“What happened here?” Duffy asked.
It took me one heart-stopping minute to realize she wasn’t referring to the surreal scene that had just unfolded in her backyard; she was pointing at my feet where the white coffee mug had shattered, and the liquid had dripped through the cracks. I hadn’t even noticed when it fell.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, as a cold raindrop slid down the back of my shirt and trailed down my spine.
David bounded up the stairs, eyes bright. His fingers were still curled into claws, and he ducked away from the lavender bath towel Duffy tried to wrap him in.
“Rawr!” he snarled as he stormed across the wet deck. “Rawrrrrrrrr!”
I stooped to sweep a pile of jet-black curls and silky, coppery clumps into the dust pan. The mass of hair looked like an animal of some sort—a newborn puppy maybe, but somehow sinister.
“Thanks for helping out,” Duffy said and set down a laundry basket heaped with dirty towels. “Hot water cycle, please. This is my busiest season, you know. Weddings and weddings and more weddings. And with just one of me…”
She drifted off, examining our surroundings. I followed her disparaging gaze. It was a typical unfinished basement—a gray cement floor with a drain in the center of the room, white-painted brick walls, exposed pipes in the ceiling, two small glass-block windows, a washer, dryer, and utility sink. Winston had dragged her black leather stylist chair from the salon, and they’d repurposed an old mirrored bureau from one of the guest rooms. Duffy had re-used a lot of the old decorations from her French-themed salon, but in this stark space, they didn’t have quite the same effect. A framed photograph of the Eiffel Tower, a stack of fancy hatboxes, a wrought iron fleur-de-lis, an assortment of porcelain poodles, and a wooden plaque with curly, pink letters proclaiming, “Ooh La La!”
It was a far cry from the cute little salon space she’d rented on Division Street. Savon Vivement was the whimsical name she’d given it, after only a cursory look at a French dictionary. (We’d later discovered upon closer investigation that it meant something along the lines of “soap smartly” and gotten a good laugh.) The salon had three stylist chairs—one for Duffy, and two others she rented out—a store-front window, vintage black-and-white tile floors, and pink toile wallpaper. It smelled like rose-water and French-milled soap instead of mildew and dryer sheets.
“I’m happy to help,” I said, returning the broom to its cobwebby corner. “I think it’s a true testament to your talent that your customers will follow you anywhere. The space doesn’t matter. It’s you they want.”
Duffy harrumphed. “I don’t know about that. I lost a lot of my regulars when a Super Shears opened up in Lawrenceville a year ago. How could I compete with ten dollar haircuts?”
“Well, you get what you pay for. I bet they look like ten dollar haircuts,” I said and was rewarded with her pleased little smile. “Besides, you offer a lot more services.” I set the laundry basket on the edge of the washing machine and started dropping in the wrinkled towels one by one. I hadn’t been lying when I’d said I enjoyed helping. Cleaning up after her appointments kept my hands busy and my mind off the worrisome problem of what to do about the lethal dinosaur in our backyard.
It had been raining heavily for the past three days, and the dreary weather and muddy yard had forced us all inside. David had been insufferably crabby, whining for toys he hadn’t played with in months, toys that I had donated to Goodwill prior to our move. When I explained to him that his once beloved corn popper toy was probably being played with by another child right now, he stared at me with an expression of utter betrayal before bursting into loud sobs. I was willing to put up with the irritable mood though, if it meant staying indoors and away from the realm of the T-rex, which it appeared was primarily an outdoor creature. At the moment, Winston was keeping David occupied with a bucket of Lincoln Logs he’d found in the attic. Winston was working on a careful model of a Revolutionary War fort, and David was stacking blocks as high as possible and then gleefully kicking them down.
“I’ve got an hour until Martina Napier comes in for her practice updo,” Duffy said, returning a color mixing bowl to one of the bureau drawers. “Would you like me to give your hair a trim?” She swiveled the chair around to face me.
In twenty-two years, I’d gotten pretty good at dodging Duffy’s attempts to cut or style my hair. At the age of eight, I’d made the mistake of letting her curl my hair, and the Shirley Temple effect had lasted for days. It wasn’t something easily forgotten, especially when Duffy’s own white-blond hair was currently shellacked into a feathery wave not unlike an umbrella cockatoo’s head.
