by Leanna Ellis
“I’m on my way.” Spurred by the urgency in my daughter’s panicked voice, I’m out the door and down the block before I realize I never said good-bye to Marla. My guilt is outweighed by concern for Iz. While I’m sitting at a stoplight, I dial Jack’s number and explain I’ll be late for our meeting because Isabel has finally decided she doesn’t want to stand out in the crowd as the only bald girl at the high school.
“That means she’s normal.” Jack’s tone reassures me.
Normal is good. Normal is what I crave. And I believe Izzie has a realistic desire in craving normalcy. A home. Family. Hair. It’s not until that exact moment that I realize how worried I was by her lack of pride or vanity. “Thank God.”
He chuckles, his voice warm in my ear. “Gabe and I would like to take you both to dinner tonight if you’re able.”
“Oh, uh . . .” His invitation startles me out of my relief. “Why?” pops out of my mouth before I consider a polite response.
“As a thank-you for helping us out last night.”
“Oh, that’s sweet of you. But not necessary.”
“If your ex is coming over, I’ll understand why you can’t.”
He’s given me the perfect out. But of course Cliff isn’t coming. And for some reason I don’t want an excuse. The light turns green and I urge the car forward. “No, Cliff’s out of town. So, I guess we’re free.”
“Good.”
Even though I shouldn’t read anything into his response, my imagination takes flight. What if Jack is interested in something more than a working relationship, something more than a friendship? The memory of his steady gaze when he was telling me about his ideal woman stirs up a mixture of emotions that I can’t quite sort through. His ideal woman seemed fairly normal. Maybe someone like me. Would that be such a bad thing? Not exactly. But it just seems too unlikely.
“Let’s make it seven. And if your mother-in-law wants to come, she’s welcome.”
And then reality comes crashing in on me. It’s not a date. Not even close. Jack isn’t my suitor. I’m just too normal for anyone to be interested. “All right. Seven.” I start to click off, then hesitate. “Jack?”
“Yeah?”
What if it’s about Gabe and Isabel? Gabe and I would like . . . Gabe. Of course, it’s Gabe and Isabel! Is this the first step to a first date? So Marla has a botched facelift and gets two suitors. Izzie shaves her head and has an Eagle Scout (well, almost) after her. And I’m just . . . boring. Maybe I should do something radical—a tummy tuck, a belly button piercing—to get someone’s . . . anyone’s attention.
“Do you think,” I hesitate, “Gabe and Isabel are . . . you know?”
“Interested in each other?”
“They’re friends, right?” My voice wavers.
“Sure.” He, on the other hand, is self-assured. Maybe it’s the assurance and peace of mind easily won by not being the actual parent. “They’ve both had a rough time. They get each other.”
I nod to myself. It makes sense. I’m not sure if I latch onto his excuse for my security or insecurity. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Call me when you’ve dealt with the hair issue.”
“I will.” I disconnect the call. Whose idea was dinner? Gabe’s? Or Jack’s? I decide I’m much more comfortable thinking Gabe’s the instigator. The other is too complicated to consider. And too much of an impossibility. Besides, my focus must be on Cliff.
As I wait in the school office for Isabel to emerge from class, I call my hair stylist and ask for suggestions. I anticipate her telling me to get a hat or scarf, but she suggests, “Wigs and Pigs.”
“Pigs?”
“You know, pigtails.”
I sign Izzie out of school, usher her into the car, and then swing back by the house for a baseball cap. She’s quiet. Is that normal or abnormal for this situation? Her arms remain crossed over her chest as she scrunches down in the front seat.
“So, what happened?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did the kids make fun of you?” My hands tighten on the steering wheel in a defensive, Mama-Bear way.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Sighing, I wish I had a parental guide, like What to Expect When You Have a Teen: The Unexpected, where I could look up this particular problem and the proper response. Step One: take a deep breath. Step Two: count to ten. But I skip both. “What did you expect, Iz?”
“I don’t know!” Her voice is like an explosion inside the car, the repercussions reverberating in my head. “Okay? Can we just drop it?”
I maintain the tense silence until we reach the wig shop.
