone, I wondered if his feelings for me had changed. My regard for him had only grown.
I’d been to the Pendleton Residency website a dozen times. It was a sparse, functional site, providing a brief description of the program (international), the grounds (stunning), and the people (renowned). The first photo album showcased the various studios, each furnished with the finest equipment. The second contained snapshots of every group that had lived and worked in the program since the 1980s. I was insanely proud to see Eli’s name listed on the roster.
Between the ostensible failure of his gallery and the fluke nature of his route to our doorstep, it