Walking Off Heaven's Shore

Intervention

I didn't hear the helicopter over the lawnmower and my iPod—just a big truck rumbling by.

Two women in pink fatigues tackled me, rolled me in spandex, and hauled me to the tiny pink whirlybird on my front lawn.

"You've just won the Lifetime Makeover Sweepstakes, Honey," a sweet voice drawled in my ear as she heaved me in, "clearly just in the nick of time."

Wedged in the tiny space, I could hardly breathe. I yelled, "Let me out of here." I struggled against the bonds, managing only to twist my back.

"It's a long way down, Sweetheart, just like your former life."

The soft notes of Pachelbel's Canon drilled into my brain. Something pressed against my neck, and I faded into pink-tinged darkness.

* * *

Through the pink came pain.

It smelled like a beauty parlor and disinfectant.

I couldn't move a muscle, but every one of them hurt. My hair was wet with chemicals that dripped maddeningly down my temples and into my ears. Swaddled in plastic wrap, with something crusty on my face and bandages over my eyes, I felt someone grinding at my toenails.

A machine beeped behind me.

"She's awake." Soft footsteps padded away on the carpet, not nurse shoes on linoleum.

My bed levered up, and the bandages lifted from my eyes. Struggling to focus, I saw a woman in white add a syringe to the drip that went into my arm. Serenity flowed through my veins.

"Hi, Mom." Rose, my daughter, stood before me, only distinguishable from the pink walls by the deeper shade she wore. I'd never known the depths of her career as an esthetician.

"Don't worry about a thing." She patted my arm, just a tender touch that sent electricity up my arm. "The wedding's next week.

Daddy will be there with her, and I just know you want to look your best."

Next week? I'd been knocked out for a month? My job? My pets? My life? The beeping behind me sped up.

"People think you had a heart attack, and you've been in rehab." Rose's arms spread out to encompass the world. "Everything's been taken care of."

She pulled a manikin into my line of sight. It wore a pencil skirt and cropped jacket over a simple shell top with a pillbox hat and 2-inch heels: all pink—size 8.

I shook my head. I couldn't wear that, even if I could get in it. The drugs had kicked in and I was out again. The last thing I heard was "It'll be perfect."

* * *

Hours or days later, the pink fog lifted. Physical therapists forced me to my feet to learn to walk in heels, controlling the painkillers I was addicted to.

I searched my memories to find a reason for this t*****e, and could only remember that with Rose, everything always had to be perfect—no matter what the cost. That's where I'd gone wrong. I'd tried to give her what she wanted.

Now after surgery, liposuction, and every procedure known to science, I was perfect.

I let the usher bring me down the aisle on the bride's side, smiling and nodding to everyone there, mostly people I'd never met. It was just as well.

I decided to wait until the reception to tell her she was adopted.