The Stillwater Girls(44)

It’s almost how Mama used to do it, only Mama was never this gentle, and the water was always cold by the time she got to me. She’d always use the warm water on the younger ones, saying they needed it more than I did.

The woman wraps a towel around my head and leads me back to her chair, taking her time combing it out before the first snip is made. I squeeze my eyes shut at first, though I’m not sure why, and by the time I open them, I’m surrounded in the kind of lightness I’ve never known.

Sage hasn’t looked up from the booklet Nicolette gave her, carefully selecting her hairstyle. As the woman rubs lotions throughout my damp strands that smell nothing like the coconut salve Mama used on us, I can’t help but think about Evie. Where she is. What she’s doing. If Mama’s filling her head with the same old lies.

And that’s exactly what they were.

Lies.

Our entire life was a lie, and if it wasn’t? Then nothing around me makes sense.

Mama’s stories aren’t adding up.

On the way here, I saw people walking dogs, unbothered by the cold and waving to one another with gloved hands and colorful knit scarves and hats. They seemed happy to be outside, happy to see one another, smiling and exchanging “hellos.” I also saw houses beside houses, shops beside shops, cars parked all along the sidewalks. When Mama would talk about her childhood, she’d mention those things, but she’d talk like they weren’t around anymore, that the world was a sick and twisted place and there was nothing left but the ruins of a beautiful place that once was and never would be again.

The lady grabs a small black machine and clicks a button on the side. In an instant, a burst of hot air blows hair into my face. After a few minutes, my eyelids become like weights on my face. I could fall asleep right here in this chair. Everything feels so good, and I don’t know why.

“What do you think about this one, Wren?” Sage taps my shoulder, shoving the booklet at me and pointing to a photo of a girl with blunt hair just past her shoulders and fringe along her forehead that stops at her eyebrows.

“I think that would look lovely on you,” the lady says over the loud hum of her machine. “Excellent choice.”

Tonight I’m going to take one of those bubble baths Nicolette was telling us about last night. And I might even borrow one of the books from her library. I pulled a few fiction novels earlier today, before we left for the clothing store. I couldn’t stop staring at their vivid covers and breathing in the clean scent of their crisp, ivory pages. They weren’t musky with spines so cracked you could hardly read the lettering. They were little works of art, and there were hundreds of them all lined up neatly in a bookcase as wide as her wall, spanning from the floor to the ceiling.

I’m going to read them all.

The woman clicks the machine off, and the blanket of heat that surrounded me is quickly replaced with cool air. She reaches for another piece of equipment, this one long and slender, and she begins running it over the length of my hair, section by section, letting each strand return to my shoulders with a gentle fall.

From beneath the apron that covers my shoulders, I lift a hand to my hair, gliding my palm over my silken locks. With all this shine, my hair looks more golden than ever, and I can’t stop studying my reflection.

I do that a lot now . . . now that there are mirrors everywhere I go.

That’s another thing—people love their mirrors here. They’re in bathrooms and bedrooms. Hallways and cars. Some women even carry them in their bags everywhere they go. We only ever had one, and we hung it above the washbasin. Mama mostly used it when she was doing her hair, but for the most part we had no use for it.

I always knew what I looked like, but it wasn’t something I concerned myself with or thought about too often. But the last couple of days, every time I pass a mirror, I can’t help but stop and stare, studying my features and still wondering why I don’t have a single one in common with Mama.

I picture my bright-yellow hair next to her wavy, dark-blonde locks. My hooded eyelids next to her prominent dusky blue gaze. Mama had a strong jawline, a “German jaw” as she always called it, and everything from her brow line to her chin was defined, chiseled almost. My face is quite round in shape, my features all soft and smooth compared to hers.

I never told Mama, but every once in a while in those “false memories” as she called them, there was a woman. A woman who wasn’t my mama but looked at me like she was. She had the same saffron-gold hair as I do, though hers was curly, and when she smiled there was a gap between her front teeth.

I’ve seen that woman in my dreams so many times I could probably sketch her from memory.

“Nicolette?” I ask.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Do you think we could order some paper and pencils from your supply man?”

Her mouth rises at the sides. “Of course. Actually, there’s a place down the street that sells them. We’ll stop there as soon as we leave.”

Tonight I’m going to try.





CHAPTER 28

NICOLETTE

“How did you meet him?” Sage asks as she flips through a photo album and studies an image of my husband.

Brant should be home any minute, and I can’t stop looking at the clock. I spent the afternoon on the phone with Dr. Pettigrew, quietly hashing out various scenarios and how to handle them, though she assured me the girls are adjusting well—better than expected—and she didn’t anticipate any issues. Nevertheless, she rattled off a bunch of signs to look for, signs that the girls are uncomfortable but not necessarily vocalizing it. I scribbled them down and shoved them in my pocket, though I’m not sure why. I’ve read them enough today that they’re burned into my memory.