I have to knock five separate times before Janet finally yells at me to stop the racket.
I’m surprised that after last night the front door is still unlocked like it usually is. I find Janet in bed, her head covered with a blanket, and I realize that maybe she hasn’t left this spot in hours, maybe even all day.
She points toward the corner of her room.
“Birdie left that evil number puzzle thing,” she says through the blanket. “Where is he, anyway?”
“Patrick’s. He said the new clothes were itchy today. Are you going to Snip ’n’ Shine? Did you go this morning?”
“Didn’t go. And not going.”
“Come on, Janet.”
“What? All I do there is sweep hair. And fold the towels when Captain Cherylene is feeling particularly generous.”
“So now you’re just going to go to school and forget Snip ’n’ Shine?”
“No, I’m giving that up too. Now let me sleep.”
“Have you eaten anything?”
She grunts and I leave her and go into the kitchen. The counters are still a mess, filled with open food containers, the empty pizza box, a fast-food bag, and lots of mugs and half-filled cups and soda cans. I throw everything away and fill the sink with dishes, hot water, and soap. I find an overripe banana and some bread and peanut butter in the fridge. I make us sandwiches and pour Janet a big glass of water. She’s still in the same position when I return to her room.
“I made you a sandwich,” I say.
“What are you, my mom, now?” she says through the blanket.
I think she’s joking, so I laugh. “Yeah, right. Like your mom ever made a sandwich for you.”
She uncovers her head and looks me in the eye. “She did. She used to make me cheese and mayonnaise sandwiches when I was a kid.” She takes the sandwich from the plate and it’s gone in a minute and then she drinks most of the water.
“Hand me the brush,” she says, sighing, and I roll my eyes and hand it to her. She divides my hair into two sections down the middle of my head and starts brushing.
I stare at her empty plate. I’ve never had a cheese and mayonnaise sandwich before.
“My mama would sometimes disappear too,” I say. I feel the brush stop for just a moment. “Sometimes she disappeared into her room. Other times, when she had some grand idea in her head, she’d be gone out of the house.”
Janet ties sections of my hair back and starts to braid.
“But she made the best roasted tomato sandwiches and made up the best games.”
She finishes one braid and then picks up another portion of hair.
“What happened to her?” Janet asks in a quiet voice.
“There was a car accident,” I say. “Black ice on the road. She passed away.”
The brush stops. Janet lays it in her lap.
Neither of us says anything and I’m grateful she isn’t asking a bunch of questions.
“So my aunt Veronica and her husband live in this giant house that they built on a golf course,” Janet says. I can tell she’s trying to sound normal, but her voice is sad too. “They have two snot-faced kids and a new baby that poops literally every hour. My mom was uncomfortable the entire time and when she told them how I was working at a salon and how some customers were wanting to try me for their hair, they didn’t get it. All my aunt said to my mom was, ‘What about college? You’re not going to just let her cut hair for a living, are you? Don’t you want something better for her?’ She had her stupid plastic surgery nose curled up in the air like cutting hair was a job that smelled bad.” Janet stands up and walks around. “So we left. On the drive home my mom said we’d never go back there and I was glad. Rich stuck-up jerks.” I try not to look at her, but from the corner of my eye, I see her wipe her nose with her sleeve.
My heart beats a few times, pounding hard because I’ve never heard Janet sound truly hurt.
“But you know what’s horrible?” she says between sniffing. “All I could think was that at least my aunt had gone and married some rich dude. At least her kids have a real house and parents who are there and I didn’t see any bruises. A mom and a dad and a big house. At least she’s done that for her kids.” She looks over at me and her mascara is running all the way down her face to the end of her chin. “They have every perfect thing and they are still horrible. I just don’t get it.”
She wipes her face with her sleeve. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry for blabbing on like an idiot when your mom has passed away.”
“You aren’t blabbing on like an idiot.”
She kind of scoffs, but I can tell she’s trying to keep herself from crying again.
“No one ever knows what to say,” I whisper.
A great surge of sorrow presses on the inside of my head. But it’s okay to feel sadness when you are one island next to another. We are an archipelago.
“It’s like everyone in my family disappears,” I say. “Uncle Carl has disappeared into his apartment. Rosie disappeared to England. And after everything that’s happened, Patrick still disappears into that stupid silo shed.”
“Patrick still won’t let you see Carl?”
“No. And I know if I could just go to Uncle Carl’s apartment, I could get him to plug his phone back in. I could help him get better.”
Janet picks up the brush again.
“You know, I’ve never seen Patrick like he was last night. He really stood up to Ross. Can you tell him I said thank you?”
“I will.”
“And I can try to go to Carl’s. He probably won’t answer the door for me, but I can at least remind him that you and Birdie need him.”
That’s when I
