What the Wind Knows(24)
“No. You’re doing fine. Thank you.”
“I’d forgotten what it sounded like.”
“What?”
“Your laugh.”
I stopped laughing immediately. I was an imposter, and the knowledge was ugly and frightening. The stream of water continued until my head was so heavy with the watery weight, it pulled at my side. I swayed, and Thomas steadied me, wringing the length of my hair with his right hand while he held on to me with his left.
“I need both my hands to wash your hair. If I let go, are you going to fall?”
“No.”
“It does no good to say you won’t if you will,” he chided. Something about the accent, the singsong words chopped with very distinct Ts, slid beneath my skin. I didn’t know if it was simply the sound of my childhood, of Eoin, but it comforted me. Thomas released me slowly, testing the veracity of my claim. When I didn’t wobble, he rushed to lather the streaming mass with a chunk of soap. I grimaced, but not from pain. I couldn’t imagine what my hair was going to look like when it dried. I used expensive hair products to keep my curls from becoming frizzy and unmanageable.
He was thorough but gentle—working the soap through my hair and rinsing it free, long fingers on my scalp, a steady presence at my side—and his kindness made me weepy. I gritted my teeth to battle the tears that pricked my eyes and told myself I was ridiculous. I must have swayed again because Thomas pulled a towel around my shoulders, squeezed the excess water from my hair, and eased me down to the stool once more.
“Do you have . . . oil . . . or tonic . . . to smooth the hair?” I stammered, trying to use appropriate terms. “Something to ease the tangles?”
Thomas’s brows rose, and he pushed back the dark lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. His shirt was damp, and his sleeves, rolled to the elbows, hadn’t fared much better.
I felt like a needy child. “Never mind. I’m sorry. Thank you for helping me.”
He pursed his lips, thinking, and turned to the tall cupboard near the door. “My mother used to wash her hair with a well-beaten egg and rinse it with rosemary tea. Maybe next time, eh?” He looked at me with the barest hint of a smile. He took a fine-toothed metal comb and a small glass bottle from the cupboard. A yellow label with “Brilliantine” written above a drawing of a man with deeply parted, slicked-back hair made me think the bottle belonged to him.
“I’ll just use a wee dab. It leaves a greasy residue that Brigid complains about. She says I leave spots on the furniture where I rest my head.” He sat on the toilet and pulled the stool I was sitting on toward him so that I was situated between his knees, my back to him. I heard him remove the lid of the tonic and rub his hands together. The scent was not unpleasant, as I’d feared. It smelled like Thomas.
“Start at the tips and work your way up,” I suggested softly.
“Yes, madam.” His tone was droll, and I bit my lip, trying not to laugh. The intimacy of his actions was not lost on me. I couldn’t imagine other men of the 1920s caring for their women this way. And I was not his woman.
“No patients to see today?” I asked as he began to do as I’d suggested, working his hands up through the wet strands that hung down my back.
“It’s Sunday, Anne. The O’Tooles don’t work on Sundays, and I don’t see patients, unless it’s an emergency. I’ve missed Mass two weeks in a row. I’m sure Father Darby will be stopping by to ask why and to drink my whiskey.”
“It’s Sunday,” I repeated, trying to remember what day it had been when I’d spread Eoin’s ashes on Lough Gill.
“I pulled you out of the lough last Sunday. You’ve been here for a week,” he supplied, gathering my hair in his hand and carefully working the stiff comb through the length.
“What’s the date?” I asked.
“July third.”
“July 3, 1921?”
“Yes, 1921.”
I was silent as he continued, carefully picking through the snarls. “They’ll call a truce,” I murmured.
“What?”
“The British will propose a truce with the Dáil. Both sides will agree on July 11, 1921.” The date, unlike many of the others, had stuck in my head, because July 11 was Eoin’s birthday.
“And you know this how, exactly?” He didn’t believe me, of course. He sounded weary. “De Valera has been trying to convince the British prime minister to accept a truce since December of last year.”
“I just do.” I closed my eyes, wondering how I would ever tell him, how I would convince him of who I was. I didn’t want to pretend I was someone else. But if I wasn’t Anne Finnegan Gallagher, would he let me stay? And if I couldn’t go home, where would I go?
“There. That should do it,” Thomas said, and ran the towel over the freshly combed strands, blotting up the water and excess oil. I touched the sleek length, the ends already starting to curl, and thanked him quietly. He stood and, hands curved around my upper arms, helped me to my feet.
“I’ll leave you now. There’s a cloth and soap for washing. Stay clear of your bandages. I’ll be close. Call to me when you’re done. And for heaven’s sake, don’t faint.” He moved toward the door but hesitated as he turned the knob. “Anne?”