childhood dresses and have afternoon tea with Aunt Jemima, the cat. The dresses never quite fit, but I wore them all the same, and Aunt Jemima and I never did take to tea, but we were both polite enough to keep up the pretense until my parents came to collect me at the end of the day. I told this story to Conor a few years ago, and he laughed, missing the point.
It was an easy point to miss—I won’t hold him accountable for that—but what I was aching for him to understand was that I’ve increasingly found that people never truly tire of playing games and dressing up, no matter how many years pass. Our lies now are just more sophisticated; our words to deceive, more eloquent. From cowboys and Indians, doctors and nurses, to husband and wife, we’ve never stopped pretending. But sitting in the taxi beside Dad while listening to Conor on the phone, I realize I’ve finally stopped pretending.
“Where is Conor?” Dad asks as soon as I’ve hung up. He opens the top button of his shirt and loosens his tie. He dresses in a shirt and tie every time he leaves the house, never forgets his cap. He looks for the handle on the car door, to roll the window down.
“It’s electronic, Dad. There’s the button. He’s still in Japan. He’ll be home in a few days.”
“I thought he was coming back yesterday.” He puts the window all the way down, and the wind topples the cap off his head; the few strands of hair left on his scalp stick up. He fixes the cap t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s / 5 5
back on his head and has a mini battle with the button before finally figuring out how to successfully leave a small gap at the top for air.
“Ha! Gotcha.” He smiles victoriously, thumping his fist at the window.
I wait until he’s finished celebrating to answer. “I told him not to.”
“You told who what, love?”
“Conor. You were asking about Conor, Dad.”
“Ah, that’s right, I was. Home soon, is he?”
I nod.
The day is hot, and I blow my bangs up from my sticky forehead. I feel my hair sticking to the back of my clammy neck. Suddenly it feels heavy and greasy on my head. I have the overwhelming urge to shave it all off. I become agitated in my seat, and Dad, sensing it again, knows not to say anything. I’ve been doing that all week: experiencing anger beyond comprehension, so much that I want to drive my fists through the walls and punch the nurses. Then I become weepy and feel such loss inside me, it’s as if I’ll never be whole again. I prefer the anger. Anger is better. Anger is hot and filling and gives me something to cling to. We stop at a set of traffic lights, and I look to my left. A hair salon.
“Pull over here, please.”
“What are you doing, Joyce?”
“I can’t take it anymore, Dad, I have to get my hair cut.”
Dad looks at the salon and then to the taxi driver, and they both know not to say anything. Just then, the taxi directly in front of us moves over to the side of the road too. We pull up behind it.
“Will you be long, love?”
“Ten minutes, fifteen max. Do you want to come in with me?”
Dad shakes his head vigorously, and his chin wobbles along 5 6 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
with it. Keeping the taxi waiting for me is indulgent, I know, but having Dad outside the salon, distracted, is better. I watch the cab in front of us. A man gets out, and I freeze with one foot out of the car to watch him. He looks familiar, and I think I know him. He pauses and looks at me. We stare at each other for a while. Search each other’s face. He scratches at his left arm; something that holds my attention for far too long. The moment is unusual, and goose bumps rise on my skin. I decide the last thing I want is to see somebody I know, and I look away quickly.
He turns and begins to walk.
“What are you doing?” Dad asks far too loudly, and I finally get out of the car.
I start walking toward the hair salon, and it becomes clear that my destination is the same as that of the
It was an easy point to miss—I won’t hold him accountable for that—but what I was aching for him to understand was that I’ve increasingly found that people never truly tire of playing games and dressing up, no matter how many years pass. Our lies now are just more sophisticated; our words to deceive, more eloquent. From cowboys and Indians, doctors and nurses, to husband and wife, we’ve never stopped pretending. But sitting in the taxi beside Dad while listening to Conor on the phone, I realize I’ve finally stopped pretending.
“Where is Conor?” Dad asks as soon as I’ve hung up. He opens the top button of his shirt and loosens his tie. He dresses in a shirt and tie every time he leaves the house, never forgets his cap. He looks for the handle on the car door, to roll the window down.
“It’s electronic, Dad. There’s the button. He’s still in Japan. He’ll be home in a few days.”
“I thought he was coming back yesterday.” He puts the window all the way down, and the wind topples the cap off his head; the few strands of hair left on his scalp stick up. He fixes the cap t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s / 5 5
back on his head and has a mini battle with the button before finally figuring out how to successfully leave a small gap at the top for air.
“Ha! Gotcha.” He smiles victoriously, thumping his fist at the window.
I wait until he’s finished celebrating to answer. “I told him not to.”
“You told who what, love?”
“Conor. You were asking about Conor, Dad.”
“Ah, that’s right, I was. Home soon, is he?”
I nod.
The day is hot, and I blow my bangs up from my sticky forehead. I feel my hair sticking to the back of my clammy neck. Suddenly it feels heavy and greasy on my head. I have the overwhelming urge to shave it all off. I become agitated in my seat, and Dad, sensing it again, knows not to say anything. I’ve been doing that all week: experiencing anger beyond comprehension, so much that I want to drive my fists through the walls and punch the nurses. Then I become weepy and feel such loss inside me, it’s as if I’ll never be whole again. I prefer the anger. Anger is better. Anger is hot and filling and gives me something to cling to. We stop at a set of traffic lights, and I look to my left. A hair salon.
“Pull over here, please.”
“What are you doing, Joyce?”
“I can’t take it anymore, Dad, I have to get my hair cut.”
Dad looks at the salon and then to the taxi driver, and they both know not to say anything. Just then, the taxi directly in front of us moves over to the side of the road too. We pull up behind it.
“Will you be long, love?”
“Ten minutes, fifteen max. Do you want to come in with me?”
Dad shakes his head vigorously, and his chin wobbles along 5 6 / C e c e l i a A h e r n
with it. Keeping the taxi waiting for me is indulgent, I know, but having Dad outside the salon, distracted, is better. I watch the cab in front of us. A man gets out, and I freeze with one foot out of the car to watch him. He looks familiar, and I think I know him. He pauses and looks at me. We stare at each other for a while. Search each other’s face. He scratches at his left arm; something that holds my attention for far too long. The moment is unusual, and goose bumps rise on my skin. I decide the last thing I want is to see somebody I know, and I look away quickly.
He turns and begins to walk.
“What are you doing?” Dad asks far too loudly, and I finally get out of the car.
I start walking toward the hair salon, and it becomes clear that my destination is the same as that of the
Similar Books
