sort through all this.’
‘So it’s what you thought?’ Bo asked. ‘Abduction?’
‘Looks that way.’
Chapter Three
Tuesday, December 3, 10.45 A.M.
D aphne gripped the sides of the sink in the ladies’ room, grateful that it was deserted – at least she’d have a little privacy to clean up after losing what little she’d eaten for breakfast. And possibly last night’s dinner.
She rinsed her mouth with a grimace. I’d kill for a toothbrush right about now . She shook some Tic-Tacs into her mouth, the minty burn making her feel human again.
The adrenaline crash had hit five feet from the washroom door with violent trembling and nausea. She was still trembling, but the heaving had passed.
She’d gotten accustomed to controlling her nausea during chemo using both medication and meditation, but this episode had caught her by surprise. There’d been no time to prepare. No time to get her zen going. Just . . . bleh .
I look a fright . Her wig had stayed in place during her tussle with Cindy, but the post-fight worship of the porcelain goddess had knocked it askew. The sleek blond French twist was sliding halfway down her forehead, her real hair a tangled mess that defied every attempt to crimp, curl, or straighten it into submission.
Seven years since chemo and her hair was still not smooth and silky like it had been before. It had been so lush and gorgeous – and stylable – once. It probably never would be again.
Don’t worry! everyone had told her when it had all fallen out. It’ll grow back! And it had, which was the problem. At the beginning, the new growth made her a walking ad for salon perms – Just say no to home perms or this could be you! Over time the curls had become less coarse, but her hair wasn’t the same.
Looking at herself in the mirror no longer brought tears to her eyes, but her hair was still an ongoing source of annoyance. She never knew which way the waves would choose to go. Taming it into anything remotely court appropriate would sap precious minutes from her morning routine. The wigs that had been a necessity during chemo had now become a time-saving, sanity-saving convenience.
And a shield of sorts . She liked being able to choose which Daphne the world got to see. She liked being in control, having had so little of it in years past. She depended on appearing put-together and confident on the outside, even if on the inside she still fought panic attacks.
They were a lot less frequent than they’d once been, but she never knew when one would hit. Sometimes they were triggered by one of those ubiquitous pink ribbons, a stark reminder that her cancer could sneak back. Every now and then an underground parking garage sent her into a mental spin, flinging her back into her fear of confined spaces and childhood terrors.
When panic attacks took root, she relied on the façade, hiding behind it while she wrestled with her fears. The façade normally held firm.
Unless she heard The Phrase. The four little words uttered in a mocking singsong still had the capability of reducing her to rubble inside, so absolutely that the outside façade crumbled, too. She’d trained her mind to block it if she heard someone start to say it. Did you—
Stop . She frowned at herself in the mirror, yanking her mind back to safe ground. Fix your hair, Daphne . Repair the façade . It was a crutch, she knew. But fixing the façade kept her grounded and didn’t hurt anyone, so it was a crutch she embraced.
She repositioned the wig, fixing it firmly into place. Then she pulled her real hair into the wig’s hairline, combing it until real blended with fake, the colors a perfect match. Nobody could tell she wore a wig except for hairdressers with a very good eye.
Or bitches who tried to grab the wig off her head. She scowled. If Cindy Millhouse had touched her hair, she’d have been a dead woman. Guaranteed .
With some measure of control returned, Daphne reapplied her makeup, cursing the TV
‘So it’s what you thought?’ Bo asked. ‘Abduction?’
‘Looks that way.’
Chapter Three
Tuesday, December 3, 10.45 A.M.
D aphne gripped the sides of the sink in the ladies’ room, grateful that it was deserted – at least she’d have a little privacy to clean up after losing what little she’d eaten for breakfast. And possibly last night’s dinner.
She rinsed her mouth with a grimace. I’d kill for a toothbrush right about now . She shook some Tic-Tacs into her mouth, the minty burn making her feel human again.
The adrenaline crash had hit five feet from the washroom door with violent trembling and nausea. She was still trembling, but the heaving had passed.
She’d gotten accustomed to controlling her nausea during chemo using both medication and meditation, but this episode had caught her by surprise. There’d been no time to prepare. No time to get her zen going. Just . . . bleh .
I look a fright . Her wig had stayed in place during her tussle with Cindy, but the post-fight worship of the porcelain goddess had knocked it askew. The sleek blond French twist was sliding halfway down her forehead, her real hair a tangled mess that defied every attempt to crimp, curl, or straighten it into submission.
Seven years since chemo and her hair was still not smooth and silky like it had been before. It had been so lush and gorgeous – and stylable – once. It probably never would be again.
Don’t worry! everyone had told her when it had all fallen out. It’ll grow back! And it had, which was the problem. At the beginning, the new growth made her a walking ad for salon perms – Just say no to home perms or this could be you! Over time the curls had become less coarse, but her hair wasn’t the same.
Looking at herself in the mirror no longer brought tears to her eyes, but her hair was still an ongoing source of annoyance. She never knew which way the waves would choose to go. Taming it into anything remotely court appropriate would sap precious minutes from her morning routine. The wigs that had been a necessity during chemo had now become a time-saving, sanity-saving convenience.
And a shield of sorts . She liked being able to choose which Daphne the world got to see. She liked being in control, having had so little of it in years past. She depended on appearing put-together and confident on the outside, even if on the inside she still fought panic attacks.
They were a lot less frequent than they’d once been, but she never knew when one would hit. Sometimes they were triggered by one of those ubiquitous pink ribbons, a stark reminder that her cancer could sneak back. Every now and then an underground parking garage sent her into a mental spin, flinging her back into her fear of confined spaces and childhood terrors.
When panic attacks took root, she relied on the façade, hiding behind it while she wrestled with her fears. The façade normally held firm.
Unless she heard The Phrase. The four little words uttered in a mocking singsong still had the capability of reducing her to rubble inside, so absolutely that the outside façade crumbled, too. She’d trained her mind to block it if she heard someone start to say it. Did you—
Stop . She frowned at herself in the mirror, yanking her mind back to safe ground. Fix your hair, Daphne . Repair the façade . It was a crutch, she knew. But fixing the façade kept her grounded and didn’t hurt anyone, so it was a crutch she embraced.
She repositioned the wig, fixing it firmly into place. Then she pulled her real hair into the wig’s hairline, combing it until real blended with fake, the colors a perfect match. Nobody could tell she wore a wig except for hairdressers with a very good eye.
Or bitches who tried to grab the wig off her head. She scowled. If Cindy Millhouse had touched her hair, she’d have been a dead woman. Guaranteed .
With some measure of control returned, Daphne reapplied her makeup, cursing the TV
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