“Well, we must leave a few inches on it, darling.” He directs my face back toward the mirror. “We don’t want Sigourney Weaver in Aliens, do we? No GI Janes allowed in this salon. We’ll give you a side-swept fringe, very sophisticated, very now. It’ll suit you, I think, show off those high cheekbones. What do you think?”
I don’t care about my cheekbones. I just want it off.
“Actually, how about we just do this?” I take the scissors from his hand, cut my ponytail, and then hand them both back to him.
He gasps. But it sounds more like a squeak. “Or we could do that. A…bob.”
American man’s mouth hangs open at the sight of my hairdresser with a large pair of scissors and five inches of hair dangling from his hand. He turns to his stylist and grabs the scissors before he makes another cut. “Do not”—he points—“do that to me!”
Mullet man sighs and rolls his eyes. “No, of course not, sir.”
The American starts scratching his left arm again. “I must have got a bite.” He tries to roll up his shirtsleeve, and I squirm in my seat, trying to get a look at his arm. I can’t help myself.
“Could you please sit still?”
“Could you please sit still?”
The hairdressers speak in perfect unison. They look to one another and laugh.
“Something funny in the air today,” one of them comments, and the American and I look at each other. Funny, indeed.
My hairdresser places a finger under my chin and tips my face back to the center. He hands me my ponytail.
“Souvenir.”
“I don’t want it.” I refuse to take my hair in my hands. Every inch of that hair was from a moment that has now gone. Thoughts, wishes, hopes, desires, dreams that are no longer. I want a new start. A new head of hair.
He begins to snip it into style now, and as each strand falls, I watch it drift to the ground. My head feels so much lighter.
The hair that grew the day we bought the crib. Snip.
The hair that grew the day we decided on the name. Snip.
The hair that grew the day we announced our news to friends and family. Snip.
The day of the first scan. The day I found out I was pregnant. The day my baby was conceived. Snip. Snip. Snip.
The more recent memories will remain at the root for a little while longer. I will have to wait for them to grow out until I can be rid of them too, and then all traces will be gone, and I will move on for good.
The American man joins me at the register as I’m paying.
“You forgot your cactus.” He hands it to me.
Our fingers brush, and my body zings from head to toe. “Thank you.”
“That suits you,” he comments, studying me.
I go to tuck some hair behind my ear self-consciously, but there’s nothing there. I feel lighter, light-headed, delighted with giddiness, giddy with delight.
“So does yours.”
“Thank you.”
He opens the door for me.
“Thank you.” I step outside.
“You’re far too polite,” he tells me.
“Thank you.” I smile. “So are you.”
“Thank you.” He nods.
We laugh. We both gaze at our waiting taxis and look back at each other curiously. He gives me a smile. I feel like I should stay in this place and not move. I feel like moving away from him is the wrong way, that everything in me is being pulled toward him.
“Do you want to take the first taxi or the second?” he asks. “My driver won’t stop talking.”
I study both taxis and see Dad in the second, leaning forward and talking to the driver.
“I’ll take the first. My dad won’t stop talking either.”
He studies the second taxi, where Dad has now pushed his face up against the window, staring at me as though I’m an apparition.
“The second taxi it is, then,” the American says and walks to his taxi, glancing back twice.
“Hey,” I protest and watch him get in his car, entranced.
I go to my own taxi, and we both pull our doors closed at the same time. The taxi driver and Dad look at me like they’ve seen a ghost.
“What?” My heart beats wildly. “What happened?”
“Your hair,” Dad simply says, his face aghast. “You’re like a boy.”
Chapter 8
AS THE TAXI GETS CLOSER to my home in Phisboro, my stomach knots tighter.
“That was funny how the man in front kept his taxi waiting too, Gracie, wasn’t it?”
“Joyce. And yes,” I reply, my leg bouncing with nerves.
“Is that what people do now when they get their hairs cut?”
“Do what, Dad?”
“Leave taxis waiting outside for them.”
