Safe with Me: A Novel

by Hatvany, Amy

“Liver,” I whisper. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be different.

  “Do you have like, a gnarly scar?” Again, I nod, pressing my lips together. My scar looks like an upside-down T, starting in between my poor excuses for breasts and ending in a line that spans my entire abdomen, just above my belly button. Even after a year, it’s thick and red and still a little bit painful if I twist too far in the wrong direction. I try not to look at it in the mirror.

  “Awesome,” he says, and I let out a startled laugh. He jams one hand into his front pocket and swishes his hair out of his eyes again. “What’s so funny?”

  I shrug, then shut my locker. “I guess I don’t really think of my scar as ‘awesome.’ ”

  “Dude, why not?” he says. “You’re like, a Franken-babe.”

  I stare at him, wondering if he has any idea just how shitty it is to call a girl anything related to a monster. My eyes fill and I drop my gaze to the floor before pushing past him and speed-walking down the hall. I will not let him see me cry.

  “Hey!” Noah calls out. “I meant that as a compliment!”

  I pretend not to hear him as I shove through the mass of students gathered at the front doors. I see my mother’s midnight blue Mercedes in the parking lot, and I rush down the stairs. Once inside the car, I drop my backpack to the floor between my legs and let the tears come. I curl my shoulders forward and put my hands over my face.

  “Maddie, sweetie . . . what’s wrong?” Mom asks, reaching over to rub my back. “Tell me.”

  I shake my head, as tears and snot run down. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath the entire day, waiting for that moment when someone would make me cry. I knew going to this school was going to suck. I knew there was no way I’d fit in.

  “Oh, baby,” Mom says. “What can I do? Can I help?”

  “He called me a monster,” I sob, dropping my hands to my lap and leaning over the console to rest my head on her shoulder. “He asked about my scar.” I don’t know how to explain just how exposed Noah’s words made me feel. I can imagine the nickname catching on, how I’ll have to endure it being launched at me as I walk down the hall, listening to the laughter and whispers behind my back.

  “Who did?” Mom wraps her arm around my shoulders and squeezes me to her.

  “Nobody. A boy. A stupid asshole boy.” She doesn’t scold me for my language, so I continue. “And a girl said my hair looks bad. She seemed all nice at first and then she totally insulted me!” I pause to take a shuddering breath as my tears begin to subside. “I’m so ugly, Mom! I hate it! Can’t I just stay home and have a tutor again? Please? Can’t you talk to Dad and make him understand?”

  “You are not ugly,” Mom murmurs against my head, apparently choosing to ignore what I said about Dad. “Your hair is a little thin, that’s all. It just needs the right cut and maybe some color.” She pulls away and reaches into the console to grab a stack of junk mail that has been sitting in there for god only knows how long. My mom is organized about many things, but for some reason, her car is always a mess.

  “What’re you doing?” I ask with a sniffle.

  “Looking for something.” She rifles through the various envelopes and flyers until she comes up with a pale yellow card with an image of a pair of black scissors at the top. It looks vaguely familiar to me. “We got this a few weeks ago, remember?” she says. “Announcing a new salon opening? You liked the name . . . Ciseaux.” She pauses. “We’ll go there right now and get you all fixed up, okay?” She hands me the card, and I take it, noticing that she has tears in her eyes, too.

  I know she is latching on to the only thing she can think of to help me feel better, so I nod, even though I know that having shiny hair isn’t going to magically change anything. I’ll still be the girl who hates how she looks.

  I’ll still be the girl with the scar.

  Hannah

  The front door of the salon opens just as Hannah is finishing up with Julie Stein, a woman who attended the Ciseaux grand opening party and has been coming twice a week for a blow-out ever since.

  Veronica, sitting at the reception desk waiting for her five o’clock, greets the woman and teenage girl who enter. “Welcome to Ciseaux,” Veronica says with a big smile, as Hannah trained her to do. They have moved past the nose ring incident with Sophie, and so far, Hannah is happy with Veronica’s performance and her attire. “Whom are you here to see?”

  The woman wraps her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “We don’t actually have an appointment.” She gives Veronica a cautious smile. “Do you take walk-ins? My daughter needs a cut and color.”

