Underneath the Sycamore Tree(26)

And I didn’t pick up.

Why didn’t I hear it ring?

It’s on silent.

Feeling tears build in my eyes, I blink them away and rub the back of my wrists against my closed eyelids. I won’t cry. Mama could have left a message and told me to call her back. She could have texted me saying she loved me or that she missed Logan.

She never once told me she missed her with words.

Throwing the blankets off my overheated body, I head to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. My eyes are puffy and bloodshot, and my lips are chapped and bleeding. The girl in the glass looks pathetic, and I’m sick of looking at her.

Sometimes I wish I could break the glass—put my fist right through it without risking cuts and infections. Maybe I’ll tack a sheet over it so I don’t have to see the reminder of who I’m forced to be.

Jaw ticking, I turn away from the mirror and grab my hairbrush from where it sits on the counter. When I run it through my brittle hair, I don’t expect to see the mass of strands fall onto the countertop in front of me.

My hairbrush stills.

My hands shake.

My breath stops.

Slowly, I reach out and pick up the large chunk. Blowing out a rough breath, I force my gaze upwards to see a section of hair that’s thinner than ever.

When I turn my head, I see my scalp. Burning hot tears well in my eyes as I stare. “Oh my God.”

The brush drops onto the floor with a loud crash, the plastic clattering against the hard floor. I don’t care. Instead, I focus on my head and how thin my hair has gotten. I’ve noticed more and more meet my shower drain, but usually ignore it. Women lose around fifty to one hundred strands per day. I looked it up.

I’ve had to unclog my drain once a week, to clean off my pillow with the countless strands that greet me in an unwelcome way every morning. I tell myself it’s no big deal.

It’s just hair. But hair is everything. It’s a way to express myself, to hide, to feel pretty. Without it, who am I?

Stepping away, I drop the hair onto the counter and carefully play with what remains on my head. My scalp hurts today. Usually it’s a dull pain that I can tolerate as long as I don’t play too much with it. Today is different, like I’ve slept with my hair in a tight ponytail all night. Eyes watering all over again, I try hiding the bald spot, but nothing I do seems to work.

Cam calls my name from outside my bedroom. Did I lock my door? I never do. Will she come in? She never has.

The knob turns.

“Emery?” Cam says again.

Do I pretend I’m not here? I swallow my pain and brush away my tears and take a deep breath. “B-bathroom.”

I’m not sure why I say it. Maybe if I said nothing she would have walked out. Part of me needs her though.

Needs a maternal figure.

Because mine didn’t leave a message on the anniversary of my sister’s death.

Cam’s knuckles wrap against the open door before she peeks her head in. Her eyes note the hairbrush on the floor, which she bends down and picks up before seeing the hair on the counter.

“Emery?” Her voice is quiet.

I meet her gaze with tear-filled eyes.

“Oh, sweetie.” She reaches out and takes my hand, brushing her thumb against my skin. I don’t pull away or wince, because I need her warmth and comfort right now.

“I don’t know how to fix it…” My voice cracks when I turn and show her what I mean. She gently brushes hair over the spot before realizing what I’ve already concluded.

She gives me a soft smile. “How about you and I go to my favorite salon? The girls there can try giving us advice on how to cover it. Maybe you could do a new style.”

Us not me.

Cam wants to do this together.

It causes a tear to slip through the blockade I try trapping it behind. She wipes it away with her thumb and pulls me in for a gentle hug, rubbing my back in circular motions.

When I was little, Mama used to run her fingers through my hair. It soothed me anytime I had a fever or cold and needed Mama’s touch. My body would ease into hers as she sang to me. She wouldn’t stop playing with my hair until I fell asleep, and she wouldn’t move an inch even when I was sure her arms had gone numb.

I want that Mama back.

I want someone to play with my hair without it hurting or falling out.

But for now, I’ve got Cam.

At least I have that.

“Okay,” I whisper, sniffing back tears and pulling away.

She squeezes my upper arm. “I know things have been tough for you, especially since moving here, but I want you to know that I’ll be there for you in any way I can. There are reasons your father hasn’t told Kaiden about his past, and it’s not because he’s ashamed.”

“Then why?”

“How about we talk about it later?”

Her eyes go to the door, as if she’s afraid of who might hear. So, I nod and silently hold her to it. I know better than to pry in people’s past, but if she’s offering answers that Kaiden won’t, I won’t turn down the information.

She lets me finish getting ready while she makes a call to the salon. I slide into a pair of bootcut jeans and a plain white tee, then shrug on a yellow zip up hoodie and slide into my favorite pair of pineapple Toms. I used to get teased at my old school for my weird style. Whereas most people preferred tighter, shorter outfits, I liked baggier ones. When your skin is so sensitive and it’s practically paper thin, any piece of clothing that hugs it feels like sandpaper in comparison. Nobody understands that a single touch can hurt, that cashmere is brutal, or that my so-called weird style is more necessity than personal choice. My shoes were always out of the ordinary, but the only things I could really choose for myself for their style, and I owned way more yellow than most other humans, but it always reminds me of sunshine and Logan and how happy she was.