The Girl with the Mermaid Hair

by Delia Ephron

Sukie flatly supplied the facts. “I dropped my cell phone and duffel bag somewhere between courts three and five when my father—”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Merenda.

  The “yes” threw her. She sensed disapproval. What had she done wrong? Or was it her father? Did Mrs. Merenda think her dad was slime?

  “Do you have it, by any chance?” said Sukie. “Did anyone turn it in?”

  “No.”

  “Will you look?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  But there was a click. Sukie put the phone back in the glove compartment.

  From Bobo. She saw the words suspended in space. Like skywriting, they diffused and slowly evaporated, leaving a smudge and then nothing, no proof that they were ever there to begin with.

  “I’m sure she’ll find it,” said her dad.

  “Maybe I’ll find it in the mirror.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They turned down Lilac Drive. Sukie, depressed, didn’t immediately notice the black car in front of their house. A hat emerged—a lady’s straw hat with a wide curved brim and a trim of black ribbon. The wind caught it, flapping the brim, and a woman’s hand clamped it down. At the same time, the trunk popped open and inside Sukie saw pink. The woman in the hat had to be her mother, because her mother had luggage the color of bubble gum.

  The driver took out her mother’s bag and carried it to the door.

  Sukie yelled out the window, “Mom!”

  Her mother, still holding her hat in place, whirled around to wave. She wore sunglasses—large ones with black frames, the kind movie stars wore when they didn’t want to be seen and wanted to attract attention all at the same time—and she had a long scarf wound around her neck a million times with still enough length to trail in a divinely nonchalant way. Sometimes to see your mom from afar is to see a different person. The woman other people see when they look. My mom is a stunner, thought Sukie. The most stylish ever. I bet Dad thinks so too. I bet when he met this glamorous woman, he was swept away.

  Her dad stopped the car so Sukie and Mikey could greet their mom before he pulled into the driveway. Normally Mikey raced while Sukie sauntered, her butt a slow swinging pendulum, a move she’d perfected. Today, overwhelmed, relieved, she bolted across the grass, her arms out. “Mom!”

  Her mom shied backward. “No, no, no.”

  Sukie and Mikey, speeding toward her, stopped in time.

  “No hugs. Just air kisses for now.” Her mom puckered and sent them three, “P-P-P.”

  “Oh, my God!” Sukie’s hands flew to her heart. “Mom, what happened, were you in an accident?”

  Not visible from afar, close up an astonishment: Her mom’s nose was bandaged, taped down and across, bits of gauze peeking out underneath, a snow-covered mountain in the middle of her face.

  The Faraway Truth and the Truth Close Up

  “WERE you in a fight too?” asked Mikey.

  Her mother started to laugh, at least that’s what Sukie thought. It was hard to tell because not much of her mom was visible between the glasses, the bandage, and the rest of the getup, but her lips did widen, a giggle might have erupted before she stiffened. “Don’t make me smile,” she said. “It’s dangerous.”

  “How come?” said Mikey.

  “What happened to your nose?” asked Sukie.

  “I have to go to bed, I’m not myself yet. Oops, what is that? I thought I saw a wolf. Hi, Señor.” Her mother rapped the glass pane next to the door. Through it Señor, inside, watched them. “What a day, isn’t it beautiful? It’s hard to talk, it is.” She pressed her hand against her lips. “I’m sewn together.” She started to smile again and again stiffened. “Who got into a fight?”

  The car door slammed. They all turned to watch Sukie’s dad ache his way over.

  “Warren? Warren, what happened?”

  “Do you want to see the buffalo nickel that Marie gave me?” Mikey pulled it from his pocket.

  “Hold it up, I can’t look down.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mom, what’s wrong with your nose?” Sukie, loud now and insistent, still got no reply, because her mom was quizzing her dad about why he could barely walk and had a bruise bulging like a plum on the side of his face, and her dad was refusing to answer except with one word, “Later.”

  “Peas, you need peas. You need peas, not me. Isn’t it great that I told you to buy peas? Did you remember to get the peas?” said Sukie’s mom.

  Her dad nodded.

