The Girl with the Mermaid Hair

by Delia Ephron

  The mirror had a new crack, diagonal, higher than the others. It bisected her head from the top center and cut across her left eye at a sharp angle. In the reflection she had three eyes, two on one side of the crack, one on the other. The top of her head had a lump. She moved over slightly. No lump now, but still three eyes.

  Her mom rattled the doorknob. “Sukie?”

  Sukie flushed the toilet even though she hadn’t used it and came out, pushing her mom backward to keep her out of the bathroom. The sight of the cracked mirror would flip her out, provoking expressions and emotions that she was forbidden. She’d blame it on Sukie, and if Sukie had to cope with all that right now, she might beat her mom up. Yes, beat her up. She’d like to punch someone in the face really hard right now. She recognized the feeling only dimly because it was so surprising. She’d shoved Mikey now and then, that’s all. Wanting to beat someone to a pulp was not a feeling she was familiar with. But it was there.

  “Do you want some dinner?”

  “I already ate.”

  “I made some delicious guacamole.”

  “No thanks, Mom.”

  “Do you want to see my earlobe? I have it in a jar.”

  “What?” squawked Sukie.

  “Just kidding. They refastened it.” Sukie took note of her mother’s newest bandage, a strip of white tape over cotton across the bottom of her left ear. “I was really scared,” said her mom in a small voice.

  “I’m sorry,” said Sukie.

  Her mom sucked in her lips.

  “Pretty soon I’ll be driving,” said Sukie.

  Her mom nodded. She sat on Sukie’s bed. Her silk robe, lightly perfumed with rosewater, clung here but not there in the most flattering manner, and when she crossed her legs, it fell open to reveal her gorgeous calves and most slender ankles. On her bare pedicured feet, the toenails were painted scarlet. “We don’t talk anymore,” her mom said plaintively.

  “Yes, we do.”

  “No, we don’t.” She set her wine on the floor, fished a tissue out of her pocket, and dabbed at her eyes. “Tell me something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Something girlfriendy, a secret. You know, confide.”

  Sukie drummed her fingers against her cheek, then dug her nails in.

  Her mom batted her hand away. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  Sukie rubbed her neck and snuck her hand up, twisted a few hairs, and yanked them. She curled her fingers around the clump of hair and dropped her hand to her side, all the while feeling trapped by her mother’s terrifying request and wistful, watery eyes.

  “I don’t have any secrets,” said Sukie.

  Her mom took a sip of wine and studied her. Her eyes sharpened. Sukie began to shudder. She can read my mind, thought Sukie. “Liar. What are you hiding? Come on, out with it, what’s that?” She would seize Sukie’s fist, pry it open, and recoil from the hairs. “You’re a crazy girl,” she’d scream. “It’s all about your dad, isn’t it? Tell me!”

  “Is that sweatshirt polyester?” her mom asked.

  “I guess so. Part.”

  “My mother never gave me a compliment. There. I confided in you.”

  “Your mother?” said Sukie.

  “That’s right. Your grandmother.”

  “Never?”

  “I asked her about it once, just before she died, and she said, ‘Well, dear, I tell the truth.’”

  “‘I tell the truth.’ You mean she thought you never deserved a compliment?”

  Her mother picked at the duvet, plucking out a tiny feather. “Fly, little bird,” she said, and flicked it away.

  The sweep of a car’s headlights lit the window.

  “Is that your dad?” Her mom popped up straighter and slid off the bed onto the floor, knocking her glass over. “Oops,” she said. “Double oops.” When her mother had had a few drinks, what normally threw her amused her. Instead of a shriek and a dash to the kitchen for some sparkling water to mop up the wine and avoid the catastrophe of a stain, she patted the wet spot affectionately, then planted both her palms on the floor, poked her butt into the air, and pushed herself up with a groan.

  “I’m going to bed, Mom. I’m really tired.”

  “He’s on his way. He called from Croton.” She padded over to the window and craned over the penguins to look. “Not your dad. Do you want to watch TV with me?”

  “I’m tired.”

  “Come on.”

  “I got really wet.” Sukie hammered each word in frustration and immediately felt guilty.

