I decide to post the photo with #meandmom and #imissyou. After, I hide the photos in the pages of a notebook and stand in front of the mirror, examining my reflection and touching my cheeks, picturing her face as I count our similarities. The texture of our hair, dreaminess in our eyes, a sparse constellation of freckles.
For the first time in my life, it’s like a piece of my heart’s not broken.
An untamed urge electrifies me, and I start digging through my sewing box, looking for my sharpest rhinestone-crusted scissors. I line them up along my forehead, holding my breath as I cut straight across my hair in one bold motion. Ten inches of blond pirouette to the ground. For a split second, I completely freak out. But then I look in the mirror, squealing at the sleek shelf I’ve created, piano keys falling above my eyebrows. I snip-snip-snip until it’s perfect, evening it out, creating layers around my face. The resemblance is uncanny.
When I’m done, my stomach rumbles from the smell of Gran’s famous cornmeal-crusted chicken. I put on my slippers, gravitating toward the sound of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen.
“Smells amazing, Gran.”
“Oh good, you’re up,” she says, facing the cupboards. She’s changed out of her church clothes and into a loose floral sweater and khakis, more comfortable for trimming green beans. “I was just about to—”
She swivels toward me with a cutting board and lets out the tiniest gasp. But, despite my silently chanting Mandy over and over again, I can’t read her face. Confusion? Surprise? Any kind of shock unscrambles, replaced by a friendly Southern smile. “Want to help with dinner?”
I nod slowly, fingers scrunching my hair. “Okay, but what do you think?”
“Well—”
The kitchen timer decides that’s the perfect moment to ding. Frantically, Gran reaches for a potholder as if the potatoes might explode, unless they come off the stove immediately. I roll up my sleeves to help her, draining water from the pot because of her bad wrist. Steam moistens my face.
“Will you make the potato salad?” she asks, handing me a green porcelain bowl. “It’s always so good when you do it.”
My heart falls. “Sure.”
Following a recipe I know by heart, I combine mayonnaise with a tablespoon of mustard, celery salt, and a dash of vinegar, then scrape in chopped celery and onions. I want to say something else, but the moment’s gone. Potatoes have stolen my thunder. I wiggle my nose, partly to stop my bangs from tickling my eyes, partly to know they’re still there. That her silence hasn’t obliterated them.
When the potato salad’s done, I grab our Sunday china with the pink azaleas and start setting the table. Grandpa’s in the living room, reclining on a leather lounger, TV blaring a football game. I wonder if Robert likes to cook and help out in the kitchen or if he’s old-fashioned like Grandpa. I wonder if it got under Mom’s skin the way it gets under mine.
Gran calls us to dinner, and the TV zaps off. As soon as Grandpa walks into the dining room, it’s as if he’s transfixed by the sight of me.
“Do you like it?” I ask. “I cut it myself.”
“Wouldya look at that.” He smiles weakly, eyes darting across the table. “Katie?”
But Gran’s lips are stuck in a delicate line. “Hands,” she says, and the three of us have no choice but to take our seats and lower our heads. “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.”
“Amen,” says Grandpa.
“Amen,” I say, deflating all over again.
The chicken is warm and smells of butter and summertime, a welcome distraction from the dreariness of winter. I choose a crispy golden drumstick, along with a spoonful of potato salad and boiled green beans. Grandpa pours out three glasses of water. I pass him the salt. Gran asks for the pepper. Forks tap against floral bone china. But I can only squeeze the drumstick between my fingers. My favorite meal, ruined because of this absurd hairstyle-induced elephant in the room.
“Still don’t have your appetite?” Gran asks, eyeing my plate.
I slouch in response.
“Is this about your hair?” She puts down her fork. “Well, I’ll be honest, I’m not sure why you did it. Have we reached the point where you don’t need to ask permission anymore? I don’t recall having had that conversation.”
“Jesus, they’re only bangs.”
“Watch it,” Grandpa warns. He shoots a work-with-me-kiddo look.
I tuck my hair behind my ears, some of the layers drifting back, dusting my cheeks. “I wanted to look like her,” I say softly. “I barely know how to, since there’s no photos up. But I do look like her, don’t I? That’s why you’re being all weird?”
“Of course you look like her,” Grandpa says carefully. “But it’s easier not having photos up.”
“Easier how? For who?” I press. “It’s not fair that we pretend she didn’t exist.”
“Not fair?” Gran says, pulverizing the word. “You’re right, Johanna. It isn’t fair. None of this is fair. But this is my home, and I’ll grieve how I choose. And if that means not having Amanda’s picture plastered all over these walls, then so be it. The least you can do is—”
“Katie,” Grandpa interjects, soft but stern.
She blinks as if she’s coming out of a trance and reaches for her fork. The bite she manages is small and obligatory.
It’s her home. It’s mine too, but that doesn’t matter. I’m a guest here, and I shouldn’t have pushed. I clear my throat. “Sorry,” I tell her, rib cage sinking toward my spine. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.” She smiles politely. “Now, eat before your supper gets cold. The potato salad’s nice, by the way. Your best yet.”
My eyes dart toward Grandpa, but his gaze is somewhere else. Somewhere that doesn’t exist. We finish our meal stuck in a silence so thick, you could lay bricks with it. Nobody feels much like the apple pie Gran baked for dessert, but I clear the plates and put the kettle on for tea while they watch the evening news.
After I take Magic out for his evening walk, after I’ve kissed them good night and changed into my PJs, there’s a soft knock on my bedroom door and Grandpa nudges it open. Ever since puberty, he’s treated my bedroom like a minefield—God forbid he trip over a bra or something—so he lingers tentatively in the doorway.
“You finish your homework?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s my girl.”
His eyes drift over to the framed photo of my mother. He wears the hurt all over him. An ink-stain kind of pain that will never go away, no matter how many times he scrubs it.
“JoJo, your hair looks nice,” he says. “You’re the spitting image of Amanda. Gran just wasn’t expecting it, is all. But it’s lovely. Really lovely.”
I don’t want to smile, but I can’t help it. All the way down to my toes and back up to my cheeks. “Thanks.”
“G’night, JoJo.”
“Good night, Grandpa.”
6
“What’s up with your hair?”
I shut my locker door and glance over my shoulder—and then down a few inches—at mousy Annette Martinez, student council president extraordinaire. There’s a pout on her pale face, lips souring as she glares at me from behind a clipboard. I swear, she probably cradles that thing in her arms while she sleeps at night.