Damage - A. M. Jenkins [35]
“No,” you say, getting angry, too. You roll onto your back again. “I’m not.”
“Apparently”—Heather whirls away from the mirror—“you are.” She walks over to the blouse hanging on the doorknob, pulls it free, jerks it over her head. Snatches her jeans up off the floor where she left them.
She won’t come sit on the bed to put her jeans on but turns her back to you, teetering to balance on one foot while she thrusts the other one into the pants leg.
She’s pretty angry. You think about the note, all torn up, then taped back together. About how it looks kind, and how she doesn’t want anybody to see it. And how it seems to be a good-bye.
And suddenly you think you understand why she’s upset. “Heather…” You pull a pillow onto your chest. Push it off again; you’re still thinking. Roll onto your side, prop up one elbow. “It’s okay to—if you ever wanted to talk about your dad, you could talk to me.”
She still refuses to face you; you hear her zip the jeans. “You don’t talk about your dad.” Her voice is cold.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“There’s nothing for me to talk about, either.”
“But I don’t remember anything,” you begin—stop. Because there is the one thing you remember.
Heather stalks over, pulls open the bottom right-hand drawer, which, sure enough, is brimming with ribbons and barrettes. She picks out the butterfly clip. Steps over to the mirror and starts brushing her hair again. Briskly, this time, pulling the brush through so fast it crackles.
“You do remember something,” she says, twisting hair up behind her head. “I can tell. So go ahead. Spill it.”
She holds the twist with one hand, slides the butterfly clip in. Snap! It’s done. Perfectly.
You don’t particularly want to spill it. But you feel like reaching out a little, and you do want her to trust you—although you don’t really expect it to be quick and easy. She’s so touchy about things.
So you’ll put your own self on the line first. “Well, there is this one thing,” you tell her. You feel your face get a little warm and pull the pillow close to your chest again. “But it’s more like a feeling or a dream. Only it was real.”
“Go ahead.”
You finger the corner of the pillowcase, trying think what to say. You don’t really want to say anything, but somebody has to go first. “I must have been very little—I remember sitting up on the bathroom counter next to him, and we’d shave together. Except I was playing, you know—I had this toy razor. Not a real one.”
She doesn’t say anything. Just turns her head this way and that, checking her twist for flaws.
“That’s all,” you tell her, and roll back on the bed.
“Rats,” says Heather. Apparently she’s found a flaw—she pulls the clip out. “Your dad died from cancer, right?” she asks, picking up the brush to start all over again.
“Yeah.”
“So everybody knew ahead of time that he was going to, you know. Die.” She brushes her hair out with businesslike strokes. “I’ll bet you got to go say good-bye him and everything. Didn’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m sure you did. It’s very important. It’s like something’s unfinished, if you don’t get to do it.” She pulls the hair up into that same smooth, shining twist, clips it with a snap! “I used to have dreams where I said good-bye. I don’t need anybody’s pity,” she adds, giving you a defiant glance in the mirror.
“I don’t think anybody pities you.”
“That’s right. They don’t.” She checks her hair—identical to the way she did it a second ago, as far as you can tell. “This looks okay, doesn’t it?”
“It looks great. Was that note from your dad?” you ask.
Heather freezes, blinks at her reflection for moment. Then, without a word, she walks away. “You know what’s good about jeans?” she asks, keeping her back to you as she scoops up the makeup-stained blouse. “Blue is actually a neutral color. Anything goes with them. I’ll bet you didn’t know that.” She pauses there, blouse in hand, as if she’s suddenly lost track of what she’s doing. You see her take a deep breath. “Did you ever have this feeling like you’re not sad or anything, but like something