  “I must have known somehow that someone would need them. Ouch. Don’t make me talk. This is so thoughtless, Warren, I can’t make that many expressions yet.”

  “Mom, tell me,” Sukie begged.

  Her mom thrust her purse into Sukie’s arms. “Open the door for me, would you? I can’t look for my keys, it’s dangerous.”

  “That’s dangerous too?” said Mikey.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Felice,” said her dad.

  “You think I’m exaggerating. If you’d visited me, you’d know. I’m not supposed to look down.” Her mom took off her dark glasses, breaking the news. Her face appeared to have swallowed her eyes, because the flesh was so swollen and bruised black and blue that her mom’s eyes were reduced to peepholes. “I don’t mean to shock you,” she told her kids, “but your father forced me.”

  Mikey started to cry.

  “Calm down,” her dad said. “Your mom got a facelift. That’s all.” He opened the door. “It’s no big deal.”

  “But your nose,” said Sukie.

  “It was driving me crazy,” said her mom. “And if you’d suffered the way I had, you’d think it was a big deal. Take my bag upstairs, would you, Sukie? Obviously your father’s useless.”

  Sukie rolled it into the house. “What about your nose was driving you crazy?” She and her mom had the same nose. They both had little ramps from top to tip. They were both—Sukie recalled that website—“ramp.”

  “Ramp?” said Sukie. “Was that what drove you crazy?”

  “Ramp? What are you talking about?”

  “How was the spa?” asked Mikey, wiping his eyes.

  Sukie dragged the heavy suitcase from step to step. “She wasn’t at the spa, Mikey. Come on. I’ll explain later.”

  He ran up the stairs, happy to be with his sister.

  In the Jamiesons’ showcase of a house, the large foyer with a marble floor soared two stories. The staircase, a winding affair, had a lacquered wood banister with white balusters that wrapped the open upstairs hall. Sukie, wheeling her mom’s suitcase, stopped to look down at her parents. Mikey bumped into her and stayed there. She put her arm around him. Again from a distance, with the brim of the hat obscuring her mother’s face, the winding scarf concealing God knows how many stitches, Sukie was once again struck by her mother’s chic and how different things can seem from far away, how there’s more than one truth, the faraway truth and the truth close up.

  “I can’t deal with this now,” her mom was saying.

  “There’s nothing to deal with,” said her dad.

  Their voices were low but traveled easily. Sukie and Mikey didn’t have to strain to hear.

  “I can’t believe you did this.”

  “What?” said her dad.

  “This is my day.”

  “Your day?”

  “My homecoming. I need care.”

  A red rubber ball fell between the balusters. Sukie, watching her parents, didn’t see the small ball until, on its way down, it entered her sight range and hit the marble floor.

  Hearing the thump, her parents turned to see Señor’s ball rolling toward them. “Oh my God, I looked down,” her mother shrieked. Sukie pulled Mikey back just as her parents gazed upward to see where it had come from. Her mother’s hand flew to her neck with another shriek. “I’m not supposed to look up, either.”

  Señor’s fur brushed Sukie’s legs. Even though the dog moved through the hall at his own
deliberate pace, by the time Sukie realized the tickle was Señor, all she saw was his rump and the curl of a tail disappearing into her room.

  The Text

  “BUT Mom, we have the same nose.”

  “Not anymore,” said her mom cheerfully, now ensconced on the bed, surrounded by mail, slicing open some envelopes with her nail file but tossing most into a junk pile. “Where’s Señor? Why isn’t Señor here? Señor?” she called. “He’s rejecting me, what can I do? How have you been? Tell me everything.” Her mom patted the bed for Sukie to sit.

  “How did you change it?” asked Sukie, standing in the doorway. She’d been twirling her hair nervously and was surprised to discover that she’d yanked out some strands.

  “Well, aren’t you a broken record. It’s just one piece of the pie.”

  “What pie?” Sukie didn’t know what to do with the hair in her hand. She stuck it in her pocket.

  “My face. Stop obsessing.”

  “I’m not obsessing.”

  “You are obviously obsessing. I obsess, so don’t tell me you don’t obsess. Come on, sit, talk.”