  “Let me check the schedule,” Veronica says, quickly pulling up the program that manages the stylists’ calendars on the computer. She peers at the screen, then spins her seat around to face the stations. “Peter? It looks like you’re open.”

  Peter frowns as he pauses from sweeping up around his chair. “Sorry, doll. I would, but Paul and I are having dinner with my mother at six.”

  “You definitely don’t want to miss that,” the woman says and chuckles, but the sound is hollow, similar to the way Hannah has learned to force herself to laugh over the past year. When you laugh, people assume you’re okay. You’re smiling, so everything’s fine . . . right? They don’t notice the twitch at the corner of your mouth or the quiver of your chin. They don’t see that the smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. It’s easy to miss the small details that show how a person is really feeling, to gloss right over them and move on with your day. It’s a phenomenon Hannah counts on, actually, so she can avoid too much discussion about her grief.

  “I have time,” she volunteers, hanging her dryer on the hook on the wall next to her station. Julie was her last appointment, but Hannah prefers to work as late as possible, so this unexpected walk-in is a good thing. Upstairs in her apartment, nights spent alone are the hardest—the silence confronts her with weapons she doesn’t know how to handle. Most of the time, after her last client, she’ll go for her second run of the day, the first being in the morning before the salon opens. After she returns, she’ll check in with Sophie to see how sales are going downtown and how her latest lover is. She’ll clean the apartment, do laundry, warm up a frozen dinner, then eventually fall asleep with the TV on. When she can’t sleep, she takes one of the Xanax her doctor prescribed.

  Now, though, she smiles at the woman and her daughter, trying to ignore the biting grip in her stomach as she is reminded, once again, of the things she will never do with Emily. “I’ll be right with you. Please, have a seat.”

  A look of immense gratitude washes over the woman’s face, and Hannah wonders what could be so important about a cut and color for her daughter. She gives Julie the hand mirror and spins her around so she can check out the back of her now-smooth, shiny jet-black locks. “Good?” Hannah asks.

  “Beautiful,” Julie says, peering at her reflection. “You do the best work. I’m sending all my girlfriends here. Have they called?”

  “A few, yes. I appreciate it so much.”

  “Word of mouth is the best advertisement, right?” Julie says as Hannah releases the cape from Julie’s neck and asks Veronica to ring her up.

  “Make sure you give her ten percent off for the referrals,” Hannah says, then turns her attention to the woman and her daughter, beckoning them toward her with a wave of her hand and a smile. “Come on back.”

  They rise from the couch in concert, walk around the reception desk, and make their way to Hannah’s station. “Have a seat,” Hannah says to the daughter, who looks to be about fourteen. She has a slight build like her mother, but her torso is thicker—not fat, exactly, just more rounded. Her light brown hair is long and stringy, riddled with split ends, and desperate for some kind of color to bring it to life. The girl’s eyes are reddened around the edges and slightly puffy, as though she’s recently been crying. She looks so sad, so anxious, Hannah’s mothering instinct kicks in and immediately longs to soothe her. “I’m
Hannah,” she says.

  “Maddie,” the girl mumbles, slumping into the chair. She avoids looking in the mirror, which as a stylist, Hannah has learned to recognize as something women who have self-esteem issues tend to do. If they don’t see their perceived flaws, then they don’t have to feel inadequate. Hannah’s heart squeezes, wondering what could have made this girl feel so bad about her looks.

  She suddenly recalls a conversation she had with Emily a few months before her accident, when Hannah found her daughter standing in front of the mirror in her bedroom, wearing only her white cotton training bra and panties. As Hannah stepped inside her room, Emily clutched the flesh around her belly between tight fingers and made a strange, growling noise.

  “Honey, what are you doing?” Hannah asked with a frown.

  “I’m so fat!” Emily wailed, letting go of her stomach and dropping her hands to her sides.