A fairy godmother swooshes in and with the flick of her magic wand makes a shabby dress sparkle, turns a pumpkin into a carriage, and softens a curse into something magical. Today I’m Izzie’s fairy godmother, minus the magic wand. All I have are prayers, and I’m tossing them toward heaven as fast as I can. I hope producing luxurious hair on top of my bald daughter’s head will be as simple as waving a wand or snapping my fingers. However, I suspect my motivations aren’t as altruistic as they should be. Frankly, relief flooded me when she called from school. It’s normal for her to be embarrassed by appearing in public bald, and I’m all about normal. I need normal to function. It’s not fun stripping away this façade of mine or flattering to confess, but at least for once it’s honest.
Wigs and Pigs is a sunny, bright store and reminds me of an ice cream parlor. Wigs line the walls like thirty-one flavors topping ice cream cones instead of white Styrofoam heads. The variety of shades range from gray to blonde, auburn to brunette, finally ending with black. Within each shade are different lengths and styles. Scattered throughout the room are tiny, pink tables accompanied by white wrought iron chairs next to them. Shiny, upright mirrors adorn the rounded tabletops. It’s all so clean, so pretty, unlike the reason we’re here. Because quite frankly, the bald head, even a teen one, just isn’t that attractive.
Izzie stops at the open door. “I don’t know about this, Mom.”
“What are you going to do? Wear a hat for six months? Paint your head?” I grab her hand and pull her inside. “Come on. It’ll be fine.”
With a wary glance, she looks around at the walls of hair then slumps into a chair, leans forward, resting her head on her arms, the ball cap shades her face. For a moment we’re alone together but without anything to say to each other. What is there to say?
A green and white striped curtain parts, then a young woman in her twenties emerges and greets us with a warm smile. She has shoulder length hair that is as thick and luxurious as a mink coat. Not a good sign. Izzie will hate her right off. “Hi. I’m Bettany. How can I help you?”
“We want to look at some wigs for my daughter, Isabel.” I place a hand on Izzie’s back. In spite of her relaxed position, I can feel the heat of nervousness rolling off her in waves. She pushes up from the table and moves away from us.
“Of course. Do you have a doctor’s note?”
“Excuse me?”
“A doctor’s letter of reference can qualify you for a donation by the foundation. We have connections with all of the oncologists in the area.”
“Oncologist? Oh, no. I’m sorry. Uh . . . well, I’m not exactly sorry. But Isabel doesn’t have cancer or anything.” And that is a blessing. In spite of the trouble we seem to be swimming through these days, at least we don’t have a serious illness pulling us deeper. “She . . . uh . . . shaved her head.”
Bettany’s large brown eyes widen. “Oh.” She leans toward me, her gaze slipping toward Izzie who is fingering sample wigs. “Does she have a note from her psychiatrist?”
My earlier apology congeals. “N-no,” I splutter. “She doesn’t need—”
“I should warn you that our wigs can be quite expensive.”
“It’s okay.” I glance toward the back of Izzie’s baseball cap. “There’s nothing else we can do. And she can’t wear a hat to school. Against their policies. And, well, I’m at a loss as t
o what else to do.”
“Then let’s take a look at her face and see what might fit her shape and features best.” Her tone is perky and confident and somehow points out my own insecurities.
“Isabel?”
She looks over her shoulder and glares at Bettany.
“I know this feels weird.” Bettany moves toward a round table. “But honestly I know how you feel.”
“Whatever.” She does move toward us and plops down in the chair next to me.
“What’s your natural hair color?” Bettany studies Izzie’s head as if trying to peer under the ball cap. “Blonde?”
“How’d you know?”
“Your eyebrows and lashes.”
“Oh. Yeah. Blonde.”
“Well, that’s a great color to have. We have all sorts of shades from white blonde to a dirty blonde to even strawberry blonde. If you want, we can even try on a different shade, something fun. You might like it.”
Isabel doesn’t respond.
Bettany pulls a bald mannequin’s head out from behind the counter and sits it on the opposite side of the table from Izzie. “Are you in high school?”
“Yeah. A junior.”
“Great. Now are you going to want your hair attached or do you want to remove it at night?”
“I’m a swimmer.” Her voice wavers.
