“A body isn’t like a piece of paper; you can’t put something heavy on it and expect it to straighten out. Give it time to heal,” the nurse tells her. I flinch at the callousness, and try to pretend that I’m not listening. At night, after Kit leaves for work, and I am in charge, I rub her hands with sesame oil. Her skin is dry and brittle like old wood. She closes her eyes and moans as I straighten out her fingers, massaging the joints and tugging on them gently, trying to will them back to normal. It’s not only her body that is different; her spirit is as well. Upbeat Della, a cheerleader, an optimist, a singing in the rain type of girl is gone. Now she is a barren girl. A bent girl. Sullen, silent, her eyes gone from a high gloss to a dull matte. Kit and I whisper about it at night and try to think of ways to bring her back. I arrange for her stylist to come to the house to wash and trim her hair. At first she seems excited, but then after a few hours she changes her mind. It takes Kit to convince her that it would be good for her. On the day that Joe is scheduled to come, Della is even quieter than usual. When I ask if she wants to hold Annie she shakes her head no. Joe rings the bell early and brings Della her usual coffee and a bouquet of bright pink peonies. I hug him and make a face when he asks how she is. “I’ll take care of her Boo Boo,” he says. Joe Bae is straight; we want him to be gay, but he’s very straight. He’s always had a thing for Della, which is why he’s willing to make house calls. Today I am very thankful that he’s straight. “Flirt extra,” I whisper. “See if you can get her to smile.” He winks at me and wanders off to find her. Everything is going well until twenty minutes later when she catches sight of herself in the mirror. She begins to cry and asks Joe to cover the mirror with a towel. She begs Joe to cut her hair short, and when I argue, she asks me to leave. Joe makes a frightened face as I’m closing the door. He doesn’t know what to do. When they emerge an hour later, Della has a pixie cut. I am genuinely afraid for my life. Kit is going to kill me. Joe makes a shut the hell up face at me, and I try to smile and be positive. “It’s so different and fun! Would you like some cottage cheese and pineapple?”
“I don’t care what you think,” Della snaps, when she sees the look on my face. “You didn’t smell it after…”
She’s right. I didn’t. Her mother washed her when she woke up from the coma. She told Kit and I that it took three shampoos to get the smell out of her hair. When Kit gets home from work, he doesn’t miss a beat, smiling and touching the chopped pieces on her head like they’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. Della beams, looking relieved. I hide in the kitchen, washing the same bottles over and over until he comes to find me. I wait for him to be mad, but he’s talking about dinner.
“You’re not angry with me?” I ask. “For letting her chop off all her hair?”
“No.” He lights the burners on the stove, a doughnut held between his lips. “She’s happy. If she’s happy, I’m happy.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay,” he says. “Breakfast for dinner?”
Twice a day I make her smoothies filled with promises. Websites sell me on information: super fruits will brighten your skin; kale will make your hair grow. Flaxseed and Omega-3 will take away your blues. Drinking my magical smoothies is the only thing she does with enthusiasm, sucking the very last drops from her straw, and then almost immediately reaching a hand up to feel her hair. She always looks crestfallen for a minute when she realizes she’s had it chopped off, then she gets that determined look on her face. Annie and I watch it all with optimism.
“She’ll get back to normal soon,” I tell Annie on our afternoon walk. “Then you’ll get to meet your real mom.” Annie gurgles and chews on her foot, her troll hair blowing gently in the wind. I feel guilty for telling Annie that the Della she knows isn’t her real mom. Maybe this is just who Della is now, and that is okay. She’ll love her mom the same no matter what. On our next walk, I lecture Annie about accepting people for who they are, and not trying to make them something you want them to be. Annie cries all the way home, and I tell her not to be selfish.
The only time Della doesn’t look sad is when Kit is home. If I were to be honest, it’s probably the only time I don’t feel sad. Square-shouldered, full of smiles, he comes in carrying flowers, or diapers, or takeout, and the relief is drawn across our faces. When he walks in the door, he kicks off his shoes and bellows, ‘Lucy I’m home!’ in a truly horrible Cuban accent. When Annie hears his voice, her arms and legs start pumping frantically until he comes to pick her up, after which she’s not at all interested in the rest of us. It all makes me tearful—the emotion—the fact that I always feel like I’m intruding on their moments. Also, I’m jealous, because I will never own these moments. Not with Kit and Annie anyway. They’re not mine. I hate the dream that made me think they would be. I’m lost in all of these ugly thoughts until Kit puts on his records. When the music is loud, and his little family—plus one—is greeted, he goes into the kitchen to make dinner, holding Annie in one arm, and stirring with the other. Tonight, I try not to watch him sing to her as he sprinkles something green into a pot and replaces the lid. She’s so small in his arms, so peaceful. I lust for Della’s life.