  Her mom lightly tapped the bandage over her ear while her eyes wandered aimlessly around. “Well, this ear kind of hurts. I guess I’ll take half a Vicodin and hit the sack. Your dad can cope, can’t he? I coped without him. No hugs tonight.” Her mom blew a kiss. “Because if even a fiber of that fake fabric touches my skin…Look who’s here, Señor.” She passed the dog as she swayed out.

  After shutting her bedroom door, Sukie stripped, pulled on one of her big soft T-shirts, slipped into bed, and wrapped the covers tight.

  Her mind was a scramble of things she wished she’d never seen and now she could never forget. Confusions from today mixed with torments from the past. Everything jumbled together randomly, a movie with no clear beginning, middle, and end, no tale unfolding in a sensible comprehensible manner, only an assault of images. That woman’s soft swoon into her dad. Her body’s comfort with his. The grim man in the red Windbreaker, his grip on her arm, his face shoved forward. The woman’s curls of black hair. The way her dad had playfully mussed them. That’s all you want, a glass of tap? What had the woman worn? Sukie strained but could only recall the chrome spokes of the chairback, although she must have seen a blouse or sweater. Meg’s gap-tooth smile. Your dad’s slime. Never forget it. Was that fearsome man the woman’s husband? Or brother? Bobo’s cool hand snaking up her bare back. DANGER CAUTION. The mirror cracking—how did it crack, why did it crack? Issy mesmerized by her own twig of a wrist as Sukie’s dad held it, his thumb and index finger nearly circling it twice. Did Issy know Sukie’s dad was slime? When Issy stabbed her pink hair with a clip, was she considering poking the clip into his eye? Flopman. Did Mrs. Merenda know why Sukie’s father got slugged? Did everyone know? Was the charming Warren Jamieson well-known in Hudson Glen for cheating?

  Was her dad in love with someone else?

  Letting her gaze rest on Señor, curled up by her side, she searched for relief. The jumps were spreading out to the tips of her fingers and toes.

  “Maybe the truth can’t be buried. Or maybe it can’t stay buried. Maybe the very nature of truth is that it will ultimately reveal itself. What do you think, Señor?” And then, in the way that soul mates do, she knew what he was telling her. Until she got it down on paper, she’d never sleep.

  She opened her journal, selected black from the packet of various-colored Sharpies, and began to write.

  Emma

  “HEY, kiddo.”

  Sukie shot up in bed.

  Her dad rapped at her bedroom door.

  Sukie smacked back down and yanked the covers over her head.

  The doorknob clicked. He must have walked in. “Time to get up. It’s nine. You have a match today.”

  Sukie rolled over, squashing her face into the pillow, something she never did.

  “Come on, Sukie,” her dad said cheerfully.

  Slimeball, slimeball, slimeball.

  The bed sagged. He must have sat on it. She inched her body away, not wanting him to touch her even through the duvet.

  “How was the quarterback?” he asked.

  Sukie gave no indication of life.

  “Sukie, get up,” her mother called, and must have stuck her head in the door because she then asked, “What’s going on?”

  “I’m clueless,” said her dad. “What happened with the quarterback, baby?”

  “She was fine when she came home,” said her mom.

  “Are you sure?” asked her dad.


  “Yes, I’m sure. I was here, you weren’t.”

  “Your match is at eleven,” said her dad.

  “Just Mom.” The pillow muffled Sukie’s words.

  The mattress rose and then sank as her dad got up and her mom sat down. Gently she shook Sukie’s shoulder.

  “Is he gone?” asked Sukie.

  “Yes.”

  Sukie flipped over and pulled the covers off her head. An assault of light. Morning sun blazed through the window.

  “Do you have cramps?” her mom asked.

  “No. Yes.” She faked an achy voice. “Maybe. My tummy hurts.”

  “It’s the quarterback, isn’t it? What did he do? Tell me right now. I won’t tell your father.”

  “It’s not—”

  “Sukie, you are perfectly wonderful, and if he doesn’t like you—”

  “You don’t even remember his name,” snapped Sukie.

  Her mom cocked her head as if the name might pop in as a result, and then said, “What does that matter?”

  “Bobo,” said Sukie.

