by Mary Campisi
Jenny headed for the coffee pot and flicked the On button. For the next hour and a half, she sat in the dark on a kitchen chair with no pad, sipping a steaming Colombian Blend.
So, this was what it felt like to be a parent. No wonder there were so many childless couples. Sleepless nights and Natalie’s quivering, “She’s not.” Worry. Worry. Worry. Jenny sighed and closed her eyes.
* * *
“Shhh. She’s sleeping.”
“You sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure.”
“How can you tell?”
Pause.
“Her eyes are closed and they’re not all scrunched up like yours are when you’re pretending.”
“Oh.”
“And see the way she’s breathing? It’s all even and she’s not holding her breath.”
“Oh.”
“So be quiet and don’t wake her up.”
“Okay.” Pause. “Danielle?”
Sigh. “What?”
“Are we just gonna sit and wait for Aunt Jenny to wake up?”
“Yes.”
“Then are we gonna show her what we did?”
Another sigh. “As soon as she opens her eyes, she’ll know.”
“Oh. Okay.” Long pause. “Danielle?”
“What?”
“Do you think she’ll be mad?”
Very long pause.
“I don’t know.”
“Oh.”
Jenny had been awake since the second whisper. Sleep had come to her sometime in the predawn hours, luring her under, away from thoughts of Natalie and buzzards. Her arms ached from their position as makeshift pillow, her neck felt like it had a permanent crook in it, and both of her legs were stiffer than cardboard. But she didn’t care, didn’t even want to think about the whopper headache she’d carry around from too little sleep.
Right now, all she wanted to do was find out what secret Danielle and Natalie were keeping, and why would Jenny know about it as soon as she opened her eyes? And why did they both think she might be mad once she found out?
“She twitched her nose,” Natalie whispered.
“Shhh.”
“She did. Watch.”
A flutter of warm air brushed over Jenny’s face. Closer, closer. Natalie. Jenny could tell her smell anywhere, an odd mix of graham crackers and baby shampoo. She couldn’t stand it any longer. She inched open her right eye.
“What the—!” Jenny jerked her head up, mouth open, eyes staring.
“Hi, Aunt Jenny,” Natalie said, her voice timid, unsure.
Danielle edged closer to her sister, her small mouth pulled into a straight line. She said nothing.
Jenny stood, shifting her gaze between both girls, unable to believe the two urchins in front of her were the same children she’d seen less than twelve hours ago. Oh, their faces still looked like Danielle and Natalie, maybe a bit flushed from sleep, and they were wearing their usual sleep attire: over-sized UCLA T-shirts she’d sent them last Easter. But that’s where the similarities ended. Jenny hazarded a quick glance at the top of their heads. Good God! Natalie’s black curls were sliced and mangled to within two inches of her scalp, tufts sticking out around her head like a mini Afro. She had no bangs, only pieces of curly fuzz framing her forehead.
Danielle’s hair was chopped to just above her chin, long, short, shorter, long, short, shorter, in some crazy, convoluted pattern. That beautiful sable hair, so like her mother’s—gone! Her bangs were gouged out a good two inches above her eyebrows.
“What happened?”
Danielle shrugged. “We cut our hair.”
That was the understatement of the year. Massacred, mutilated, buzzed, chopped, killed, destroyed, annihilated…those were more adequate descriptions of what these two had done with a pair of scissors and an idea.
“Why?” But Jenny already knew. Of course, she knew, even before she asked the question. Her brain bounced back to yesterday, with Natalie clinging to her under the Montgomerys’ kitchen table, fiercely insisting her mother was not a buzzard.
“I wanted to be like Mommy,” Natalie said. “And her hair’s short.”
Jenny nodded. “Yes, it is,” she said, trying not to stare at the quarter-sized spot of white on the left side of Natalie’s forehead, where she’d done an extra-rambunctious trimming. Right to the scalp.
Danielle cleared her throat and stepped forward. “She was cutting her hair in the bedroom with Mom’s sewing scissors. Big chunks,” she said pointing to her sister’s right side. “When I found her, half her hair was chopped off. I tried to fix it, but I had to keep going shorter and shorter.” Her eyes grew larger, her voice softer. “I tried to fix it, but I couldn’t.”
