Page 8 of An Overdue Match
I dress, and Kitty Purry follows me to the bathroom, jumping on the vanity and positioning herself by the sink. Some people may find it weird, but my cat thinks she’s human—a queen, really—and therefore does her grooming in the bathroom like every other diva. As I layer on foundation, she licks at her paw and rubs the limb over her ear.
My temporary eyebrow tattoos are still very much intact, so after I apply the normal makeup (foundation, blush, lipstick), I reach for the false eyelashes, glue, and tweezers. The learning curve to applying false lashes is steep, but I’ve been doing it every day for so long now that the movements of swiping the glue brush along the edge and then having a pair of tweezers so close to my eyeball is second nature. I don’t even flinch anymore. Kitty Purry doesn’t try to bat them off the vanity anymore either.
I blink a few times and inspect myself in the mirror, turning my head left and right to view from profile. Profile is always the worst. I can’t ignore the roundness of my crown or the bump off to the side near the top of my head that hair used to cover. I can’t help but be reminded of the early nineties filmConeheads, although the shape of my cranium is more asymmetrical than exaggeratedly pointed.
My wig sits on a faceless mannequin bust on the corner of the vanity. The first time I’d stepped foot in a wig shop, I’d had no idea what I was doing. Granted, I hadn’t known that I’d need the equivalent of a master’s degree to buy a wig, but you don’t know what you don’t know. It took about three seconds to realize I should’ve done my research first. The attendant tried to be helpful with her questions—Did I want a lace front, full lace, or cap wig? Real hair or synthetic? If synthetic, then did I have a preference on fiber types like polyester, acrylic, Kanekalon, or polyvinyl chloride?
I’d almost run out of the store but instead forced my feet to stay put as I politely told the clerk I’d just look around onmy own. The price of the real hair wigs made me choke, especially when I learned that they only lasted about a year before needing replacement. One decision down. The full lace and lace-front wigs were beautiful, the hairs individually hand-tied into a thin, almost invisible lace material that made the hairline and part look the most natural. Honestly, in the display pictures, I couldn’t even tell the models were wearing wigs. But those came with a pretty steep learning curve. Depending on the wig, I’d have to pluck or bleach some of the knots, and with all of them, I’d have to trim the lace around my face without ruining anything as well as learn how to apply an adhesive to get the wig to stay in place.
One day I may feel confident enough and have the budget to try a lace-front or even a full lace wig, but I was so overwhelmed that day at the store. I just needed something I could put on and not be able to screw up. That’s when I tried onmywig.
I lift the synthetic hair from its stand and shake out the strands that feel nothing like my hair used to. Even though the strands’ texture is thick and coarse to my touch, it isn’t too bad. I set it on my head, adjust it just so, and look at myself in the mirror.
The first time I’d seen myself wearing this wig, it was like I’d found me again. The best way I can describe it is from a scene in the movieHookwith Robin Williams. Peter Pan/Robin Williams returns to Neverland as an adult and the Lost Boys don’t recognize him because he grew up. One little boy starts inspecting Peter Pan’s older and wrinkled face, smooshing it this way and that, then he pushes Peter Pan’s cheeks into a wide smile and says in recognition, “Oh, there you are, Peter.”
When I’d put this wig on in the store and looked in the handheld mirror, I’d said to myself, “Oh, there you are, Evangeline,” even though the cut isn’t one I’d ever had before andthe color is a light shade of almond, at least three gradients lighter than what I’d been born with. The curtain bangs hide the abrupt hairline of the machine-made piece while also framing my face and drawing attention to my cheekbones. The rest of the hair in the wig is pre-styled in shoulder-length beach waves that hold their shape with minimal effort from me. No one has ever commented on the fact that I wear my hair the same way every day (the wig is an easy wear-and-go but not really that versatile, so I can’t change the style that much), but I figured if anyone ever did, I’d just brush it off by saying that the style is my signature look.
Finally transformed into the Evangeline Kelly that everyone in Little Creek knows, I gather my purse, plant a begrudgingly received kiss atop Kitty Purry’s head, and lock my cabin door behind me. I stop by Mimi’s Bakery to purchase some baked goods for the human story visiting the library today and any of the patrons who want to check her out.