  “Fine. Bobo.”

  “I’m sick.”

  “Are you pregnant?”

  “Are you crazy?”

  Sukie spent the day in bed. She missed her tennis match against Bronxville Prep. It was the first match she’d ever missed.

  She began to avoid her dad as much as possible. When he spoke to her, she aimed her eyes over his shoulder or at his knees, or she busied herself with some activity like the computer or her cell. But when he wasn’t aware, she found herself sneaking glances. He seemed more changed than her surgically altered mom.

  A tweaking of his features, by her own eyes, morphed him from sincere to sinister. Who could trust that smile? It was neither genuine nor ingenuous, but a weapon, a means pure and simple for getting his way. She was suspicious of his sympathy, his ability to engage with and solicit confidences from strangers. Was it an exercise in vanity?

  Where she’d seen spontaneity she now saw only performance. “I bet he practices that smile in the mirror.” Who would know more about smile practicing than Sukie? His right cheek twitched when his smile was broadest. “That’s a tell.” Sukie had learned all about tells from him because he played poker and had taught the game to her and Mikey. A tell might be a scratch of the nose, a knuckle crack, a blink, perhaps even, yes, a twitch of the cheek—an unconscious giveaway that the player was bluffing, his hand of cards not a slam dunk but a great big nothing. Spot a tell and you spot a liar, her dad had told her. She noted that twitch when he got up from dinner before anyone had finished and, flashing his confident (or conman) grin, announced that he had to meet Mr. Black in Croton, and he’d be back late. His choice of names for his imaginary client, Mr. Black, indicated a dull mind. Sukie blamed her own lack of originality on her dad’s genes.

  “Black might invest in my building,” said her dad.

  Her mom poured herself another white wine and lifted her glass in a silent toast, more adiós than good luck.

  “I doubt it,” said Sukie.

  “What?” said her dad.

  Sukie turned to Señor at his usual place at the head of the table. “What do you think, Señor?”

  Señor’s eyes peered out under lids lowered to a lazy place between open and shut. He lapped his front teeth over his bottom lip, on one side only, a lopsided expression that Sukie had never seen before. The meaning was clear.

  “He doesn’t believe you,” said Sukie.

  “Weird,” said Mikey, studying the dog. “He doesn’t.”

  “Believe what?” said her mom.

  “Good question.” Her dad laughed. “I’ll be back late. With a deal. I’ll let the moon and the stars make my case.”

  He disappeared with a wave, and Sukie, with a sudden insight, flipped her fork off the table. Who buys a building in the dark? All that bunk about the moon and stars selling real estate. The sky was a cover, and he’d been using it for years. Sukie shivered at the thought. Years? Had this thing with the lady in Joe’s Caffeinated been going on for years?

  Mikey benefited from Sukie’s distress, getting to ride in the front seat to school every morning while Sukie, in back, buried her head in a book. “Hey,” her dad said now and then, “are you all right back there?” She knew he was trying to catch her eye in the rearview mirror.

  “I’m studying.” She kept her head down.

  In AP algebra she got bored during a test, put down her pencil, and left half of the questions unanswered. “I got tired,” she said when the teacher asked. On her way to US history, she dropped her penetrating analysis of Jeffersonian democracy in the trash can. She stopped doing all her homework, amazed at how her teachers swallowed her lies. “Mom’s sick, I had to make dinner.” “I had the stomach flu.” “My computer crashed.” Were they cutting her slack because she was the driven and studious Susannah Jamieson or because they thought her parents had fistfights?

  Her experience of pretending to be dead on college night came in useful. In class she stopped participating, never even followed the action with her eyes. Mr. Vickers snapped his fingers inches from her face. “What land are you in? Come on, let’s hear it. If you had to give your daydream a country, what country would it be?”

  “Hell,” said Sukie.

  The class laughed.

  Sukie pulled a hair out.

  Mr. Vickers removed his glasses and polished the lenses with his nubby sweater. “Yes, well, hell. Never been there myself. You’ll present your Madame Bovary essay last,” he told Sukie. “Hell sucks, and the trip back takes forever, not to mention it’s uphill. Have you finished your report?”