They were the most words Danielle had spoken to her since the night Jenny told her that her father was dead.
“So she cut hers to look like mine,” Natalie chirped in.
Jenny couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the words, and when she did, she had to fight to get them out. She knelt and ran tentative fingers through the fringes and tufts on their heads. “I think you’re both very brave,” she said, blinking hard. Her voice went from gentle to raspy. “Very, very brave.”
“Then you’re not mad?” This from Natalie.
Jenny shook her head, felt the weight of her own hair scattering around her shoulders, stretching her scalp. She swallowed twice, the feel of saliva pooling in her mouth. “No,” she said. “I’m not mad.”
Natalie let out a big sigh, an enormous sound in such a small body. It was relief mixed with a weariness that should be prohibited in one so young. But it was there, nonetheless, in the whoosh of breath swirling about her, the slump of shoulders leaning forward, pushing her down. “She doesn’t look like a buzzard,” she whispered, meeting Jenny’s gaze.
“No, she doesn’t,” Jenny whispered.
“Now we all look alike.”
“Yes, you do,” Jenny said, running her fingers along the side of Natalie’s face. “And you are both so beautiful. Do you know that, girls?” She opened her arms to them. Natalie rushed forward, flinging herself at Jenny. Danielle looked at her aunt’s outstretched arms, took a step closer, lower lip trembling, eyes bright. Their gazes met, locked. The child took another step, and then another, and Jenny pulled her close, pressing her small body against her own. The tears came, pouring over them in a ritual of forgiveness and renewal.
This was love, Jenny realized. This doing, this being, this was it. She rubbed her cheek against their shorn heads, over the soft and stubby parts, breathing in the faint scent of baby shampoo, letting it roll over her senses, capture her, coax her, fill her with the strength she needed to stand beside her nieces, equal in task and commitment.
They held each other a long time, Danielle and Natalie giving and Jenny taking. When she pulled away, ever so gently, she looked into their faces, saw the courage and innocence, maybe a hint of trepidation, but only a hint, nothing like the boulder Jenny had pushing against her back. By some intuitive nature, without prodding or persuasion, they seemed to know their roles, know what they could do to help their mother get well.
If they could be so brave, so selfless, so loving, so could she.
* * *
Three hours later, Jenny pulled the minivan into the garage, right between the snow blower and the Crazy Coupe. She shut off the ignition and hit the garage door button.
They sat in silence and semidarkness—Jenny, Danielle, and Natalie—with only a sliver of illumination from the small octagonal window on the side-entry door. The minivan’s air-conditioning pinged three times and was done.
“Should we show her now?” Natalie whispered from the back seat.
Jenny turned and smiled, running a hand through her hair. “Might as well.”
“With or without hats?” Danielle asked, pulling the flopping denim hat with the red rose Jenny had bought her over her head. Natalie stuffed a matching one on her head, too.
“Whichever way you like,” Jenny said. “I think you lo
ok great either way.”
“Are you gonna wear yours?” Natalie asked, peeking over the front seat at Jenny’s hat. It was denim, too, more fitted, with a bright orange flower that looked like a cross between a rose and a poppy.
Jenny ran a hand through her hair again, stopped just below her neck. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Okay. I won’t wear mine either.” Natalie yanked off hers and set it beside her.
“Me neither.” Danielle removed hers, placed it in her lap. “At least not yet.”
Jenny took a deep breath, inhaled, held, exhaled, whoosh. “Let’s go find your mom.” How would Grace handle this latest twist in her life? Two daughters trying to ease her pain by chopping their hair with sewing scissors? At least, they looked better, more uniform in a pixyish kind of way, thanks to the help of Amy at Styles Like Us. Jenny touched her neck again, felt the skin, scratched it.
What will Grace say when she sees me?
“Okay, kiddos.” Jenny unfastened her seat belt and opened the door. “Let’s go.”
