Life Lost and Found

26: Cinnamon Revenge

Eventually, Madeline stood up. She wandered into the now-empty Great Room. There wasn't much evidence of the wedding left. It felt like it had happened days ago, not hours.

She stood alone in the hall for a few minutes, then went upstairs. She sat at her desk, kicked a tripod and some other junk at her feet. She looked at Rob's desk, which he'd already cleaned out.

Sydney, this all wrong! I shouldn't have a desk and a sign!

Deciding she didn't want to be here after all, she left the room, heading for the door and the park outside.

But on her way to the stairs, she noticed something. The door to Sydney's office was ajar.

She stopped. The mystery office. Rob had never been in there, and she had only caught glimpses.

A moment later, she was at the door. It was only open about three inches, and she couldn't see much. She pushed it open the rest of the way.

Feeling strangely disconnected from herself, she stepped inside. It was spacious. Late-afternoon sunlight illuminated the room. Tall windows fronted by rows of random indoor plants—like an eclectic indoor garden—looked out onto the front drive. There was a long desk, a few chairs for visitors, and a sofa.

Sydney's desk was surprisingly like her own: messy. It was littered with photo prints, design sketches, art supplies, gadgets, photo equipment, and several empty prescription bottles. A slim black briefcase rested on the corner, embossed with the same angel figure Madeline had seen on the wall in Gina's room, except this one was holding a cross instead of a strawberry.

She didn't know what to make of any of this. "I don't even know why I'm here," she heard herself whisper. It felt wrong. Like an invasion of something personal she wasn't meant to see. "In a place I'm not meant to be."

I cannot do this job! I'm sorry, Sydney, I really am, but there's been a huge mistake!

"I shouldn't be here," she whispered, her memories escaping her lips as they bubbled to the surface. "This is a business, Sydney, not a charity."

She looked up. The wall behind the desk was covered with framed pictures. Among them: Sydney embracing a teenaged Gina, a younger Ericka, a woman with blue-streaked hair, several other people she'd never seen before—and her photo. Madeline's photo, the one of the tree. The one Sydney had bought.

She hadn't told anyone this, but that tree was the one her mother had been found leaning against, dead.

Madeline slammed her fist onto the desk and stormed out of the office. In the fading light coming in through the windows, she paced around the upper floor of the Studio, her mind a racing cacophony of fragmented thoughts.

Why can't you submit assignments on time?—Why can't you pay attention?—Heard your mom died, you should join her—Don't you realize the rest of us have to look at you?—Make friends, Madeline!—I know an idiotic student when I see one—Why did you leave without telling me?—Why am I so broken?—Disqualified!—I shouldn't be here—You can't fix this—I'm disappointed—Damn you, Madeline! Go to hell!

Those last words, especially, stung. But the voices would not stop.

Eventually, she found herself in the War Room. A single light was on, and she was staring at her reflection in the mirror. How long had she been here? Did it matter?

"Change or die," she said to her reflection. That was the ultimatum she'd given herself at the cemetery the day of Mark's unannounced departure. "And I did change. I did! Look at me!" she shouted in the mirror.

She had changed from an industrial-strength, commercial-grade loser into a girl who could run six miles, reprimand perverts outside of bars, and had a boyfriend. She had escaped her former self.

But if that were true, then, "Why don't I feel better? Why won't you shut up?" she screamed.

And then she noticed something. She stepped closer to the mirror, her head cocked.

She had looked in plenty of mirrors over the past few months, but this time her reflection was different. Somehow, for the first time in far too long, she could actually see herself. Or could she? It didn't look like her.

She ran a hand down her cheek, smearing makeup on her fingers.

She remembered the girls at the graduation party. How glamorously, tediously identical they had been. All stamped from the same mold, all rolled off the same conveyor belt..."Just like me," she whispered. "When...?"

When had this happened? Where had all this makeup come from? All these clothes and shoes and accessories? Where were her freckles? Where were her novelty t-shirts with the funny quotes? Where was her cinnamon hair? Where was her mother's necklace?

She stood there, staring, asking questions which she didn't have clear answers to. Her hands gripped the counter. One thing was certain: this version of her sucked.

And then she snapped.

Step One: She took off the silver choker Rob had given her and tossed it in the sink. The earrings followed, then the sparkly hair combs, then the bracelets, and the heels.

Step Two: She hastily stripped down to her undershirt. Not caring if she ripped her fancier clothes in the process, she could only think of getting them off and away from her.

Step Three: She tore through the War Room drawers for a bottle of face cleanser. She found one and smeared some on. When the jewelry in the sink got in her way, she threw it to the side. Soon, there was water all over the place, but she had her skin back.

Step Four: She marched out of the room, down the dark hall, to the office on the other side. There, she began digging through her strewn-about crap. Fortunately, the object of her desire wasn't difficult to find, even in the dim light. A hair dye kit. Color: brown with a touch of red, arguably cinnamon. Gina had not-so-subtly left this on her desk a couple of weeks ago. Madeline had been furious at the time and had banished the box to the furthest corner of her bottom-most desk drawer. Now she gripped it in her fist as she hurried back to the shower in the War Room.

Step Whatever It Didn't Matter: Just—do something! Change something! Fix it! Even though you can't.