“Sometimes, when you look at Annie, you look really stressed out,” I tell Kit as we wash the dinner dishes. His eyes are focused on the water, but he grins. I’m not sure why we wash the dishes this way when there’s a dishwasher. Maybe it’s because it gives us a little more time in the kitchen.
“You’re too observant for your own good, you know that?”
“What are you thinking when you look at her like that?”
He hands me a plate without looking at me.
“I don’t know. I worry a lot about how I’m going to protect her.”
“From what? Guys like you?”
He glances at me. “Well, yeah. I know what guys think. I’m researching all-girl schools.”
I cackle as I put the dish in the cabinet. “If you raise her right she won’t be easily wooed,” I tell him.
“Are you easily wooed?” He pulls out the plug and turns to look at me, leaning against the sink.
I shrug. “ I guess not. I’ve only really had one boyfriend, and it took me years to trust him enough to date him.”
“I don’t care what you think,” Della snaps, when she sees the look on my face. “You didn’t smell it after…”
She’s right. I didn’t. Her mother washed her when she woke up from the coma. She told Kit and I that it took three shampoos to get the smell out of her hair. When Kit gets home from work, he doesn’t miss a beat, smiling and touching the chopped pieces on her head like they’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. Della beams, looking relieved. I hide in the kitchen, washing the same bottles over and over until he comes to find me. I wait for him to be mad, but he’s talking about dinner.
“You’re not angry with me?” I ask. “For letting her chop off all her hair?”
“No.” He lights the burners on the stove, a doughnut held between his lips. “She’s happy. If she’s happy, I’m happy.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay,” he says. “Breakfast for dinner?”
Twice a day I make her smoothies filled with promises. Websites sell me on information: super fruits will brighten your skin; kale will make your hair grow. Flaxseed and Omega-3 will take away your blues. Drinking my magical smoothies is the only thing she does with enthusiasm, sucking the very last drops from her straw, and then almost immediately reaching a hand up to feel her hair. She always looks crestfallen for a minute when she realizes she’s had it chopped off, then she gets that determined look on her face. Annie and I watch it all with optimism.
“She’ll get back to normal soon,” I tell Annie on our afternoon walk. “Then you’ll get to meet your real mom.” Annie gurgles and chews on her foot, her troll hair blowing gently in the wind. I feel guilty for telling Annie that the Della she knows isn’t her real mom. Maybe this is just who Della is now, and that is okay. She’ll love her mom the same no matter what. On our next walk, I lecture Annie about accepting people for who they are, and not trying to make them something you want them to be. Annie cries all the way home, and I tell her not to be selfish.
The only time Della doesn’t look sad is when Kit is home. If I were to be honest, it’s probably the only time I don’t feel sad. Square-shouldered, full of smiles, he comes in carrying flowers, or diapers, or takeout, and the relief is drawn across our faces. When he walks in the door, he kicks off his shoes and bellows, ‘Lucy I’m home!’ in a truly horrible Cuban accent. When Annie hears his voice, her arms and legs start pumping frantically until he comes to pick her up, after which she’s not at all interested in the rest of us. It all makes me tearful—the emotion—the fact that I always feel like I’m intruding on their moments. Also, I’m jealous, because I will never own these moments. Not with Kit and Annie anyway. They’re not mine. I hate the dream that made me think they would be. I’m lost in all of these ugly thoughts until Kit puts on his records. When the music is loud, and his little family—plus one—is greeted, he goes into the kitchen to make dinner, holding Annie in one arm, and stirring with the other. Tonight, I try not to watch him sing to her as he sprinkles something green into a pot and replaces the lid. She’s so small in his arms, so peaceful. I lust for Della’s life.
“Sometimes, when you look at Annie, you look really stressed out,” I tell Kit as we wash the dinner dishes. His eyes are focused on the water, but he grins. I’m not sure why we wash the dishes this way when there’s a dishwasher. Maybe it’s because it gives us a little more time in the kitchen.
“You’re too observant for your own good, you know that?”
“What are you thinking when you look at her like that?”
He hands me a plate without looking at me.
“I don’t know. I worry a lot about how I’m going to protect her.”
“From what? Guys like you?”
He glances at me. “Well, yeah. I know what guys think. I’m researching all-girl schools.”
I cackle as I put the dish in the cabinet. “If you raise her right she won’t be easily wooed,” I tell him.
“Are you easily wooed?” He pulls out the plug and turns to look at me, leaning against the sink.
I shrug. “ I guess not. I’ve only really had one boyfriend, and it took me years to trust him enough to date him.”