  “No, you’re not,” Hannah said calmly, putting her arm around her daughter’s shoulders and looking at their reflection. At twelve, Emily was dark haired and pretty, but short for her age, so her middle was a little thick in comparison to the rest of her body. Hannah was five foot seven with a naturally thin build, which was definitely a product of heredity more than of diet and exercise. The sperm donor Hannah had chosen was six foot four, with no history of obesity in his family, so she was hopeful Emily wouldn’t struggle with her weight. Hannah had seen too many clients zip into the bathroom to vomit after sampling from the platter of buttery, sweet pastries Sophie insisted on setting out every day—it terrified her that Emily might someday fall victim to similar behaviors. “You just haven’t had your growth spurt yet, sweetheart. I didn’t get mine until I was fourteen.”

  Emily leaned her head against Hannah’s chest, regarding her mother’s reflection. “Are you sure?” she asked with a sniffle. “Katie Shaw is my age and is like, an Amazon woman or something. She’s totally skinny and her boobs are huge!”

  “Trust me, you don’t want huge boobs.” Hannah gave her daughter a quick jiggle, hoping she could make Emily laugh.

  “How do you know what I want?”

  Hannah sighed, then turned to face her daughter, pulling Emily’s attention away from the mirror. She set her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and met her eyes with a determined gaze. “I know that you’re beautiful exactly as you are right now. And I know it’s tough to see your body get a little heavier before you get taller and even it all out. It was like that for me, too, Em. You just wait. In six months, you’ll look in the mirror and see something entirely different.”

  Emily’s blue eyes lit up when Hannah said this, filled with hope. Only her daughter never got to see her body change. Now, Hannah’s mind flashes to the image of Emily on the day of her accident, her limbs twisted on the pavement, her daughter lying motionless in the hospital bed. She shakes her head, trying to dislodge the memory. She focuses on throwing the black protective cape over Maddie, fastening it around her neck. “Too tight?” she asks, and Maddie shakes her head, too. “Okay, then. What are we going to do for you today?”

  Maddie barely lifts one of her shoulders, still keeping her eyes on the floor. Hannah looks to the girl’s mother, eyebrows raised.

  “She had a rough day at school,” the woman says, apologetically. “I was hoping a new look might lift her spirits. We got your flyer, so we thought we’d come give you a try.”

  Hannah returns her gaze to Maddie’s reflection. “Eastside Prep?” It was the high school closest to the salon, attended by the children of only the most elite families in Seattle.

  “Yeah,” Maddie says, like she’s tasted something sour.

  “You’re a freshman?”

  Maddie shakes her head. “Junior. I’m sixteen.”

  Hannah must look confused because the woman jumps in to explain. “Maddie’s had some health issues, so she’s a little petite. She’s been tutored at home since she was nine. School is . . . an adjustment.”

  “I’m sure nobody wants to hear the boring details of my life, Olivia,” Maddie says, but there is a small spark of levity in her voice, and Hannah suspects that she must be close to her mother in order to tease her like that. Emily had called Hannah by her first name instead of Mom a few times, mostly in the months before the accident, and only when she was frustrated. Hannah read somewhere that this is a normal thing for teenage girls to do, a way they test out being separate beings from their mothers. A first snip at the proverbial apron strings.

  Peter returns from the back room, where he’d grabbed his coat. Always the impeccably dressed hipster, today he wears black skinny jeans and turtleneck sweater paired with funky, red-rimmed oval glasses. His blond hair is spiked up, and his cowboy boots click-clack on the hardwood floors. “Good night, ladies!” he says, then blows us all a kiss. “Stay fabulous!”

  “I like his glasses,” Maddie says, after he closes the front door behind him.

  Hannah smiles. “He’s an original, for sure.” She looks over to Veronica, who is just hanging up the phone, looking irritated. “What’s up?” Hannah asks.

  “My five o’clock just canceled.” Business has been good since opening, but for stylists, time is money, so each time a client cancels at the last minute it’s like having your paycheck docked for an offense you didn’t commit. She sighs. “Is it okay if I go? I already cleaned my station.”

  Hannah nods. “Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She turns back to Olivia and Maddie. “Sorry for the interruption.”

  “You’re the boss?” Maddie says, perking up again.

  “I am,” Hannah says, smiling. “My best friend, Sophie, is my business partner, but she runs our downtown salon.” She gently lifts up Maddie’s hair, examining the strands. “So, I think we need to get rid of these split ends first, don’t you? It will really give you more body on top if we lose about four inches.”