I lifted a few strands of my hair and examined the ends. “Thanks, but I don’t think it’s necessary.”
Duffy squinted hard at me, as though she could detect the split ends from where she was standing. “Just half an inch,” she promised. “Not even half an inch. A quarter of an inch. A light dusting. Your hair will feel and look so much healthier. It’ll look nice and fresh for Carly’s party.”
She was playing to my vanity over my hair and my desire to make a good impression on my old friends. I didn’t stand a chance against these appeals. “Alright.” I sighed and sank down into the chair. “A quarter of an inch, and that’s it.”
Duffy fanned the black cape out, and its butterfly-wing weight draped over me. She tied it in the back and gently gathered my hair in her hand and smoothed it over the cape. “Such beautiful, thick hair,” she said, as she spritzed it with a water bottle and ran her comb through it. “You’re lucky you got your mother’s hair.”
I gritted my teeth and refused to acknowledge her comment. I stared straight ahead at my reflection in the bureau’s mirror. With my damp hair parted down the middle, I looked like a little girl. Duffy pressed her palms on my cheekbones and lightly adjusted my head.
“Are you sitting straight? Chin up.”
For the next few minutes, the only sounds were the churning of the washing machine and the snipping of the scissors. I closed my eyes and let Duffy’s magic descend over me. Because there was something magical about it—sitting in a special chair with your feet off the ground, trusting someone else to transform you into something you hoped to be. But in that quiet, peaceful place, a pair of golden eyes with black reptilian slits rose up and glared at me. I jerked slightly, snapping my eyelids open.
“No moving,” Duffy commanded, gripping my shoulder.
“Do you think it’s weird for a four-year-old to be obsessed with dinosaurs?” I asked.
Duffy’s scissors paused briefly. “No. No, I do not. I think it’s very normal for little boys and girls to fixate on things that interest them. Trains, trucks, construction equipment, outer space, you name it. When your uncle Luke was a boy, he had this thing with earthworms. Collecting them in jars, naming them, trying to get them to race. He got over that phase pretty quick once Winston taught him how to fish. And Edna Franklin was just telling me the other day that her grandson is obsessed with watching a documentary about the Titanic, over and over, up to four times a day! At first, Edna’s daughter was a little worried about autism, but their doctor said not to worry, and that it’s perfectly healthy and he’ll grow out of it.”
I tried to stifle a relieved sigh. At least an obsession with dinosaurs was slightly less ghoulish than an obsession with a sinking ship that had caused the death of a thousand people. But I doubted Edna’s grandson had the Titanic as a playmate either. “But dinosaurs?” I persisted, trying to keep my head still.
“Oh, sure. What fun! I mean, big old scary reptiles that are now extinct and therefore harmless—what’s not to like? It’s a little boy’s dream.”
“I guess I just don’t even know where he picked up his whole fascination,” I said. His remote-controlled dinosaur was made of acid-green plastic and had googly eyes and an inane smile. Part of its repertoire was jerking along to a recording of “The Ants Go Marching.” The T-rex in the yard looked like it had escaped from the Milwauke
e Public Museum. Or even worse, the Jurassic period.
“Well, you said he learned that song he sang for us from his pre-school. He probably picked it up there.” Duffy pulled strands of my hair forward on either side of my face and matched the ends. Apparently dissatisfied, she snipped a few more pieces off.
She was referring to “When Dinosaurs Roamed the Earth.” Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of that? His pre-school had probably done a unit on dinosaurs or read a book about them for storytime. Surely that’s what had led to the appearance of the very realistic King Rex.
“Is it weird for him then to… want a dinosaur for a playmate?” I asked.
Duffy set down the scissors on top of the bureau and stood in front of me. “Do you mean—like an imaginary friend?”
Beneath the lightweight cape, I was sweating. King Rex was David’s imaginary friend? My son had a ruthless dinosaur for a not-so-pretend companion? I could feel the bare backs of my thighs sticking to the leather chair. I couldn’t bring myself to reply, to repeat her casually flippant phrase—an imaginary friend—so I nodded.
