A CONVOLUTED LIE

Chapter 1 – Baldness Isn’t for Wimps

I lined the bathroom sink with newspaper then plugged in the hair trimmer, gripping it like a rock to be thrown. I studied my grim reflection in the mirror, a wilted version of myself.

My prized, shoulder-length hair had started thinning from the chemo. I couldn’t bear to watch it fall out during the upcoming weeks, so I’d decided to cut it off, a preemptive act like knocking down a sandcastle before the waves disintegrated it over time.

Standing in my all-white bathroom, I gathered my resolve and shoved down the fear that my colon cancer would eventually kill me. The dread of dying from cancer hung around my neck like an iron collar, heavy and ever-present.

On top of the bathroom counter, Mrs. Kravitz, my beloved cat, sniffed the newspaper. Her white ears and tail were dipped in black, her nose lost within a large black teardrop. She raised her head and stared at me, stretching her neck as if trying to whisper assurances in my ear. I extended my free hand, and she rubbed her head beneath my palm.

“Thanks for your encouragement, Mrs. K. You’ve been so supportive.”

Taking off my thick, white-framed glasses, I squinted at my reflection. My gray sweatpants bunched around my shrunken waist. My white cotton top hung loose on my bones. Taking a deep breath, I switched on the trimmer and raised it like a champagne glass in a toast.

“To the sisterhood of bald women everywhere. Watch out, ladies, Joy Bickem is joining your ranks.”

The trimmer’s nasal hum echoed within the small room. Mrs. Kravitz began mewing and pacing on the counter while looking up at me with wide-eyed alarm. The trimmer vibrated in my trembling hand.

I bent over the sink, my face hovering over the newsprint. An article about the latest child abduction stared back at me. Forcing my hand, I mowed my scalp from front to back, pushing the trimmer as it chewed through my hair with each stroke. Long tassels of coffee-colored hair brushed my cheeks as they drifted down. The loud buzzing near my ears sounded like a chorus of laughter.

When all my hair was in a fuzzy heap, I switched off the trimmer and fumbled for my glasses. Placing them on my narrow nose, I looked in the mirror, expecting a bald stranger to appear there.

“What the...” I gaped at my reflection. On both sides of my head, above each ear, I saw a row of half-inch-tall symbols printed on my scalp, faded yet legible. I swiveled my head several times to get a closer look. I tried rubbing off the symbols with my fingers, but they remained on my white scalp.

I grabbed the still-damp washcloth from the shower and scrubbed my head until it hurt. The symbols refused to erase, like permanent tattoos.

“This is crazy,” I said, strained.

I studied the washcloth to see if any color had transferred. Seeing none, I threw it to the shower floor with a loud smack. Turning my head to one side, I tried to read the strange symbols, but the reflected image was backward. I grabbed a hand mirror from the cabinet that hung over the toilet and angled it to flip the image. The symbols displayed as β¯ βασιλείς β¯:β¯ on one side and ἔργα θ¯:ι¯α¯ on the other. The alien symbols made no sense to me. How did they get there? And when? Why could I not remember something like that? It must have happened when I was very young, too young to remember anything.

Struggling to process their existence, I stared at the tattoos for a long time. Were they a message for me? The symbols reminded me of serial numbers tattooed on concentration camp prisoners. My shaved head and emaciated frame made me look like an escapee.

“Look at me, Mrs. K. I’m hideous.”

Mrs. Kravitz gazed up at me without judgment. The unconditional acceptance of pets made them better roommates than people. But Mrs. Kravitz was more than a roommate. She was my confidant, my companion, my loyal friend, but as self-centered as Cinderella’s stepsister. The same could be said of my best friend, Sara Harte.

And then it struck me. “Mother. She did this.” Only a nutcase like Mother would have tattooed a baby’s head. Since my father died in a car accident before I was born, it had to be her. I must have screamed when the tattoo needle pierced my tender infant skin.

I turned to Mrs. Kravitz. “Be glad you never met Mother. She was a monster, the creature from the black spittoon. I haven’t spoken to her in over forty years. I don’t know if she’s dead or still in prison, and I don’t care.”

I never had reason to speak to Mother again, but the tattoos incited me to confront her and get answers. Even so, I was loath to engage a crazy woman I despised.

If I hadn’t cut my hair, I would have been spared seeing the wicked witch’s signature on my head. I would have been a fifty-two-year-old lady with cancer who lived in Kansas City, Missouri. But now I was a bald scarecrow with head tattoos.

After taking a deep, calming breath, I brushed off the loose hairs from my head onto the newspaper. The roughness of the short bristles on my head surprised me. I folded the edges of the sheets over the pile of hair, squeezed the bundle into a crumpled ball, and shoved the paper ball into the wastebasket by the toilet, punching it down multiple times as if trying to kill it.

The upsetting tattoos had amplified my nausea. Bending low over the wastebasket had caused the waves to overwhelm the ship. My stomach clenched. Bitter acid burned the back of my mouth. I removed my glasses, dropped to my hands and knees, placed my head over the toilet, and waited for the ship to give up its cargo.

Mrs. Kravitz jumped onto my back, baby-goat yoga style, expecting a thrilling ride. As a rule, she refused to touch the floor, as if it were fiery lava, maybe because it was the terrifying realm of shoes and vacuum cleaners. Instead, she inhabited higher planes, such as tables and counters, perhaps wanting to dwell at the same level as humans or believing herself to be one. I suspected the latter.

Minutes later, the nausea subsided, and I sighed with relief. “Mrs. K., it seems that the up-chuck wagon won’t be making its rounds this morning.” She jumped onto the top of the toilet tank, allowing me to stand up.

After putting my glasses back on, I picked up Mrs. Kravitz and held her close, soaking up the comforting warmth of her soft, luxurious pbody. The lingering effects of the chemo had exhausted me. My limbs weighed like concrete beams. I needed a nap, but I was too worked up to sleep.

I released a loud, throaty sigh. In the mirror, a bald, tattooed stranger held Mrs. Kravitz. The woman stared back at me with a surly expression. I felt violated by the tattoos, as much as by the cancer that had invaded my pbody.

“Great. Now I have more crap to shovel.” I looked down at Mrs. Kravitz. “I guess I’ll need a bigger shovel.”

Realizing the popularity of tattoos, I laughed out loud. “Huh. Who would’ve thought I’d be in vogue, Mrs. K.? All the young girls wear tattoos these days. Now I do too.” I pretended to admire my tattoos in the mirror. “A hat will cover this disaster. When I confront Mother Psycho, that may be a disaster on a whole other level.”

I shook my head with dismay. “Wow. Who’s the crazy one now?”