The idea of a living library originated in Denmark in 2000 with a model of borrowing a person instead of a book in a means to challenge stereotypes and prejudice through dialogue. It also bridges generational gaps, broadens perspectives, and celebrates the oral traditions of long ago that have been lost by so many. Mrs. Miriam Goldmann was supposed to visit our branch a few weeks ago as our first living book to be checked out—just in time for Valentine’s Day, as the subject of her story is marriage from a Jewish perspective—but she’d developed a nasty cold and had to reschedule.
I balance the boxes of pastries in one hand as I unlock the library door, step in, then reengage the lock. The lights are turned on, so either Hayley or Martha is already here.
“Do I smell donuts?” Martha sets down a crate of craft supplies. Every Tuesday, she spearheads a crafternoon around a beloved children’s book. Last week, kids made bear paws from paper bags and drew maps on butcher block paper allthe while chanting“Can’t go over it. Can’t go under it. Oh no! Got to go through it!”
“Cronuts.” The marriage of a croissant and a donut made the most delicious offspring. “And chocolate croissants. And a few other pastries thrown in for good measure.”
“From Mimi’s?” Martha licks her lips.
“Of course.” I set the boxes down and retrieve some paper towels from the supply closet.
A couple of hours later, a woman in her eighties, white hair braided into a loose, low-hanging bun and wearing a bottle-green dress and matching overcoat, walks into the library, supported by a cane.
“Mrs. Goldmann?” I approach her with a smile.
She smiles back, watery eyes bright with enthusiasm. “I’m Miriam Goldmann. It’s been a few years since I’ve beenchecked out”—she winks—“but I’m ready for the opportunity for it to happen to me again.”
I lead her to the sitting area and offer her a baked good from the box. She selects a croissant and puts it on a small plate. A college-aged young woman approaches and asks to hear Mrs. Goldmann’s story, taking out a notebook and pen as she does so.
“You know the song inFiddler on the Roof? It goes ‘Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match’? Well, a Jewish matchmaker is called ashadchanit, or ashadchanif the matchmaker is a man, and that’s where my love story starts.”
As Miriam Goldmann continues to speak and share about the great love of her life, an idea begins to form in my mind. It’s hazy, the outlines not yet well defined, but I smile. With a little fleshing out, this may just be my best idea ever.
5
This wasn’t the first time Hayley had talked Tai into doing something he normally wouldn’t have, but it was the first time he thought about thanking her for it.
He’d definitely not considered gratitude the time she’d persuaded him to play the game Chubby Bunny with habanero peppers instead of marshmallows. Nor the time she’d convinced him to yell out a random word starting with each consecutive letter of the alphabet on Thanksgiving when he was eight. The first had sent him into an asthma attack that had made his already overprotective mom hover even closer, while the second saw him meeting with a psychiatrist because that same helicopter parent was convinced he’d developed Tourette’s Syndrome.
Then again, Hayley probably wouldn’t thank him for the time he’d dared her to only speak in pig latin for a whole day. The same day the most popular guy in school had asked her to go with him to the winter formal. The quarterback had quickly changed his mind when she’d responded with “Esyay! I’d ovelay otay ogay ithway ouyay!”
Tai shook his head at the memory, a wry grin tilting the corners of his lips. They’d been playing this game with each other for years. Twenty-four, to be exact. He still rememberedthe first dare she’d ever issued him. He’d been moping around his room when he was five. His mom had just pulled him out of T-ball after he’d collapsed between second and third base, coughing and clutching his ever-tightening chest in an effort to drag in a full breath. He had no idea what asthma was at the time, nor how much it would change the rest of his life. He only knew his mom was being unfair and that he wouldn’t be able to grow up to be like Derek Jeter if she made him quit T-ball.
Hayley had marched into his room and looked around, an expression of disgust on her preschool face. “Don’t you have any pictures on your walls or anything?” she’d asked.
Earlier that day, his mom had taken down the shadow box of baseball memorabilia, along with shelves that had displayed his Hot Wheels cars, muttering something about dust like it had committed the most atrocious of crimes. He’d merely shrugged in response to Hayley, too upset to say anything out loud.
She’d frowned at him. “My dad painted a rainbow on my bedroom wall. It makes me smile. I bet if you had a painting on your wall, you’d smile instead of looking like Oscar the Grouch.”