“Then you’ll want to be able to remove it. Okay.” Bettany smiles at her and suddenly removes her own hair. She places it carefully on the mannequin’s head. But Bettany’s scalp isn’t smooth. It’s scarred and crinkled in painful-looking pink patches. Tiny bits of dark hair poke through in places. “I was in an accident as a kid, Isabel. And now most of my hair won’t grow. So I wear a wig too. I think you’ll find out that it’s not so bad. You might even like it.”
Isabel stares at the young woman across from her, not even bothering to hide the horror and shock. “What happened?”
“Some acid hit me. I was really lucky that it didn’t get on my face or in my eyes.”
“Lucky?” Izzie’s always lived a fairly sheltered life and to have someone feel fortunate that an accident of this magnitude isn’t so bad is as foreign to her as the idea that some girls in the world aren’t permitted to attend school. Reality has now pierced her protective bubble.
“Absolutely!” Bettany grins. “Most people never know I’ve got this.” She runs a hand over her scalp. “And most people won’t know you have a wig on either. I promise. I’ll help you find the right one for you.”
Tears well up in Isabel’s eyes, and I smooth a hand over my daughter’s back, aching to keep her innocent of the trials of this world, and yet knowing that’s doing her a disservice.
With the wig chosen and placed carefully on Izzie’s head, I pull out my credit card.
“It’s how much?” Izzie’s voice rises, as does my blood pressure at the sight of the invoice.
“It’s okay.” I cup her arm to reassure her, but maybe it’s simply to steady me from the staggering amount.
“No, Mom. I can’t let you do this. All just because . . . no!”
I imagine my daughter, the only bald girl in school, and push my credit card toward Bettany. But Izzie snatches it away.
“My hair will grow.” She tugs on my arm. “Let’s go, Mom.”
I look to Bettany for help, not sure what I’m asking. To be allowed to pay for it? Or for her to forgive us taking up so much of her time? “We’re getting the wig, Izzie.”
“No, we’re not.”
“Your dad will contribute.” Or so I hope. “After all, it was his mother who instigated—”
“—escalated.” A hint of a smile peeks through her dark scowl.
Behind us, the door opens, and Izzie ducks behind me. As if I can hide her when she’s a good six inches taller. To help protect her from more ridicule or embarrassment, I suggest, “Why don’t you wait in the car? It won’t take but a few more minutes here.”
“If you get the wig”—she takes my keys—“I won’t wear it.”
Grinding my teeth, I know her words are true. With an I’m-so-sorry glance at Bettany, I hope she doesn’t work on commission, I slide my credit card back into my wallet.
“Isabel?”
I turn. “Terry!” I move forward to hug my friend who I haven’t seen . . . since that night in my neighborhood. Didn’t I promise to call her? A traffic jam of excuses piles up in my mind. “How are you?”
She hugs me back. “Good to see you, too.”
Beside her is her daughter, Lily, several years younger than Izzie, who used to babysit the little girl. Lily’s pale face and purple scarf covering her head makes my heart start to pound. Terry glances at Isabel, alarm showing in her face. “Is everything okay with you? With Isabel?”
I realize the unspoken question. “Oh, sure. We’re fine. Isabel just had a close encounter with a razor.”
Terry’s eyes widen even more.
“Nothing bad. No nicks or cuts even.” My joke falls flat. “Really, she’s fine.” I touch Izzie’s bare nape. How can I stand here with my bald daughter and proclaim such a blessing when obviously it’s not the case with Lily? “What about—?”
“Hi, Lily!” Bettany interrupts us. “Come with me. I’ve got something special for you.”
Together they go into the back through the green and white curtain. I’m left standing beside Terry with more questions and fears crowding in on me. She meets my gaze solidly as if she’s practiced this in the mirror. “Lily has cancer.”
There is no punch line with a statement like that. It hits me squarely in the stomach. “What? When did this happen?”
“A year and a half ago. She’s been through three rounds of chemo and radiation.” Terry doesn’t even attempt a smile or to sugarcoat the situation. Her honesty is breathtaking and heartbreaking. “She missed the end of third grade and all of fourth. But she’s finally feeling better so we thought we’d get her a wig.”
