open my bathroom cupboard and rummaged in the back. Scissors, terrific. Oh, great, a pumice stone. Forgot all about that thing. Hadn’t used it since I was a newlywed. Here was some crusty old mud mask guaranteed to minimize my pores and give me “the radiant glow of the Swiss.” I’d never been to Switzerland, but they couldn’t look worse than I did.
The last thing I unearthed was an unopened bottle of spray—on sunless tanner. I checked the expiration date: 08/2004. Well. It probably wouldn’t work, but it was worth a shot. I had to do something. I couldn’t hit twenty—eight looking like something left in the basement for the past decade or so. Besides, what said fun more than a tan? Nothing.
“This calls for another drink, Fat Mikey,” I said. “And yes, you can have some more. But no vodka for you, my feline friend.” White Russians were fun. Girls who drank them…ditto. Fat Mikey watched me, his eyes slits of appreciation, I thought.
Yes. Things in the mirror were better when I studied myself a long while later, though that might’ve been because my eyes were having trouble focusing. I’d only intended to cut my bangs, but I’d done such a good job that I kept going. I looked cute in a ragged, Japanese animé kind of way, the bangs shorter on one side, falling in little points. Adorable. Elfin, really. My face was shiny clean, though I couldn’t seem to get the dried mud off one ear. Even so, it was an improvement.
The tanner hadn’t worked—I was still fish—belly white—but that was okay. At least my heels had a little color now, pink instead of gray…oops, one seemed to be bleeding a little, maybe got a little too energetic with that pumice stone. And the cherry—red nail polish I’d applied was kind of gummy, being that it was quite elderly, so my toes (and fingernails) were maybe a little smeary, but still and all, better. My legs bled in a few places, since my razor was a little dull, but I was smooth, at least. Much better.
Still wrapped in Jimmy’s bathrobe, I meandered into the living room and flopped on the couch. Fat Mikey jumped up and kneaded my stomach—hopefully, he’d break up some of the cellulite—and then curled next to me. I felt better. I’d greet this new age o’ mine smoother and cuter than I’d left it. All good. “Don’t I look nice?” I asked my cat. He purred in agreement. “That was fun. We’re going to have some fun, Fat Mikey. Look out, world, here comes the fun.”
Within seconds, I was asleep.
I was awakened by a knock on the door. The apartment, which had been dim to begin with, was now fully dark, and I stumbled to the door, hands outstretched, till I hit the light switch. Flipping it on, I squinted in the abrupt brightness, then peered through the peephole. Ethan. That’s right, it was Friday, so Ethan was home. “Hi,” I said, rubbing an eye as I opened the door.
“Hey, Luce, happy birth—” He broke off suddenly. “Jesus, what happened?”
“Nothing,” I frowned. “Why?” His face was slack with horror. “Ethan. What is it?”
“Did you…do something? To your…”
“What?”
His eyes traveled up and down my form. “Lucy…” He started to say something, then stopped. “Oh, Lucy.” He covered his mouth with one hand.
“What?” I asked again.
“Uh…you…um…” He started laughing. Wheezing, really.
That was it. I fled to the bathroom, took a look in the mirror. And screamed.
My face was bright red, imprinted on the left side from the corduroy pillow on the couch. My right eye still had some grayish—green dried mud on the lid, which was preventing me from opening it all the way, sort of a stroke victim look going on there…Apparently, the aging mud mask had caused a rash, because my cheeks were red and bumpy. And my hair! Oh, Lord, my hair! Never cut your own hair while intoxicated…sure, now I remembered that particular rule. Seems so obvious, doesn’t it? Yet I’d done it, and it looked as if I’d run face—first into a lawn mower, my bangs choppy and irregular, the hair on the left side significantly shorter than the hair on the right.
Then I saw my arms. And my legs.
“No!” I wailed.
Brown and orange streaks covered my formerly white, white skin, except for the patches where the spray tanner had missed. I looked filthy, as if I’d been picking crops in the dust bowl. “No!” I moaned, slamming on the hot water and shoving a facecloth under the stream. I scrubbed the streaks violently, but no. Nothing changed, except my skin grew pinker under the fake tan.
That was it. I burst into tears. Pathetic, that’s what I was. A pathetic, drunken, smeary widow with orange skin, insane asylum hair and a rash. Insult to injury. Not only had God taken my Jimmy…He’d let me go on a White Russian bender while armed with scissors and tan—from—a-can! It was enough to make me an atheist.
“Come on, Lucy, it’s not that bad,” Ethan said from the other side of the bathroom door, his voice carefully controlled. “Seems like you just got a little…” He went silent, and I knew too well that he was laughing.
“Don’t,” I said, yanking open the door. Ethan was bent over, wheezing. I smacked him in the shoulder. “Look at me! This is ridiculous! This is what I get for trying to be fun!”
“Oh, I don’t know. This is pretty fun,” he managed to say.
How could he laugh? “You’re so mean, Ethan,” I sniffled.
“It’s just…you…your legs…and your hair…” He staggered back against the wall, rattling a picture, laughing so hard tears brightened his eyes.
“It’s not funny,” I wailed. “I’m older than Jimmy now, Ethan. I’m a widow, and I’m all alone and look at me! I should never have had those White Russians.”
“You think?” he asked, wiping his eyes.
I smacked him again, tears flooding my eyes, then turned away, hiccupping on a coffee—flavored sob. “I hate you.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he said. “Come on, now, honey, don’t cry.” He took my hand and led me to the living room, pulling me down next to him on the couch, where we’d logged so many hours together, watching movies or playing Extreme Racing USA. Fat Mikey jumped up, then, apparently horrified at how I looked, jumped back down and stalked into the kitchen, tail puffy with fear. Ethan patted my shoulder. “I’ll take you into Providence tomorrow for a good haircut. And the tan stuff will fade. Just, um, try a little Brillo. Maybe some Clorox.” That set him off again.
“You don’t get it, Ethan,” I said in a smaller voice. “I just feel so…I’m twenty—eight now. I’m older than Jimmy.” Swallowing, I looked down. For a second, I remembered Jimmy’s blue—green eyes smiling at me, and my heart broke all over again. “No one will ever love me like that again.” Dang, I was really crying now. So much for all fun, all the time.
“Oh, hey,” he said, his voice gentle. “You’ll be loved again, Lucy. The minute you’re ready. You’ll see.”
“I’m orange, Ethan,” I squeaked. “And it looks like my hair got caught in a fan.”
He bit down on a smile. “You’re gorgeous,” he said. “Even now, with all the, er, extras. You’d be gorgeous if you rolled in, I don’t know, pig entrails. Cow manure.” He handed me a tissue