  “Today was horrible,” said Sukie.

  Her mother flinched. “Don’t touch your stitches,” she scolded herself. She slapped her own hand, which had misbehaved and scratched a spot under her ear. “My whole scalp itches,” she confided. “I have a staple in my head. What happened?”

  “My phone. I lost it. At the club.”

  “They’ll find it, I’m sure. Don’t go getting hysterical.”

  “I’m not hysterical,” said Sukie, wondering if she was.

  “Because you’re always getting hysterical.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Don’t bother to deny it. Doesn’t Sukie get hysterical?” she asked her husband, who had creaked in carrying a bag of frozen peas. He carefully lowered himself into an armchair, flicked on the TV, and pressed the bag against the bruised and battered side of his face. “Doesn’t she?”

  Sukie’s dad simply winked at Sukie with his only visible eye.

  Her mom perused a letter. “Well, this is inconvenient.”

  “What?” said Sukie.

  “The big school meeting about college is Wednesday night.”

  “You don’t have to go,” said Sukie.

  “Of course we have to go.”

  “This counts, kiddo. Big time,” said her dad.

  “No, really, you don’t have to go.”

  How would she explain her mother? What lie would cover it? A box fell on her head. A spa accident. What was a spa accident? Sukie’s mind was racing while her mother prattled on. “You have to get into the best college. We have to make sure that we’re doing everything and that you’re doing everything. Perhaps you should volunteer at a homeless shelter. Is there one nearby? That would be so wonderful for your college application. We’ll see what they say on Wednesday. We’re not the kind of parents who don’t care that we’re not doing everything possible for your future. Look at me, Susannah Danielle Jamieson.”

  Sukie twisted to face her mom directly, realizing as she did so that her mom had pieces of Scotch tape next to her eyes and below her ears.

  “We love you,” said her mom.

  “I love you, too,” said Sukie. “What’s that tape for?”

  “To hold my stitches in place.” Her mom leaned close. Sukie could see the bits of black thread underneath.

  “How long does the tape stay there?”

  “Until the stitches come out. Listen, darling, don’t worry. I’ll wrap myself in something fantastic. No one will ever know.”

  Sukie wandered out of her parents’ bedroom and into her own. Señor was waiting. She looked into his eyes. She often did that to channel his strength, his confidence, his judgment, or another of his gifts that she wished she possessed. Today, feeling the damp sweat that heralded the onset of the jumps, she searched for Señor’s stillness, hoping to shore up her own. After a minute of silence, Señor made himself clear. “I know,” said Sukie, “but who?” She didn’t have a close friend. She liked Jenna, but Jenna was best friends with Frannie. Sukie couldn’t possibly spend time with Frannie. She couldn’t even look her in the eye.

  Maybe Issy would understand. She was older, but she was so friendly and warm. Still, Sukie couldn’t just turn up at Clementi’s, order a pizza, and pour out her heart.

  A true friend. She was reluctant to write how much she longed for one even in her private journal, for her eyes only.

  Usually she pushed it out of her head.

  She planned her school days judiciously, making sure she had a meeting every lunch—Educating Girls Globally, Debate Club, Spanish Club, Math Club. On Fridays, when there were no meetings, she went to the cafeteria. Kids never minded if she joined their table, but no one ever called her over or saved her a seat. Sometimes she sat alone, spread papers around as if she needed the entire space, and knocked off the weekend’s homework. By these means, if she didn’t stop herself from feeling lonely, she at least kept everyone else from thinking that she was. Friendless. The bleak word skittered around the fringes of her mind, scurried ahead of her through the halls, clearing the empty way.

  In her journal she railed against the unfairness of it. It’s not my fault that I’m the total package, looks and brains. Everyone’s jealous. That, she told herself, was why her cell phone hardly rang, even though every week she changed the ring as if the ring tone had become stuck in her head from hearing it again and again and again.

  Bobo.

  She let herself fall backward onto the bed and crossed her arms over her face. This was a way not to cry. Tried and true. Tears could trickle out, but mostly, in this position, her eyes would simply fill to the brim like glasses of water.