“I don’t know.”
He shuffles his bum to the edge of the seat and pulls himself closer to the taxi driver. “I say, Jack, is that what people do when they go to the barbers now?”
“What’s that?”
“Do they leave their taxis outside waiting for them?”
“I’ve never been asked to do it before,” the driver explains politely.
Dad sits back, satisfied. “That’s what I thought, Gracie.”
“It’s Joyce,” I snap.
“It’s a coincidence. And you know what they say about coincidences?”
“Yep.” We turn the corner onto my street, and my stomach flips. “That there’s no such thing as a coincidence,” Dad finishes. “Indeedy no,” he says to himself. “No such thing. Oh, there’s Patrick.” He waves. “I hope he doesn’t wave back.” He watches his friend from the Monday Club walking with two hands on his hips. “And David out with the dog.” He waves again, although David is stopping to allow his dog to poop and is looking the other way. I get the feeling Dad feels rather grand in a taxi. It’s rare he’s in one, the expense being too much and everywhere he needs to go being within walking distance or a short bus ride away.
“Home, sweet home,” he announces as we reach my house. “How much do I owe you, Jack?” He leans forward again. He takes two five-euro notes out of his pocket.
“The bad news, I’m afraid…twenty euro, please.”
“What?” Dad looks up in shock.
“I’ll pay, Dad, put your money away.” I give the driver twenty-five and tell him to keep the change. Dad looks at me like I’ve just taken a pint out of his hand and poured it down the drain.
Conor and I have lived in the red-brick terraced house in Phisboro since our wedding ten years ago. The houses have been here since the 1940s, and over the years we’ve pumped our money into modernizing it. It’s finally how we want it, or it was until this week. A black railing encloses a small patch of a front garden where my mother planted rosebushes. Dad lives in an identical house two streets away, the house I grew up in. Though we’re never done growing up, and when I return to it, I regress to my youth.
My front door opens just as the taxi drives off. Dad’s neighbor Fran smiles at me from my own doorstep. She looks at us awkwardly, failing to make eye contact with me. I’ll have to get used to this.
“Oh, your hair!” she says first, then gathers herself. “I’m sorry, love, I meant to be out of here by the time you got home.” She opens the door fully and pulls a checked rolling suitcase behind her. She is wearing a single rubber glove on her right hand.
Dad looks nervous and avoids my eye.
“What were you doing, Fran? How on earth did you get into my house?” I try to be as polite as I can, but the sight of someone in my house without my permission both surprises and infuriates me.
She pinks and looks to Dad, who looks at her hand and coughs. She looks down, laughs nervously, and pulls off the glove. “Oh, your dad gave me a key. I thought that…well, I put down a nice rug in the hallway for you. I hope you like it.”
I stare at her in utter confusion.
“Never mind, I’ll be off now.” She walks by me, grabs my arm, and squeezes hard but still refuses to l
ook at me. “Take care of yourself, love.” She walks on down the road, dragging her suitcase behind her, her brown tights in rolls around her thick ankles.
“Dad”—I look at him angrily—“what the hell is this?” I push into the house, looking at the disgusting dusty rug on my beige carpet. “Why did you give a near stranger my house keys so she could come in and leave a rug? I am not a charity!”
He takes off his cap and scrunches it in his hands. “She’s not a stranger, love. She’s known you since the day we brought you home from the hospital—”
Wrong story to tell at this moment, and he knows it.
“I don’t care!” I splutter. “It’s my house, not yours! You can’t just do that. I hate this ugly piece-of-shit rug!” I pick it up from one side and drag it outside, then slam the door shut. I’m fuming, and I look at Dad to shout at him again. He is pale and shaken and is looking at the floor sadly. My eyes follow his.
Various shades of faded brown stains, like red wine, splatter the beige carpet. It has been cleaned in some places, but most of the carpet hairs still give away that something once lay there. My blood.
I put my head in my hands.
