Summer By The Sea. Susan Wiggs
leery of setting off an asthma attack. But he was on some new medication that controlled his condition better than ever.
“Okay,” he said softly. “I think that’s got it pretty good.” He smoothed both hands down the length of her hair, gathering it into a ponytail. Then he stepped out from behind her. “Rosa.”
Her eyes flew open. “What?”
“You look weird. Are you sure you want me to do this?”
“Absolutely.”
“Your funeral.” A moment later he stood behind her, snipping away. It was nothing like the way Mamma used to do this, but she didn’t care. She was happy to get rid of all the long, thick hair. It took a mother to look after hair like this, and without one she might as well get rid of it. Besides, there was someone out there who needed it more than Rosa did.
She felt lighter with each decisive snip. The fat ponytail fell to the ground and Alex stared down at it. “I’m not too good at this,” he said.
She fluffed her hand at her bare neck. Her head felt absolutely weightless. “How does it look?”
He regarded her with solemn contemplation. “I don’t know.”
“Of course you know. You’re looking right at me.”
“You just look…like Rosa. But with less hair.”
What did a boy know, anyway? With the exception of her friend Vince, no boy ever had a clue about hair and clothes. She’d have to get Vince and Linda to tell her.
She picked up the long ponytail and held it out at arm’s length. Alex stepped back, as though it were roadkill.
“Well,” she said. “They ought to be able to make a wig out of this.”
“A really good wig,” he said, edging closer. “Maybe two.”
She put the hair into a large Ziploc bag, like the instructions said to do. At that moment, Pop rolled a wheelbarrow around the corner from the front yard. He was whistling a tune, but it turned to a strangled gasp when he saw Rosa.
“Che cosa nel nome del dio stai facendo?” he yelled, dropping the handles of the barrow and rushing to her side. Then he rounded on Alex, spotted the scissors in his hand and raised a fist in the air. “You. Raggazzo stupid. What in the name of God have you done?”
Alex turned even paler than usual and dropped the scissors into the grass. “I…I…I…”
“I made him do it,” Rosa piped up.
“Do what?” Mrs. Montgomery came out to see what all the ruckus was about. She took one look at Rosa and said, “Dear God.”
“It is the boy’s fault,” Pop sputtered. “He—he—”
“I said, I made him do it,” Rosa repeated, more loudly. She held out the clear plastic bag. “I’m donating my hair to…” Suddenly it was all too much—Alex’s sheepish expression, the horror on Pop’s face, Mrs. Montgomery’s disapproval, the bag of roadkill hair. The explanation that had made such perfect sense a few minutes ago suddenly stuck in her throat.
And then she did the unthinkable. Right in front of them all, she burst into tears. Her only thought was to get away as fast as possible, so she dropped the bag and ran, all but blinded by tears. She raced as though they were chasing her, but of course they weren’t. They were probably standing around shaking their heads saying, Poor Rosa and What would her mother think.
She ran instinctively toward the ocean, where she could be alone on the empty beach. Breathless, she flopped down and leaned against the weatherbeaten sand fence and hugged her knees up to her chest. Then she lost it for good, the sobs ripping from a place deep inside her she had foolishly thought had healed over. It would never heal, she knew that now. She would always be broken inside, a motherless daughter, a girl forced to raise herself all on her own, with no one to stop her from doing stupid things, or to tell her everything was going to be okay after she did them.
Her chest hurt with violent sobs, yet once she started, she couldn’t stop. It was as if she had to get out all the sadness she usually kept bottled up inside. The crashing surf eclipsed her voice, which was a good thing, because she was gasping and hiccupping like a drowning victim. After a few minutes of this, she felt weak and drained. The wind blew her chopped-off hair, and she brushed at it impatiently.
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