At the party I managed to force my fake smile and grab people’s arms to mimic a coherent and present person, someone who actually wanted to be there. My head was mushy with rich polenta when Ellen called me over to pose in front of the camera that was set up in front of a white backdrop. I realized how sick I was when Ellen wrapped her lanky arm around my throat and I almost vomited at the cue of the flash.
The next day, Sunday, I stayed in bed and skipped the shift I volunteered to cover because I knew I couldn’t stand in front of a cash register for eight hours with an entirely congested head. Even a week later after my nose and throat had basically drained, my ear had not. I couldn’t hear a damn thing on the right side. Then a few days after that, the congestion moved to my left.
Casually mentioning my loss of hearing to a classmate, she scared me.
“You have to go to the doctor right away, Hannah.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, that’s not good.”
I hate doctors, not because I think he or she will grab my shoulder in a mere “hello” and linger to stroke a discovered bump, then pivot me to look in my eyes and say, “We need to do some tests.” I just hate the hassle. Plus, I didn’t want to pay a $10 co-pay just to hear, “Okay, well your ears are clogged. You just need to pour Hydrogen Peroxide in them,” which I had already been doing, holding in the liquid and swishing it around until I heard the snap-crackle-pop. It didn’t work. I was going deaf.
Apparently the strip mall across from school had what I needed—not the Mexican restaurant or Thai restaurant or video store—but it was Natural Healing, a massage/botox/ear candling/waxing/tanning make-shift parlor with a front desk, a couple rooms, and before and after photos scattered around to convince you that toxic protein injections will give you a better after shot. (I had recently written a 10-minute play where one character stops another from getting Botox done, but I really knew nothing about the procedure.) Having no idea Botox was common enough to be done in a massage parlor, I was skeptical of the whole place.
But I already made my appointment. I had scanned ear candles and put them in customers’ bags before; but I have never been brave enough to have a stick of fire blazing from the side of my head. I laid on my side where Tanya pointed as she scurried out the door, leaving it open for anyone to see vulnerable me. She returned and left again, each time bringing in supplies. She layered thin cloth over my shoulders and gave me a pillow to hug.
“Don’t move. Don’t fall asleep. In your sleep you move.”
“OK.”
She went to the counter and still hadn’t shut the door.
“Uh, don’t you want to close the door? Uh, are you going to close the door?”
“Yes, yes. Just sit still.”
She was mad at me, I think, for talking.
After dimming the lights and putting on the appropriate unmelodic music, Tanya shut the door and spoke to me. I told her in the lobby that I couldn’t hear out of my left ear. Since my right ear was currently muffled by the pillow I was laying on and my left was, well, clogged, I nodded and said, “Yeah, uh-huh” a lot during the whole process. It didn’t help that she spoke quickly and in a strong Vietnamese accent…and that her face never moved into any readable expressions. I’m thinking she indulged in a little injection every now and again.
With the long candle stuck through a paper plate to catch the wax, she slid the thing into my ear. I thought she said, “Is that OK?” So I replied, “Yeah, uh-huh.” If she wasn’t asking that, then she was just all-around rude.
She lit the wick and the warmth was nearing my face. Every 20 seconds or so, Tanya snipped off a piece of the candle and the fire blazed higher while hot wax was inches from my skin, separated only by flimsy paper. I started falling asleep. But I forced myself to stay awake and still, even with the woman massaging my head with her fingertips. After the first ear, I turned over and was able to watch the whole process for the second one by the shadow on the wall. (During the first ear, I had no idea what she was doing. For all I knew she was casting a spell and lighting a cigarette on my candle.)
When we were done, she opened up the remaining wax to me and looked at my face.
“Oh, more than normal person.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, that a lot. That a lot.”
“Sorry.”
She cleaned the outsides of my ears with a Q-tip and sort of pushed me out the door.
I could hear a little better, but not entirely. The only significant change was throughout the rest of the day, certain smells reminded me of my ears that normally wouldn't: paper plates, lighting a cigarette, and Bath and Body Works.