Dad’s voice is quiet, injured. “I thought it would be best for you to come home with that gone.”
“Oh, Dad.”
“Fran has been here every day now and has tried different things on it. It was me that suggested the rug,” he adds in a smaller voice. “You can’t blame her for that.”
I despise myself.
“I know you like all nice new matching things in your house”—he looks around—“but Fran or I wouldn’t have the likes of that.”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry I shouted at you. You’ve been nothing but helpful this week. I’ll…I’ll call around to Fran soon and thank her properly.”
“Right.” He nods. “So I guess I’ll leave you at it. I’ll bring the rug back to Fran. I don’t want any of the neighbors seeing it outside and telling her.”
“No, I’ll put it back where it was. It’s too heavy for you to carry anyway. I’ll keep it for the time being and return it to her soon.” I open the front door and drag it back into the house with more respect, laying it down so that it once more hides the scene where I lost my baby.
“I’m so sorry, Dad.”
“Don’t worry.” He seesaws up to me and pats my shoulder. “You’re having a hard time, that I know. Remember I’m only round the corner if you need me for anything.”
With a flick of his wrist, his tweed cap is on his head, and I watch him seesaw down the road. The movement is familiar and comforting, like the motion of the sea. I wait until he disappears, and then I close the door.
Alone. Silence. Just me and the house. Life continues as though nothing has happened.
It seems as though the nursery upstairs vibrates through the walls and floor. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Like a heart, it’s trying to push out and send blood flowing down the stairs and through the hallways to reach every little nook and cranny. I walk away from the stairs, the scene of the crime, and wander around the rooms. I place the cactus on the kitchen windowsill. It appears everything is exactly as it was, though on further inspection I see that Fran has tidied around. The cup of tea I was drinking is gone from the coffee table in the living room. The galley kitchen hums with the sound of the dishwasher Fran has set. The taps and draining boards glisten, the surfaces are gleaming.
Upstairs the nursery still throbs.
I notice the red light on the answering machine in the hall is flashing and walk over to it. Four messages. I flick through the list of missed calls and recognize friends’ numbers. I turn away from the answering machine, not able to listen to their condolences quite yet. Then I freeze. I go back. I flick through the list again. There it is. Monday evening, 7:10 p.m. Again at 7:12 p.m. My second chance to take the call. The call for which I had foolishly rushed down the stairs and sacrificed my child’s life.
They have left a message. With shaking fingers, I press play.
“Hello, this is Xtra-vision, Phisboro, calling about The Muppet Christmas Carol DVD. It says in our system that it’s one week late. We’d appreciate it if you could return it as soon as possible, please.”
I inhale sharply. Tears spring in my eyes. What did I expect? A phone call worthy of losing my baby? Something so urgent that I was right to rush for it? Would that somehow warrant my loss?
My entire body trembles with rage and shock. Breathing in shakily, I make my way into the living room. I look straight ahead to the DVD player. On top is the DVD I rented while babysitting my goddaughter. I reach for the DVD and hold it tightly in my hands, squeezing it as though I can stop the life in it. Then I throw it hard across the room. It knocks our collection of photographs off the top of the piano, cracking the glass on our wedding photo, chipping the silver coating of another.
I open my mouth. And I scream. I scream at the top of my lungs, the loudest I can possibly go. It’s deep and low and filled with anguish. I scream again and hold it for as long as I can. One scream after another from the pit of my stomach, from the depths of my heart. I let out deep howls that border on laughter, that are laced with frustration. I scream and I scream until I am out of breath and my throat burns.
Upstairs, the nursery continues to vibrate. Thump-thump, thump-thump. It beckons me, the heart of my home beating wildly. I go to the staircase, step over the rug and onto the stairs. I grab the banister, feeling too weak even to lift my legs. I pull myself upstairs. The thumping gets louder and louder with every step until I reach the top and face the nursery door. It stops throbbing. All is still now.
I trace a finger down the closed door, press my cheek to it, willing all that happened not to be so. I reach for the handle and open the door.