  “Not really,” said Sukie, who hadn’t been planning to do it at all.

  Waving the book, he recited Flaubert’s words from memory. “‘All the bitterness of life was served up to her on her plate.’ What does that mean?”

  “I hate my topic. Can I change it?” Ethan asked, ignoring the question, which made Sukie want to scream. All the bitterness of life was served up on her plate. She knew what it meant. She was so much smarter than everyone else.

  During lunch, she sat alone at a corner table eating nothing and glowering. Across the room, Autumn, size zero, lapped icing off a brownie as if she were making love to it. Watching her, Sukie’s bond with Emma Bovary grew fiercer. I’m trapped in Tostes too, she thought, that puny village where nothing new ever happens. Flaubert is writing about me. She’d let her work in other classes slide, but she’d write this paper. In this single instance she’d enlighten her classmates. They deserved enlightening.

  She didn’t notice Frannie and Jenna, standing with their trays, observing. Frannie, unself-conscious when deep in thought, made her Frankenstein face, which involved chomping her lower teeth repeatedly into her upper lip. She and Jenna whispered, Jenna shrugged, and a minute later, Sukie was surprised by the plunk of their trays onto the table.

  “Want to come with us on Saturday? Simon and me and Jenna and James?” said Frannie.

  Sukie had heard that Frannie was hanging out with a guy named Simon, a senior at Poughkeepsie High.

  “We’re going in search of the red-tailed hawk,” said Frannie. “There’s been a sighting. It sounds awful but it will be fun.”

  Jenna held out a paper bag. “Have some biscotti. They’re brilliant. James made them.”

  “I’m busy on Saturday,” said Sukie, taking a biscotti. “And these seats are saved.” It amused her to say that. I’m busy. These seats are saved. As if she were beating off friends with a stick.

  Without a word Frannie and Jenna moved on.

  Sukie ate the biscotti.

  At night she quit playing Jeopardy! Big deal, I know facts, she wrote in her journal. If you want a fact, Google it.

  In the mornings she dressed blind. She opened her drawer and put on the first thing her hand touched. She made a fetish of it, actually—of her refusal to care about what she wore—until it occurred to her that the first shirt might bring good luck. With that thou
ght, she took the second shirt. Bad luck—bring it on, thought Sukie. I’m a festival of bad luck.

  She left her phone at home. She’d lost interest in selfies. Completely.

  Afternoons Sukie skipped tennis, canceled flute, ignored her homework. On the debate team, when she had to defend the statement “Glass ceilings exist,” she stood up, did her special twist at the waist to appear ramrod straight, looked everyone dead in the eye as her father had counseled, and said, “Who gives a shit?”

  She ditched tutoring.

  Instead she went to the nearest Starbucks to get an espresso (which, for coffee, sounded tough), and bum a cigarette. She’d never smoked before, except once at camp, but this seemed as good a time as any to get started. There was no smoking allowed at Starbucks, something she’d forgotten.

  Afternoons she wandered aimlessly around Hudson Glen. Although she rarely fantasized about Bobo now and hadn’t for a few weeks, she found herself on the lookout for a particular car, probably an old Chevrolet, maybe a Ford, the minty-green color so rusted it might have been torched, a broken taillight, and a slash of blue on the passenger door. This was Kiefer’s car, Bobo’s friend. Maybe he and Bobo would be cruising in it. That moment at the party when Bobo had beckoned her over, wiggling his finger, the time he’d shoved his entourage aside to reward her brilliance, “You got that right”…these were nothing to hang hopes on. Still, they glowed in retrospect, flickers of promise and joy on the dark side of the moon.

  One afternoon she stopped at Clementi’s.

  She stood shyly near the door. A slow time. There were only a few tables taken, but she didn’t immediately spot Isabella at the computer at the back of the bar because of her hair. It was red now, the color of a polished Delicious apple.

  She waited. Issy wiggled, one of her signature moves, which seemed to position her breasts more satisfactorily. She pulled a BlackBerry out of her back pocket, checked it, and slipped it back in. She was wearing six different colors, seven if you counted her hair. Sukie especially loved the thick turquoise socks that she paired with high-top sneakers.