a black suitcase standing next to the toilet, but near the sink was a box of hair dye, a magazine showcasing all different types of hairstyles and a silver pair of scissors one would find at a hair salon. There was also a makeup kit—not the usual kind a woman would use daily, but more the type one would use to cover her face if going to a costume party or dressing up for Halloween. None of these things came as surprise to Deborah. She expected to find them there.
Deborah pulled the suitcase on top of the toilet, opened it, and found clothes including underwear and bland-colored T-shirts, jeans, capris, and pants that would hide her curves and her femininity.
She pulled off her T-shirt and hung a towel around her shoulders. Grabbing the box of hair dye, she tore it open and began to make herself into a different person.
* * * *
She cried again in the shower. Deep, hacking sobs shook her body as she thought about all she'd left behind. Genevieve's name echoed in her mind, and even though there was no way she could return to her, she still ached to hear her voice one last time. But she couldn't do that. If she did, she most likely end up dead in the desert with a bullet in her head like the old-time mobsters did to their victims in the mid-twentieth century as Vegas was being built.
After Deborah shed her tears and washed out the dye from her hair, she got out of the shower and dried herself off with the towel. Wiping the condensation away from the bathroom mirror, she stared back at the reflection of a woman with jutting cheekbones and average run-of-the-mill brown eyes. But instead of her former highlighted blond streaks, now her hair was pure black. She was lucky her skin tone wasn't pale. She'd look very strange with her new hair color then.
She still wasn't done with her hair by a long shot. Flipping through the magazine to the section where the short hairstyles were located, she searched for the haircut she needed. After four years of never cutting anything more than an inch, she lifted up a good six inches off her shoulders and began cutting away. This time her eyes were bone dry as her hair fell into the sink and on the floor.
When all was said and done and her hair stood up in spikes only a few inches away from her head, she put in blue color contacts to complete the disguise. A total stranger stared back at her.
Gone was Deborah Murnay and in her place was a new woman— a woman reborn.
Chapter Seven
“That'll be fifteen dollars, sir,” the taxi driver said to his male passenger sitting in the back seat.
The scruffy young man, who looked a little past college age wearing dark jeans, a bulky gray T-shirt, and a jean jacket even in the ninety-degree heat, dug into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. He mumbled a thank you and grabbed his suitcase as he got out of the car.
The taxi drove away, leaving Deborah in front of the facility where her mother had lived for the past year and a half. Rolling back her shoulders, Deborah lengthened her stride to walk more like a man and went through the automatic sliding doors.
Her cheek itched and she almost went to scratch it, stopping at the last moment. Along with her eyes drying out from the contact lenses she wore, the bronze makeup on her face, neck, hands, and arms made her itchy. She swore she could feel a rash forming where the fake whiskers of hair or scruff she had pasted on her cheeks and chin were flaking.
But she had no choice in the matter. If she didn't go so far as to wear a disguise, she wouldn't be able to see her mother. She couldn't come as her daughter. So she came as her son Wade Whilby instead.
Deborah walked up to the front desk where a rounded, older-looking nurse with gray hair hung up the phone and smiled at her. Deborah cleared her throat deeply.
“Good morning. I'm here to see my mother, Cora Whilby. I should be on the list of approved visitors,” Deborah said in a raspy voice and held her breath, waiting for the nurse to
Deborah pulled the suitcase on top of the toilet, opened it, and found clothes including underwear and bland-colored T-shirts, jeans, capris, and pants that would hide her curves and her femininity.
She pulled off her T-shirt and hung a towel around her shoulders. Grabbing the box of hair dye, she tore it open and began to make herself into a different person.
* * * *
She cried again in the shower. Deep, hacking sobs shook her body as she thought about all she'd left behind. Genevieve's name echoed in her mind, and even though there was no way she could return to her, she still ached to hear her voice one last time. But she couldn't do that. If she did, she most likely end up dead in the desert with a bullet in her head like the old-time mobsters did to their victims in the mid-twentieth century as Vegas was being built.
After Deborah shed her tears and washed out the dye from her hair, she got out of the shower and dried herself off with the towel. Wiping the condensation away from the bathroom mirror, she stared back at the reflection of a woman with jutting cheekbones and average run-of-the-mill brown eyes. But instead of her former highlighted blond streaks, now her hair was pure black. She was lucky her skin tone wasn't pale. She'd look very strange with her new hair color then.
She still wasn't done with her hair by a long shot. Flipping through the magazine to the section where the short hairstyles were located, she searched for the haircut she needed. After four years of never cutting anything more than an inch, she lifted up a good six inches off her shoulders and began cutting away. This time her eyes were bone dry as her hair fell into the sink and on the floor.
When all was said and done and her hair stood up in spikes only a few inches away from her head, she put in blue color contacts to complete the disguise. A total stranger stared back at her.
Gone was Deborah Murnay and in her place was a new woman— a woman reborn.
Chapter Seven
“That'll be fifteen dollars, sir,” the taxi driver said to his male passenger sitting in the back seat.
The scruffy young man, who looked a little past college age wearing dark jeans, a bulky gray T-shirt, and a jean jacket even in the ninety-degree heat, dug into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. He mumbled a thank you and grabbed his suitcase as he got out of the car.
The taxi drove away, leaving Deborah in front of the facility where her mother had lived for the past year and a half. Rolling back her shoulders, Deborah lengthened her stride to walk more like a man and went through the automatic sliding doors.
Her cheek itched and she almost went to scratch it, stopping at the last moment. Along with her eyes drying out from the contact lenses she wore, the bronze makeup on her face, neck, hands, and arms made her itchy. She swore she could feel a rash forming where the fake whiskers of hair or scruff she had pasted on her cheeks and chin were flaking.
But she had no choice in the matter. If she didn't go so far as to wear a disguise, she wouldn't be able to see her mother. She couldn't come as her daughter. So she came as her son Wade Whilby instead.
Deborah walked up to the front desk where a rounded, older-looking nurse with gray hair hung up the phone and smiled at her. Deborah cleared her throat deeply.
“Good morning. I'm here to see my mother, Cora Whilby. I should be on the list of approved visitors,” Deborah said in a raspy voice and held her breath, waiting for the nurse to
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