“My goodness!” She laughed. “A dinosaur for an imaginary friend. Well, I suppose stranger things have happened. Would you like me to blow dry your hair? We still have about fifteen more minutes until I’m expecting Martina.” When I didn’t respond, she picked up a bottle and began spraying my hair and running her fingers through it. “A lot of kids his age have imaginary friends, you know. I think it’s a sign of intelligence and creativity.” She peered down at me. “You remember, of course, that you had an imaginary friend when you were a girl, right?”
“No,” I murmured, taken aback. I slid my finger under the collar of the cape, which was feeling rather constrictive. I had imperfect memories of my childhood, pieced together by what others had told me and colored by disappointment and frustration. “I don’t remember that.”
“You most certainly did! Up until the point you were getting a little old for that kind of thing, to be quite honest.” Duffy turned on the hairdryer, and as the hot air blasted my head, I tried to bat away all the gnawing gnats of associations that were starting to dive-bomb me. If King Rex was David’s imaginary friend, and I could see King Rex, that meant I could see David’s imagination. I could see as clear as day the things he was inventing in his mind. And apparently he had inherited his over-active imagination from me.
The hairdryer clicked off. “Gorgeous. Just gorgeous,” Duffy said, fluffing out my hair around my face.
I looked in the mirror just long enough to see that she had taken off much more than a quarter of an inch, at least two inches, but it was still quite long, and the bottom looked fuller and healthier overall.
“Looks good,” I said. “Thank you.” I turned to face her and tried to sound offhand. “Now about my imaginary friend. Do you know what it was?”
“Not a dinosaur, that’s for sure!” Duffy brushed off my cape and then untied it. “It was just a girl, I think. A little girl about your age. You had a name for her, I can’t remember what. Maybe Winston will remember.”
“Winston?”
Duffy smiled. “You brought her with you that first summer you stayed with us. Winston got a kick out of playing along. Setting out a plate and cup for her at dinner, that kind of thing.”
“Oh,” I said, remembering the comment she’d made earlier about my childhood eccentricities. I stood up from the beauty chair, glad to be free of its hot sweaty union with my legs. “How did I play with her?”
Duffy grabbed the broom and started sweeping up the slivers of blond hair, which looked like chaffs of wheat on the floor. “You know, I’m really not sure. But if you have questions about that time in your life, you know who you should ask?” She paused significantly. “Your mother.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
“I’m serious. Winston and I were just talking about Kimberly the other night. She usually visits us twice a year, but we haven’t seen her yet. I know she’d love to see David, and he deserves to see his grandma—his real grandma. We could set something up, just a short visit, you wouldn’t have to even be there the whole time if you didn’t want to, and if you did, you could maybe ask her some of your questions.”
“No,” I said forcefully. “And if you bring her here, we’re leaving.”
“Anna, it’s just an idea. No need to get upset. I would never do it without your permission, you know. Just something to think about.”
“My mind was made up a long time ago,” I said and started to climb the stairs. “Thanks for the haircut.”
When the next day dawned lemony bright and cloudless, David rejoiced, and I trembled. Would his imaginary friend re-appear, and would I behold it? Was this bizarre blip becoming a part of our reality, a permanent break from normalcy, and if so, what would happen to us? I envisioned troubling phone calls from teachers, unsuccessful play dates, whispered criticism, and a long line of therapists—some for me, some for David.
The rain had turned Duffy and Winston’s backyard into a giant mud puddle, so we walked to St. Monica’s parking lot, where a hopscotch grid and a four-square court were painted. I tried to teach David both games, but he lost interest quickly, and soon enough, was galloping around the parking lot in his T-rex stance.
King Rex appeared almost immediately this time, my eyes detecting him all at once. He popped out of thin air like a magic trick. I hovered nearby, pacing slightly, too anxious to stand still or sit down. Across the street from the parking lot was an old cemetery, and it was unsettling watching the dinosaur dart to and fro in front of a backdrop of crumbling tombstones and monuments.
