Free Goldengrove by Francine Prose Page A

there when Frank opens,” said Mom. “I’m sure he can fit you in.”
    “No, thanks,” I said. “That’s okay.”
    My mother’s expression combined pure sympathy with the suggestion that I might want to go look in the mirror. Who was that person across the sink? A taller, thinner version of me, a stranger who needed a haircut. Mom wasn’t trying to hurt me. She was trying to make me feel better.
    “Sure,” I told her. “Why not?”
    Mom seemed to be looking forward to it, as if a trip to Frank’s eggy-smelling salon was a comforting mother-daughter bonding rite, a test of faith that would involve entrusting ourselves to a guy with a comb-over who specialized in hennaing old ladies into redheaded Elvis imitators.
    I liked the idea of going somewhere with Mom, at least in the morning when she was still clear. It was easier to talk in the car, with no eye contact required and the changing scenery constantly wiping away the gummy residue of whatever we’d just said.
    But Frank couldn’t take us till afternoon, and by the time we left, Mom was drifting in and out, like a radio station on the edge of its broadcast range.
    She said, “So . . . are you looking forward to working . . .” I monitored her turn onto Route 9. “In the bookstore?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “I guess so.”
    I’d become the squirrelly one. My grief over Margaret was the hard little acorn I clutched to my chest. Knowing that my mother missed her too only made me feel more alone. Why couldn’t she help me first and do her own suffering later?
    We passed a tree in outrageous white bloom. A catalpa? An acacia? I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten. My mother whistled a classical melody that dribbled out of tune.
    “What should we talk about?” she said.
    I’d always known my parents loved Margaret more. Like everyone, they’d brightened when she walked into the room. I knew they loved me, loved being with me, but there wasn’t that same excitement. I’d never blamed Margaret. It wasn’t what she would have chosen. But I did blame my parents, at least for not hiding it better. It served them right that they’d lost her, and now they were stuck with me. But I knew that was foolish, because I’d lost her, too.
    It was a challenge to make conversation with Mom’s car drifting into the oncoming lane. The first time, I let it go. The second time, she was heading for a red pickup truck. I screamed, “Why are you driving this way?”
    “Which way?” said my mother, swerving at the last minute.
    I waited a beat. “Remember you said you were having all these déjà vus?”
    Mom said, “Hang on. Didn’t this happen before?”
    I twisted around to stare at her.
    “Only kidding,” she said.
    When we got to the parking lot, she said, “You want to go first?”
    I’d caught Mom’s forgetfulness, like a cold.
    “Haircut,” my mother said.
    “Oh. Right,” I said. “Sure. Frankenstein can practice on me.”
    Frank said he was sorry for our loss. I flopped into his chair. His looked apologetic, but competent and determined, like a veterinarian getting ready to mercy-kill a child’s doomed pet.
    “Don’t make it too short,” I pleaded. Frank smiled as if the child was instructing him on how to put Fluffy to sleep.
    I watched the sheets of hair drop. Frank ordered me to pick up my head, but I kept my eyes closed. I was afraid to look in the mirror and see Margaret dancing around me in our tropical, fragrant bathroom. When Frank leaned in to snip my bangs, I clenched my face like a fist.
    At last, Frank sprayed on a coat of shellac and hardened it under the dryer. As he stepped back to admire his ugly-duckling-into-swan miracle, I looked at my reflection. I hadn’t just gotten a haircut but a sex-change operation. The fish boy masquerading as me swam away, and I saw my mother staring. Her expression extinguished all hope that it wasn’t as bad as I thought.
    “You look lovely,” said Mom.
    “Thanks.” I glared at her. Was she