  “Okay,” Maddie says. “It’s like, totally stringy, right?”

  Hannah’s heart clenches hearing Maddie insert the word like in her sentence, a verbal tic Emily had picked up from her friends at school. She manages a smile. “I wouldn’t say ‘stringy.’ I would say ‘volume challenged.’ ” Maddie giggles, and so encouraged, Hannah continues. “Let’s cut it to just above your shoulders, okay? Once we get some of the weight to stop pulling at the roots, it will automatically thicken up. And then we’ll add some layering, and maybe deepen the color a bit, to bring out your eyes . . .” She looks to Olivia, who is watching their interaction from where she stands a few feet away. “If that’s okay with Mom.” Olivia nods, relief palpable in her expression. Hannah notes that she is quite beautiful, though with her dark eyebrows, Olivia isn’t a natural blonde, she suspects.

  “Can I go red?” Maddie asks, twisting her head back and forth, finally reviewing her reflection. “Like, flaming, Jessica Rabbit red?”

  Hannah laughs. “I think that might be a little extreme for your skin tone. Not to mention hard to maintain. The best way to bring out your natural beauty is to go just a few shades darker or lighter than your own color, which I assume this is? Or have you colored your hair before?”

  Maddie shakes her head. “I’ve never even been in a salon.”

  “Well, then,” Hannah says. “I feel privileged you’re here.” She hesitates a moment before putting her hand on Maddie’s shoulder—other than the hugs from Emily’s friends at the funeral, Hannah hasn’t touched a child since she last held Emily in her hospital bed. She’s a little worried she’ll burst into tears when she does. But then her hand finally drops, and there’s no electric sensation as Hannah had feared, no devastating jolt throwing her to the floor. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s get you shampooed.”

  Hannah takes her time washing Maddie’s hair, giving her the full-on “relax” massage treatment. Pushing the tips of her fingers in steady circles on Maddie’s scalp, Hannah remembers the many times she washed Emily’s hair at the other salon; her daughter would sometimes fall asleep under Hannah’s touch. Maddie’s eyes clos
e, and she even lets out a quiet, contented groan. Olivia sits down in the shampoo chair next to the one Maddie is in and watches them.

  “Have you been busy since you opened?” Olivia asks as Hannah finishes rinsing the shampoo from Maddie’s head and then applies a thickening conditioner.

  “Yes, thank goodness,” Hannah says with a smile. In fact, they’ve been busier than Hannah thought they’d be over the past month, though that has a little to do with the fact that Cerina, the other stylist she hired, quit her first week, deciding that she’d rather work for Gene Juarez. “Your highlights are beautiful. Where do you get them done?”

  Olivia’s shoulders twitch, like she’s uncomfortable receiving the compliment. “Henry DeLong’s, in Mercer Island. Do you know it?”

  “I do.” Henry is one of Ciseaux’s chief competitors, in business for well over twenty years, with a focus on high-end services and excellent client care. “You’re dark haired, naturally?” Olivia nods, and an odd look appears on her face, as though she is recalling an unpleasant memory. Hannah rinses the conditioner from Maddie’s hair, pats it dry, then they all relocate to Hannah’s station. “Can I get you something to drink, Olivia? Coffee or tea? Water?”

  “I’d love some water.” She looks at her daughter. “Baby, it’s almost time for your afternoon meds, too, isn’t it?”

  “Mom!” Maddie exclaims. “I know! It’s programmed into my phone. You don’t have to remind me.”

  Olivia looks a little hurt, and Hannah starts to head toward the kitchen, but Olivia stops her with a hand on her arm. “Please, let me get it.”

  Hannah tells her where to find the chilled bottles of Perrier and Evian, then turns her attention to cutting Maddie’s hair. She carefully runs a wide-toothed comb through the strands. “So . . . tough day at school, huh?” The words catch in her throat a bit; she thinks of the many times she asked Emily the same question.

  Maddie nods. “Being the new kid sucks.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Maddie glances up at Hannah in the mirror, watching as she combs long strands upward and snips off four inches. She looks like she’s deciding whether or not to say more, so Hannah keeps quiet, a skill she’s learned over the years that works well with her clients. A good stylist is part artist, part therapist, part priest.