“I’m so sorry, Terry.” My hand folds over her forearm, and I give a slight squeeze as if willing something . . . hope, help, I-don’t-know-what into her. “I had no idea. What can I do to help?”
“Just pray. We need a miracle.”
My throat works up and down, and I’m unable to respond except with a nod.
“We’re hopeful things are going to work out.”
I keep nodding and manage to stop myself when the curtain parts again. A smiling Lily emerges. She has a new do. Short wispy brown curls frame her tiny face. “What do you think, Momma?” Her Minnie Mouse voice cracks open my heart to expose every mother’s worst nightmare. “Do you like it?”
Terry bends down and hugs her daughter fiercely yet tenderly. “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.”
“Come look at this, Lily!” Izzie calls from across the room. She’s trying on a Cleopatra look.
While Izzie entertains Lily, Terry and I catch up. She didn’t know about my divorce from Cliff any more than I knew about the hospital traumas her family has experienced. Izzie, Lily, and Bettany try on wigs together, pretending to be Miley Cyrus with long tresses then Cloris Leachman with a gray wig. They dance around like they’re on Dancing with the Stars. Terry watches her daughter, the corners of her eyes pinched and her mouth pulling in a wistful smile.
Eventually we say good-bye, promising this time to keep in touch. Izzie and I climb back in our car, our own smiles and laughter dying quickly. Izzie’s blue eyes brim with tears. “Is Lily going to be all right, Mom?”
Reassurances clog my throat. It’s always been my job as her mom to put a positive spin on disappointments and difficult questions, waving my magic wand and making problems—disease and heartbreak—disappear. Is that what my parents did so many years ago? Did they hide the difficulty in their marriage under the delusion they were saving me heartache only to pull the rug out from under me with a quickie, no-pain divorce? Have I done the same thing to Izzie? Will this be the big hurdle to trip up Izzie, lay her out flat, the way my parents’ divorce knocked me o
ut cold?
When Cliff and I argued during our marriage, I reassured Izzie with, “All parents argue. It’s okay. Daddy and Mommy love each other. We just don’t always agree.” I reassured myself that I was different from my folks. I was giving Izzie a realistic picture of married life. Arguments happen. But unfortunately so does divorce.
Maybe I was fooling myself then as much as Izzie. Because, obviously, Cliff did leave. I told Izzie at the time, “He’ll come back when he realizes what he really lost.” But who was I trying to convince? Maybe I was just sticking my head in the proverbial sand. So far, not facing the truth hasn’t worked out so well for either of us. So, now, eyeball-to-eyeball with an even more devastating situation, one that could definitely end in heartbreak, I don’t have an answer except for, “I don’t know.”
“I want to do something to help her!”
“I’m not sure there is anything we can do, Iz, except pray.” But my prayers feel pretty impotent these days.
“There’s got to be something.”
“You can’t save her, Iz.” Anymore than I can protect Izzie from life.
She stares out the window and is silent all the way home.
Chapter Twelve
You’ve got a date?” Marla’s question lies somewhere between annoyance and skepticism when I tell her what’s for dinner.
“It’s not a date.” I readjust the long, velveteen vest I found in my closet. “Just a . . . uh . . . thank-you. Sort of.”
She pulls the phone book out of the cabinet. “A note says thank you. Flowers too. But dinner out? That’s something else.”
An uneasiness tightens my stomach. Flowers are usually impersonal, or so I learned with Cliff. The flowers he sent (or ordered his secretary to send) were usually out of guilt. My gaze slips toward the single white rosebud still on the kitchen table. The petals have opened. I’m not sure I’m open to any other reason for this dinner.
Marla waves a hand. “There’s nothing wrong with you dating, Kaye. In fact, it’s probably a good idea.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re not still waiting for Cliff to come back to you, are you?” She purses her lips and gives me a once-over, a bold assessment that declares the impossibility of my dream. While I’m scrambling for a comeback, Marla shakes her head. My silence is answer enough. “Cliff has moved on, dear. And so should you. You married too early. If you hadn’t gotten yourself pregnant, the relationship never would have lasted more than two weeks.”