The girls flicked open their seat belts and bound out of the car. Jenny grabbed the bag filled with an assortment of glitter clips, citrus-colored head bands, red, blue, green, and pink scarves, and fashion barrettes with daisies, butterflies, and turtles; just about every imaginable accessory for the “crop-minded” girl.
Jenny sucked in another breath and followed Danielle. Natalie was already ten steps in front of them, rounding the kitchen corner, heading for the living room.
“Mommy! Mommy!”
Grace’s shriek froze them in place.
“Natalie! What happened?”
“I got my hair cut. Just like you,” Natalie said. There was a long pause. “Don’t you like it?” It was a child’s offering, innocent, heartfelt, yet suddenly unsure.
Pause. “It’s not that I don’t like it,” Grace answered in that warm way that reminded Jenny of when they were kids and Jenny had done something stupid. Again. Grace knew just what to say and how to say it to make Jenny feel better. “It’s just different.”
“Like yours,” Natalie said.
“Like mine.” Grace’s voice faded out.
Danielle and Jenny turned the corner, took two steps down the small hall, and stood at the edge of the living room. Grace was facing them, head bent, leaning over Natalie, one arm wrapped tight around her, the other stroking her head.
“Aunt Jenny said you would like it,” Natalie mumbled into her mother’s shirt.
Grace’s hand stilled. “She did?” There was a sharpness in her words, buried beneath casual inquiry, but Jenny heard it. Did she think Jenny was responsible for Natalie’s new look? Obviously, yes.
“Uh-huh.”
One half-formed word that wasn’t even really a word to make Jenny look like an irresponsible fool. Does Grace really think I’d do that?
“I see.”
“But only because me and Danielle tried to cut it ourselves and we got it all crooked.”
“What?” Grace jerked back, stared at her. Then her gaze shifted, and she saw Jenny and Danielle. Her mouth went slack, inched open.
Jenny touched the back of her neck again, felt bare skin. Again. “Hi, Grace.”
“What happened to your hair?”
Jenny shrugged and forced a laugh. “Short seems to be in.”
Grace rushed to Danielle, ran both hands through her daughter’s short locks and whispered, “Danielle? Why?”
“We wanted to be like you, Mom,” she said, eyes wide, lips unsmiling. “We didn’t want you to be alone.”
“Yeah,” Natalie chirped. “And Jerry Lenning better not open his big mouth either.”
“But your hair,” Grace said, her voice cracking.
“Aunt Jenny said it’ll be a lot easier to wash,” Danielle said.
“And she bought us tons of stuff for our hair,” Natalie added. “Where’s all that stuff, Aunt Jenny?”
Jenny held out the shopping bag. “Here you go.”
“C’mon, Danielle.” Natalie grabbed the bag and ran toward the steps.
“Let’s spread it out on our beds and we’ll pick,” Danielle said, racing after her.
They flew up the stairs, chattering and laughing as only the young can do following a disaster. They didn’t dwell on their misfortune, bemoan a state of unfairness or dissatisfaction. No, they counted their losses, wiped their noses, and moved on.
Why couldn’t grown-ups do the same thing?
“Jenny?” Grace’s voice was tentative, confused.
“When I woke up this morning, they’d already done the deed,” Jenny said. “It was much worse, if you can believe that.” She smiled and shook her head. “Much worse. Natalie had butchered half of her head and Danielle tried to fix it.”
“But why?” Grace ran a hand over her face. “Why would they do such a thing?”
“They told you,” Jenny said. “They wanted to look like you. They’re protecting you, can’t you see that?”
Grace blinked hard, turned away and sank into the recliner, closing her eyes.
“Grace? Are you okay?” Jenny sat on the couch and picked up a pillow, playing with the fringe.
“When is it going to stop, Jenny?” she whispered. “When is the pain going to be done?” Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she didn’t bother to wipe them away. “Every day, I think it will be better, that I’ll forget and move on with my life. But then, something happens that reminds me of,” she stopped, sucked in a breath, and said, “everything. Then it all comes rushing back at me and I can’t stop it. It just keeps coming, all the lies, the deceit. The hate.”
