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“Downtown,” she said to the cabdriver. “2960 State Street.”
The yellow and black cab merged onto the busy interstate, the skyscrapers of Chicago looming. Anna’s conversation with Lisa replayed in her mind, again and again; her worst nightmares had come true. Donja had met a man, wealthy, and older though she didn’t have the heart to tell Lisa how much older she suspected this Torin Mancini might be. Twenty minutes later, they hit the busy influx of traffic. She opened her purse and glanced at the paperwork from her attorney in Kalamazoo, detailing her life savings, which were slim to say the least. She closed her eyes, secure in her mind that it was only money, her money, and spending every red cent to save Donja was worth it.
“Radiant Iridescents,” she mumbled under their breath. She closed her eyes.
Blood sucking demons, every…
The sudden swerve of the cab followed by the honking of a car horn beside them, yanked Anna from the past into the present. Her purse went flying, her legal papers strewn upon the back seat. She gathered her things while the cab driver shouted with a raised fist to the car beside them and though it was in his native tongue, the sentiment was easily read.
Minutes later, the cab screeched to a halt in the heart of city. Anna paid the driver, then escaped the back seat, instantly consumed by fumes from the heavy traffic. She glanced at the mayhem, sidewalks packed, a man with a cardboard sign begging for coins, pigeons swooping in amid a tempest of voices as tourist snapped pictures of the Willis/Sears building.
She exhaled, wandering through a maze of bodies, her destination, the double glass doors of ‘Joseph Miguel’s,’ a high-end salon. She eased through the door, a cacophony of cars, trucks and horns silenced behind.
During a thirty-minute wait while sipping coffee, she thumbed through magazines, Donja on her mind. She was just certain this Torin was…
“They’re ready for you,” the receptionist said, drawing her from thought. Anna got up and walked away.
Just hold on baby girl…grandma’s coming.
After a color clinician transformed her salt and pepper hair into an ebony shimmer, Anna found herself seated before Nate, a young stylist. She whipped out a picture of a model with a modern, shoulder-length style.
Nate quickly got to work, scissors in one hand, tresses falling like rain. After a blow dry and big barrel curling iron, he spun her to view his masterpiece. She spiked her brows, eyes wide as total stranger stared back from the mirror.
“Very nice,” he said as he ushered her back to the makeup counter.
Hours later under the guidance of Nicole, a dual makeup/tattoo artist she had her lips, eyes and brows permanently lined. When the artist turned her to gaze up on herself, she could only stare. “Now let’s teach you to apply magnetic lashes, it’s a finishing touch that will have your partner begging.”
“Begging,” Anna said with haunting eyes. “That’s exactly what I want.”
“If I may be so bold. How old are you?”
“Forty-eight,” Anna replied without emotion.
“Oh my God, I was thinking thirty-five at best. You have such great skin and your cheekbones…I’d kill for them. Did you get them done locally?”
“No,” Anna breathed with a glint in her eyes. “I’m Chippewa,” she admitted for the first time in forever, “it’s in the genes.”
“Well you don’t even look like the same woman who came through that door,” she laughed. “Now, how about a manicure?”
“Of course,” Anna smiled, “and red polish please.”
An hour later, while standing outside the salon, caught up in a jungle of people, cars and blustery winds, Anna hailed a cab. “Methodist Hospital,” she said, checking her watch for time as the cab sped away.
After a twenty-minute drive in bumper to bumper traffic, the cab delivered her to the hospital entry. After checking into Outpatient, she was introduced to her nurse, a tall thin brunette named Pam. The nurse had a sense of humor that set you at ease and within no time, Anna felt her tension slipping away. After inserting an IV with a saline drip, the plastic surgeon stuck his head from around the privacy drape.
“This will only take about thirty minutes, Mrs. Bellanger, just a small incision inside the hairline on both sides of your temples, a few internal sutures and a little surgical glue, and you’ll be up and running within a few hours, that is if you don’t have any bleeding problems.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have a rare blood type, actually the first of its kind I’ve ever encountered. Hopefully you won’t bleed, because without packed cells, we will have no choice but to keep you overnight and use volume expanders until you stabilize. I don’t anticipate problems, but I must inform you of the risk. Do you wish to proceed?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, we will need a signed consent.”
“I understand.”
My cursed blood rears its ugly head again.