Underneath the Sycamore Tree(29)

Pushing the thought away, I let the hairstylist, Jess, guide me to the sinks. I used to love getting my hair done—feeling the stylist massage the shampoo into my scalp. It relaxed me. Sometimes it even put me to sleep. Now all I can feel are the pinpricks of pain radiating across my skull as gentle fingers work my frail strands. It’s why I don’t get my hair cut often, because the small gasps as chunks come out into the sink despite me telling them it could happen never stops my face from heating.

But Jess just reassures me. She doesn’t make a sound, even when I’m sure the drain is becoming well acquainted with my hair. She hums along to a song and then asks me how school is.

What year are you?

What’s your favorite subject?

What are your future plans?

Junior.

English.

Not to die.

I don’t tell her the last one. Instead, I say that I haven’t decided yet and get the generic you have time response. But do I?

There are lots of quotes about time.

Time is fleeting.

Time is valuable.

Time shouldn’t be wasted.

The trouble with time is that we only think we have it. It’s an illusion—an excuse to linger in existence. Some people use it to be reckless, others use it to hold themselves back.

The kids stamping YOLO on their foreheads have no idea what they’re bartering with when they tempt death. They think they’re invincible. And me? I have to watch healthy people with thousands of chances live like they’re not afraid of death at all.

Time is a luxury we can’t all afford.





Chapter Twelve





The tips of my blonde hair kiss the top of my shoulders. I’m not used to the style—side bangs and choppy layers, but it’s cute. Different. It also manages to hide my thinner sections without much hassle.

Looking in the mirror now, I see Mama. I see her round green eyes and her tiny nose, and how her top lip is a little thinner than her bottom. I was always told I looked like a perfect mixture of both my parents, but in the moment I don’t see Dad at all.

Carefully, I run my fingers through my hair. To my surprise, barely any falls out. Jess told me everything she used, including some special shampoo for people with brittle hair. Cam insists on buying some before we leave, and I feel bad knowing it costs a pretty penny.

She says she doesn’t mind.

She says she wants to help.

Following her out the door, we enter her vehicle in silence. The wind catching the back of my neck is foreign and makes goosebumps appear on my arms, but I don’t mind it. It’s warm today, so the breeze feels nice even if it’s a reminder of the necessary new style.

Cam looks at me and smiles. “You look beautiful, Em.”

Em. Not Emery. My heart warms to this woman even more. The woman who’s not my mother, but the very one who’s given me more chances than my own back in Bakersfield. I want to feel guilty for liking her, for even considering her better, but I can’t. I see why Dad loves her so much.

We spend two hours at the mall going through each store. I want to tell her after an hour that I need to sit down, my hips hurt and I feel my knees start to buckle. They nearly do when we get to the Shoe Depot. I sit down on a black leather cushion right as my legs give out, weakness settling into the joints in brutal bluntness, but Cam is too busy looking at the wall of purses to notice.

I smile faintly when she glances over at me and tell her the purple one she’s looking at is my favorite. It’s not. It’s the yellow one to the right with the gold chain and zipper.

Thankfully, she doesn’t mind me sitting while she looks around. It gives me time to relax and glance around the shoe displays. They have a section for Toms right in front of me, but I know I don’t need any more.

Still…

“Those are cute,” Cam says from behind me. I startle and pull away from the black and white checkered pair.

Lo would have loved them. It reminds me of the matching dresses Mama bought us for kindergarten. The teachers couldn’t tell us apart despite the bow in my hair being yellow and hers being pink. After that, we weren’t allowed to be in the same class.

Sitting back, I say, “They are.”

“Aren’t you going to try them on?”

Wetting my bottom lip, I shake my head and clear my throat. “No, I have plenty of shoes. I’m actually pretty tired. Do you think we could go home?”

I could use at least an hour nap, which will probably lead to sleeping away the rest of my Saturday. My body tires on days I’m always on my feet. Tomorrow I’ll probably be worse, which means I need to double my normal medication to make sure I can move. I also know that means risking being twice as tired since one of my meds knocked me out during the first week and a half of being on it. Doubling it, though recommended by my doctor, could mean sleeping for thirteen hours straight and still waking up groggy.

Goodbye weekend.

Internally sighing, I stand up.

After paying and leaving the store, my eye catches a yellow beaded bracelet from a small kiosk by the mall entrance. There are scarves, hats, and sunglasses all hanging colorfully from the sides. It’s not those I focus on, but the bracelet in all its simplicity.

Walking over, I examine the little sunflower charms mixed into the plain beads. My fingertip runs over the words.

You are my sunshine.