It all came back to Grant. Again. He was still controlling her and he was six feet under and stiffer than a board. “You have to try and let it go, Gracie.”
“I can’t.”
Jenny leaned forward and took her sister’s hand. “You have to try. If you don’t, it’ll destroy you.”
“I hate him.” Her eyes flew open, her gaze turned hard and glassy. “I hate him.”
“I know.” How could she make Grace understand that she had to at least try to start letting go? “Sooner or later, you have to let that hate go. You don’t have to forget what he did, but you have to let it go.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
Maybe it was too soon to talk about forgiveness and letting go, or maybe it was the way Jenny had gone about it. Maybe she should have sugar-coated it. Maybe…maybe. She didn’t know anymore, but there was one thing she did know. Jenny squeezed her sister’s hand and said, “You’re my sister, Gracie. I’d do anything for you.”
“I know. I really do know.”
They sat in silence after that, Jenny, leaning forward, stroking Grace’s fingers, and Grace, resting her head against the back of the recliner, taking slow, even breaths. Her tears had pretty much dried up, leaving the faintest trails on her cheeks.
Right now Jenny felt so much older than thirty-three. It was the worry that did it, she guessed. It pulled a person’s face down, gave them wrinkles, and a permanent frown. No wonder so many parents walked around looking miserable. The damned worry distorted faces, gouged out creases between eyebrows, yanked lips down, clenched and unclenched jaws, stripped away peace, dumped the life from them.
Now Jenny knew what it felt like to know that worry. She touched the skin between her eyebrows. No furrows. Yet. But if things didn’t improve with Grace soon, they’d be deeper than a spring planting bed. She ran her hand down the back of her neck, a deliberate habit in the last few hours. It was only hair, and if it helped get Grace back on track, then it was worth it. Heck, she’d shave it all off if it helped her sister deal with that jerk husband of hers. Correction. Dead jerk husband.
Jenny pressed the spot between her eyebrows again, tried to flatten it out. Worry. It was enough to make a normal person insane.
* * *
Jenny stuffed three wads of bubble gum in her mouth, then she sprayed Simply Lavender body splash on her neck, wrists, forearms, and
legs. That should do it, but just in case, she lifted her shirt and sprayed twice more.
Her mother was here, less than a hundred feet away in Grace’s living room. She’d heard her open the door, yell, “Yoo-hoo, girls, I’m here. Is anybody home?”
Jenny forced herself to leave the bedroom, moved her feet, one in front of the other until she made it down the hall, to the steps, first one, two, three, six, seven…
“Jenny! What in heaven’s name did you do to your hair?!”
…she hadn’t even made it to the landing. “Hi, Mom.” Her chest tightened, squeezed, tightened again. It was starting already and her mother’s suitcase was still in the car. Chew, chew, she told herself. Jenny leaned over, gave her mother a kiss on the cheek and a quick hug.
“It’s so short.”
“I know.”
Virginia Romano shook her head. “You had beautiful hair. I don’t know why you got it in your head to go and cut it all off.”
Jenny shrugged. Had that been a compliment?
“Grandma! Grandma!”
The girls came tearing down the stairs, freshly bathed and dressed in matching yellow-and-white sundresses scattered with daisies. Wide, yellow headbands with a daisy on the side, covered a large section of their heads. Grace had insisted on getting them ready. She wouldn’t even let Jenny help wash their hair, not that it would require great effort, but still.
Hours before Virginia Romano walked in the door, Jenny felt her presence creeping in, permeating the house, the walls, the inhabitants. Grace was trying to be the dutiful daughter, the one in charge, the organizer, calculator, fixer-upper…the one who diminishes her own needs for everyone else.
And once again, Jenny was pushed to the background, a casual piece of landscape, interesting to look at, but ineffectual. And useless. She chewed harder.
“What happened to your hair?!?”
Déjà vu.
“We cut it, Grandma.” Natalie pulled back from her grandmother’s comfortable middle and gave her a toothy smile. “Jenny cut hers, too.”