My eyes shifted to David, who was wearing his favorite red T-shirt with a pirate ship screen-printed on the front. He looked so small and fragile next to the towering dinosaur, but his face was contorted into an expression of total absorption and joy. His brown eyes glittered as he whirled around the blacktop, chased by a prehistoric being of his own making.
It was awful in both senses of the word: awe-inspiring and terrible. To be given a glimpse into my son’s vivid imagination! I knew that most parents, especially the ones at David’s preschool—the ones who packed oat bran pretzels and gluten-free applesauce for their kids’ snacks and condescendingly tried to give me advice about “establishing a routine” and time-outs and following through on a punishment—those parents would have given their front teeth to be able to see what I could see. Because it was a gift, even I realized that. But it was a fairytale gift, a be-careful-what-you-wish-for gift, the kind you wanted to return almost immediately after it happened.
Even if David’s imaginary friend hadn’t been a fearsome, carnivorous king of the dinosaurs, but something more innocuous, like a talking giraffe, it still would’ve been scary. Because peering into someone else’s mind and imaginary life was downright scary. It wasn’t the type of thing you could ever be prepared for.
I sat down on the warm asphalt cross-legged and rested my elbows on my knees. David ran parallel to the steepled, cream-brick church, King Rex staggering behind him, as though they were playing a bizarre game of Follow the Leader. Despite the heat of the day, I shivered and hugged my knees to my chest.
When had my son become a conjurer of dinosaurs? When had he become his own little person, separate but still so much a part of me?
CHAPTER SIX
I sprayed my hair lightly with a can of Duffy’s extra hold, extra shine hairspray. I set the bottle down amongst the clutter on the small pink-marbled vanity, and a tube of mascara and a bottle of perfume fell into the sink. Gritting my teeth, I retrieved the mascara and perfume and set them on the toilet tank instead. It was my old routine from high school—getting ready in the teeny-tiny guest bathroom that I could hardly turn around in without knocking my elbow on a towel bar or banging my hip on a corner of the vanity. Only this time, I had a whiny four-year-old darting in and out at intervals to boot.
I held up a small mirror, carefully turned around, and examined the back of my head. I’d coiled
my hair at the nape of my neck, like a twist of fresh, golden bread. It looked super sophisticated. With my low-backed, sleeveless turquoise top, having my hair up revealed the smooth, tan, uninterrupted expanse of my narrow back since I wasn’t wearing a bra. I hoped Carly had some cute, single friends.
David raced a matchbox car along the edge of the bathtub, and it promptly fell in, just like the other five or six that were now hidden behind the ruffled, coral-colored shower curtain. “Don’t go, Mommy.” It had been his refrain since seven o’clock, when I’d first started getting ready, but it was starting to sound more panicked and tearful.
I sat down on the toilet-seat lid and slid my feet into black pumps. Since I’d been trying to reassure him for the past hour, my patience was wearing thin. “You’ll hardly know I’m gone, buckaroo. Grandpa and Grandma will tuck you in, and I’ll be back before you wake up. I promise.” I patted his thin shoulder as I stood up.
Examining my reflection in the mirror one more time, I couldn’t help noticing a few of the decorative beads on my top had fallen off. It wasn’t too conspicuous, and there wasn’t time to change anyway, but I felt somehow less pretty, like there was a chip in my otherwise polished veneer.
On instinct, I opened the mirrored cabinet, the one that Duffy never thought to clean out. The top two shelves still housed some essentials from my high school stays: bubble-gum scented lip gloss, a rainbow of nail polish colors, and a half-empty bottle of antacids for my terrible heartburn during pregnancy. The bottom shelf, which was starting to rust, held items that had been there for many more years, and I’d conjectured had once belonged to my mom when she was a teenager. A purple comb and wide-toothed hair pick, a tube of bright red lipstick, and a cough drop tin that housed a folded poem, written in sloppy, boyish handwriting: Kim, I see stars in your eyes, I hear angels when you speak, I taste honey on your lips, I smell strawberries in your hair, I touch heaven when you’re in my arms. I’d thought about throwing her junk away several times, but something always stopped me. Was the poem from the boy who’d knocked her up, my nameless, faceless father? I shut the medicine cabinet with a soft click.
Imaginary Things Page 7
