Underneath the Sycamore Tree(2)

Two months ago, I tried dyeing it. The evidence of my failed attempt rests in my hand, a mixture of brown and blonde undertones. It was a summertime project that Mama told me not to bother with. She insisted my hair was too brittle.

Like always, Mama was right.

Like always, I was too stubborn to listen.

Not only did my tender scalp burn from the dye, but my hair fell out minutes after applying the color. It left my blonde strands in patches that Mama helped me rinse out.

Wrapping the evidence of my abnormality tight in my grasp, I stare at my reflection in the large mirror that hangs over the vanity. I see paleness. Baggy, glassy green-brown eyes. Narrowed cheekbones tinted pink but not from the expensive blush like Mama wore once upon time. Mine is from my body’s internal war on itself.

I’ve filled out since starting new medication last month. The doctor told me it should help regulate my system, so I stop losing weight. My cheekbones aren’t as prominent anymore, nowhere near as hollow and sickly. Instead of the three pills I was taking before leaving Bakersfield, I take nine. It’s worth it, I suppose, to not look so skeletal.

Usually I keep my head down while I go about my morning routine. It’s easier than seeing the way my collarbones stick out and hair thinly frames my face. I hate seeing my reflection because I don’t recognize the girl staring back.

Today I force myself to look. Dropping my fallen hair onto the granite countertop, I study what the mirror shows from the waist up. A sliver of my lean stomach peaks out from the blue tank top I sleep in. Travelling my gaze upward, I notice slim arms, narrow shoulders, all the way up to thin, chapped lips. Nothing about me is particularly beautiful, yet I still see Mama in my frailty.

For the longest time, she wouldn’t look at me for more than a few seconds. Her eyes would find mine as she told me good morning or wished me a good day at school, but then they would quickly go anywhere else. Grandma would pat my hand and tell me not to let it get to me. It wasn’t that easy though.

When Mama looked at me, she saw Logan and the possibility of another early funeral. I was always going to be a reminder that one of her daughters was dead, and for all she knew, I was mere steps behind.

So, I called Dad.

Grandma told me I didn’t have to move, but I knew it was for the best. I didn’t want to know that Mama’s eyes turned gold when she cried. They were always golden when I was around.

The mirror in front of me is bigger than the one in my old house. Unlike that old stained beige bathroom with chipped tiles, this one is light gray with hardwood floors and all new fixtures. Instead of a walk-in shower, I’ve got a large bathtub that could fit two sets of twins in it if necessary, and the amount of shelf space would have made Lo jealous.

A knock at my bedroom door pulls me away from my assessment. Brushing the loose hair into the white garbage can by the counter, I walk into the main room and hear Dad’s voice on the other side of the door.

“Are you up, Emery?” His voice is gravelly and hesitant, a tone he’s held since he helped unpack what little I brought with me from Mama’s house to this one across the state.

Truthfully, I’m not sure why either he or Mama agreed. I only ever heard from him on my birthday and Christmas and the conversation never lasted more than ten minutes if he could help it. He’s remarried with a gorgeous wife who’s the exact opposite of Mama in both looks and personality, and a stepson who’s broody and evasive no matter how hard I try getting to know him.

His life here was perfect.

Until me.

I open the door and give him a sleepy smile, which he returns easily. He tries to make me comfortable. His wife, Cam, has been nothing but sweet and her son Kaiden, despite his typical avoidance, could be worse. They’ve been welcoming since I arrived a month and a half ago, giving me anything I needed. A new doctor, a chance to decorate my room how I want, and space. Lots of space.

Dad works at a pharmaceutical company now. I don’t remember much of him from when I was little, just the suits he wore and the way he would give Mama a chaste kiss if we were around or a simple nod if he thought we weren’t looking. I never realized how unhappy they both looked then.

This man doesn’t look like the one I remember. His dark brown hair is peppered with gray, especially around the ears, and his hairline is receding. The natural tan skin I’ve always been jealous of is slightly wrinkled, and his eyes have a dull to them that I don’t recall seeing in the past. Is that from age or circumstance?

“Cam has breakfast cooking.” He rubs his arm, covered by a navy blazer, and gives me a weary look. “If you aren’t up to going today…”

Today. The first day at a new school. It’s my junior year even though I should be a senior like Kaiden. After missing too many classes from hospital admissions, I was held back.

“I’ll be fine.” It’s a weak reassurance that neither of us truly believes. It isn’t a lie though. I won’t be walking into a shark cage bleeding, so there are worse things to experience.

His gaze lingers, his eyes a light shade of brown with the same specks of emerald Mama told me I have. I don’t see it when I look in the mirror though.

“Emery…”

I stand there, gripping the doorknob in my hand until my fingers hurt, waiting for him to say something.

He clears his throat. “Happy birthday.”

Today. My eighteenth birthday.