  Your dad’s slime.

  Already she could hardly remember the grim man’s face, only his red Windbreaker and his thin lips barely moving. He hadn’t spoken in a threatening way, more as if he were breaking the news, tipping her to it.

  Your dad’s slime. Never forget it.

  Bury it. Bury it deep. It’s not a truth, it’s a falsehood. A horrible lie. Blot it out. Think about something else—ice cream, dancing elephants, Señor’s eyes. Bobo. Think about Bobo. Your dad’s slime. Never forget it. She had buried it and already it rose from the grave.

  Sit up. That’s an order.

  It wasn’t Señor’s idea, it was Sukie’s, but she knew he would approve.

  She stormed into the bathroom and faced the mirror. “Don’t feel sorry for yourself,” she ordered. “Hup, two, three, four.” Calling out the numbers, she marched in a circle until she came face-to-face with herself again, and then, almost as if someone were beckoning her, she drew closer.

  “If I can’t have an actual friend, I want a friend in the mirror,” Sukie announced, and, in a blink, instead of her own reflection she beheld Issy with her punky pink hair and sly eyes twinkling with fun. Issy was wearing an outfit Sukie had once admired—a baby-doll dress with straps that came over her shoulders, crisscrossed under her breasts, and wound around her body at least two more times (binding her tiny waist snugly) with still enough length for her to twirl the ends languidly as Issy in the mirror was doing right now. It was a summer dress, but Isabella, who Sukie suspected never did the obvious, wore it in cold weather as a jumper with a long-sleeved jersey underneath. “I love your dress,” said Sukie.

  “You can borrow it,” said Issy. “Anytime. We should go shopping.”

  “I’d love that,” said Sukie.

  Issy smiled her wonderful, wide, and welcoming smile. “If I had a little sister, I’d want her to be you.”

  “Thank you,” said Sukie. “Today, especially, I really need that.”

  Issy disappeared from the mirror, and the good feeling generated by an imaginary visit with Issy dissolved as Sukie confronted her own nose.

  From the tip to the top, she pinched it, trying to round the narrow flat ramp.

  Scotch tape. That’s what she needed.

  Su
kie had a label maker. She used it to identify things that didn’t need identifying, like her Scotch-tape dispenser. She’d printed SUKIE’S SCOTCH TAPE and stuck it on. The label wasn’t a warning to her younger brother: “This is mine, don’t touch.” She just loved to label. Everything that could be labeled was labeled, and had assigned seating across the top of her desk. A place for everything, everything in its place. In rows straight and even. The Jamiesons’ housekeeper, Louisa, who came in twice a week, marveled at Sukie’s order and at how little work she had to do in Sukie’s compulsively arranged room. Lopsided equals bad luck, Sukie believed it utterly. She tore off short strips of tape, about two inches, sticking one on each fingertip. If she fluttered her fingers, they waved like flags.

  Returning to the mirror, she stripped the tape bits off and, so that they would be handy when she needed them, stuck them on the silver frame. As she did, she leaned sideways. She could still look at herself, but at the same time she could see back through the doorway into her bedroom where the telephone sat. “Do it.” She cracked the whip. “Just do it. Grow up, you miserable baby.”

  She marched to the desk and dialed.

  The phone rang and rang. To distract herself from the depressingly inevitable—no answer—she examined her cuticles.

  “Shoot, how does this work?”

  “I can hear you,” yelped Sukie.

  “Who is this?” The man sounded amused.

  “Susannah Jamieson. This is my cell. You have my cell.”

  “Warren’s kid?”

  Sukie tried to tell if he disapproved of her dad, but it wasn’t like talking to Mrs. Merenda, where she sensed something weird. “Yes,” she said. “I dropped it at the club.”

  “Here you go.”

  “What?”

  “I was talking to the conductor.”

  “The conductor?”

  “I’m on the train.”

  “The train?”

  “I’ll have some of those, please. Sorry. Wait a second while I pay for this.”

  Sukie straightened the stapler. She turned the mug of pens so SUKIE’S SHARPIES faced front. Lopsided equals bad luck. Lopsided equals bad luck.