|
When The Rain Stops by Beth Mead Kayleigh whined for weeks that she wanted a haircut. Soon, I said. After I get paid. After I finish cleaning out the garage. I’m so tired. Next week, when the rain stops. Soon. She started scratching the back of her head and behind her ears, like a puppy, while watching TV, while doing homework at the kitchen table. Stop that, I said. I could tell she was trying to get under my skin, to punish me for putting her off. I did that, I knew. Put her off. It really itches, she said. It’s the cold weather, I told her, the dry heat in the house. I believed that. Stop acting like such a teenager, I said. Of course, of course, when I finally took her to the salon, the stylist called me over. I can’t cut her hair with evidence of live lice, she said, giving me that look, that combination of judgment and pity. Kayleigh’s body was small, collapsed in on itself in the chair, head down, eyes closed. Her hand went up to scratch her head, stopped, and fell back to her lap. Thank you, I said, and took Kayleigh’s hand, held it as we walked out the door, as we walked to the car. I hadn’t held her hand like that since she was a little girl, when she was fragile in a different way, easy to protect. When getting through each day didn’t make me so tired. I started the car and then looked at her, kept looking until she looked back. Don’t worry, I said. I’m going to take care of you. |
|
