Free Angel Fire by Lisa Unger

succeeded in reaching into the heart of her somehow. Maybe that was his technique … to deny his powers and then to pull some kind of mind-reading stunt, catch people off guard.
    As she unsteadily started the engine, she became aware again of the shadow of a feeling that had started in the church garden. She felt like someone was watching her. She could see no one butshe backed up quickly and drove away. In her rearview mirror, she caught a glimpse of movement in the garden.
    As she drove, memories of her mother washed over her again.
    For Marion Strong life had been a series of disappointments, some mundane, some catastrophic. Maybe her expectations were too high, her dreams unrealistic. But perhaps, as Marion believed, fate had been stingy with her, denying her everything but her beautiful, intelligent daughter.
    Marion was a serious woman, for life was not a matter to be taken lightly. No one had ever accused her of being frivolous. She was severe, tall and athletic. Square-jawed and unsmiling, with blazing green eyes, she was a striking figure. Her black hair, streaked with gray since her late teens, was eternally pulled back into a tight bun worn at the nape of her neck. She considered herself sensible, frugal. She had been accused of being inflexible, unyielding, hard. These were the favorite criticisms of her ex-husband, who had left just before Lydia was born. But she knew she had to be that way; otherwise life had a way of whipping the reins out of her hands, running wild, rushing headlong into consequences as unforgiving as a stone wall.
    But Lydia knew another place inside her mother as well. In the evenings, after the dinner dishes were washed, after homework was completed and checked, Lydia joined Marion in her bedroom. In the upper right-hand corner of the mahogany dresser was a sterling-silver, soft-bristled brush and a matching box for hairpins.
    Lydia’s mother didn’t allow her to touch these things when she was not present. Eager to show her mother how responsible she could be, she removed them from their place with care, feeling Marion’s watchful eyes on her. Carefully she pulled the heavydrawer out by its wrought-iron rings. She removed the brush and box, handling them gingerly, as if they were glass, placed them on the dresser-top and then quietly slid the drawer closed. Her mother hated loud, sudden noises.
    Marion sat at the foot of the bed and Lydia sat behind her, legs crossed. She removed each pin from her mother’s hair and placed it in the box. Then Lydia untwisted the long plait, careful not to pull it but to unravel it like a spool of silk. It was naturally wild and curly and thick like a cloud when it was free from its knot, reminding Lydia of a caged animal released.
    Then slowly, gently, Lydia ran the brush through the beautiful tresses of her mother’s hair that grew almost to the small of her back. With each stroke the tension of Marion’s day, of her life, seemed to wash away. Lydia could see her mother’s face in the dresser mirror that hung directly opposite the bed. The deep furrows, which seemed permanently etched on her brow when she came home, disappeared. Her eyes closed and a half-smile graced her beautiful, full lips. After Lydia had completed fifty strokes, she’d return the brush and pins to the drawer as carefully as she’d removed them. Then she lay next to her mother on her bed.
    If she had done her job well, her mother was pliant and relaxed. Here her mother could be soft, indulgent, laughing at Lydia’s jokes and listening intently to the events of her day. Lydia knew that this was the true woman. Later, after her mother had been killed and Lydia grew older, she had wondered how her mother’s life would have been different had Marion shown that part of herself to the rest of the world, rather than saving her most beautiful side for the hour before the sun set. Had her hardness made her unhappy, or had her unhappiness made her hard? Had her father known this