A half-painted wall of Buttercup Dream greets me. Soft pastels. Sweet smells. A crib with a mobile of little yellow ducks dangling above. A toy box decorated with giant letters of the alphabet. On a little rail hang two baby onesies. Little booties on a dresser.
A bunny rabbit sits up enthusiastically inside the crib. He smiles stupidly at me. I take my shoes off and step barefoot onto the soft shag-pile carpet, try to root myself in this world. I close the door behind me. There’s not a sound. I pick up the rabbit and carry it around the room with me while I run my hands over the shiny new furniture, clothes, and toys. I open a music box and watch as the little mouse inside begins to circle round and round after a piece of cheese to a mesmerizing tinkling sound.
“I’m sorry, my baby,” I whisper, and my words catch in my throat. “I’m so, so sorry.”
I lower myself to the soft floor, pull my legs close to me, and hug the blissfully unaware bunny. I look again to the little mouse whose very being revolves around eternally chasing a piece of cheese he will never ever reach, let alone eat.
I slam the box shut, and the music stops. I am left in the silence.
Chapter 9
I CAN’T FIND ANY FOOD in the apartment; we’re going to have to get take-out,” Justin’s sister-in-law, Doris, calls into the living room as she roots through the kitchen cabinets.
“So maybe you know the woman,” Justin’s younger brother, Al, says as he sits down on the plastic garden furniture chair in Justin’s half-furnished living room.
“No, you see, that’s what I’m trying to explain. It’s like I know her, but at the same time, I didn’t know her at all.”
“You recognized her.”
“Yes. Well, no.” Kind of.
“And you don’t know her name.”
“No. I definitely don’t know her name.”
“Hey, anyone out there or am I talking to myself?” Doris interrupts again. “I said there’s no food here, so we’re going to have to get take-out.”
“Yeah, sure, honey,” Al calls automatically. “Maybe she’s a student of yours, or she went to one of your talks. You usually remember people you give talks to?”
“There are honestly hundre
ds of people at a time.” Justin shrugs. “And they mostly sit in darkness.”
“So that’s a no, then.” Al rubs his chin.
“Actually, forget the take-out,” Doris calls. “You don’t have any plates or cutlery—we’re going to have to eat out.”
“And just let me get this clear, Al. When I say ‘recognize,’ I don’t mean I actually knew her face.”
Al frowns.
“I just got a feeling. Like she was familiar.” Yeah, that’s it, she was familiar.
“Maybe she just looked like someone you know.”
Maybe.
“Hey, is anybody listening to me?” Doris interrupts them and stands at the living-room door with her inch-long leopard-print nails on her skintight leather-trouser-clad hips. Thirty-five-year-old fast-talking Italian-American Doris has been married to Al for the past ten years and is regarded by Justin as a lovable but annoying younger sister. There’s not an ounce of fat on her bones, and everything she wears looks like it comes out of the closet of Grease’s Sandy, post-makeover.
“Yes, sure, honey,” Al says again, not taking his eyes off Justin. “Maybe it was that déjà vu thingy.”
“Yes!” Justin clicks his fingers. “Or perhaps vécu or senti. Or visité.”
“What the heck is that?” Al asks. Doris pulls over a cardboard box filled with books to sit on and joins them.
“Déjà vu is French for ‘already seen,’ and it describes the experience of feeling that one has witnessed or experienced a new situation previously,” Justin explains. “The term was coined by a French psychic researcher named Emile Boirac, in an essay that he wrote while at the University of Chicago.”
“Go Maroons!” Al raises his beer in the air and then gulps it down.
Doris looks at him with disdain. “Please continue, Justin.”
“Well, the experience of déjà vu is usually accompanied by a compelling sense of familiarity, and also a sense of eeriness or strangeness. The experience is most frequently attributed to a dream, although in some cases there is a firm sense that the experience genuinely happened in the past. Déjà vu has been described as remembering the future.”