Chapter Ten
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Children go to the knot factory every night. The children love it there. The factory gives them tangles and dreams of child labor.
Wolfe
It is a truth universally acknowledged by parents everywhere that if you have a child, and that child is a girl, and that girl has long hair, that long hair will be the most tangled two minutes before you have to leave the house.
“Sit up straight,” I remind Amia for the fourth time. “When you hunch like that, it makes your hair go into your neck and I can’t brush it.”
“That’s the point,” she says. “It hurts when you brush it.”
“It wouldn’t hurt if you’d been brushing it when you brush your teeth, like you’re supposed to.
When you don’t take care of yourself, there are consequences.
If you need help with your hair, I can help you, but you can’t let it go for several days like this, or it’ll get knotty, and it’ll hurt when–”
“I know!” she interrupts, voice pitched high and irritated. “You’ve told me!”
I reach for patience. At 7:20 AM on a school day. When she doesn’t have her shoes on, and we really should’ve left thirty seconds ago, but the matted mess at the base of her skull tells me it’ll be another ten before we even leave the bathroom.
Balanced on the ledge of a tub that is not a width meant to accommodate a full-grown man’s behind, I wonder if I ever knew what patience even was.
I reach deeper, find the flimsy edge of the discipline, and pull.
“Is there something that might make this task feel easier for you?” I ask. Maybe a different type of brush is the answer, or some extra strength super sparkly tear-free detangling spray.
The thoughts of a desperate man, I know. None of the brushes before have remedied the Great Hair Tangle Struggle, nor the detanglers. But maybe the next ones I buy…
“There’s nothing you can do,” Amia huffs, blowing a lock of smooth, tangle-free hair right into the war zone.
Carefully, I return it to the safety that is the area in front of her shoulders. Then, I address her sass, tugging on the threads of patience threatening to slip from my fingers. “Is there something someone else could do?”
While I wait for her answer, I conquer a fifth of the knot I’m working on. I know better than to declare my victory yet, but a frisson of triumph hits me anyway, renewing my determination.
“I bet if Leora brushed my hair, that would fix the problem,” Amia suggests as I pick at the rest of the nest of hair.
“Maybe now that you’ve met her for real life, she can come and brush it for us?
Elizabeth says that her mom brushes her hair every day, and that she has a ‘woman’s touch,’ which is why Elizabeth’s hair always looks so smooth and pretty.
Elizabeth says that the reason my hair looks bad is because it only has a ‘man’s touch,’ which ‘can never do anything good.’”
My hands still, and I stare at them. They’re just about the right size to throttle a small child, I’d bet. “Sounds to me like Elizabeth needs to learn some manners,” I say, calmly. So calmly. The most calmly.
Amia turns around to give me the stink eye, but halts when her gaze lands on my hand. “Dad, you’re going to break the brush.”
“Does Elizabeth say stuff like that to you often?”
She shrugs and turns her back to me. “It’s not like she’s wrong. Little girls need moms. That’s why they’re born from them.”
My heart cracks straight into a thousand shards. Gently, I say, “Little girls don’t need moms, sweet girl. Little girls need women in their lives who can pour into them, whether they’re their mothers or not, and I’m willing to bet that you have loads more of those than Elizabeth does.”
Amia shrugs again. “She has a mom and a grandma, and they both live in her house with her, and her mom does her hair every morning. Sometimes she gives her braids, and last week she had space buns.”
I… have no clue what a space bun is. I make a mental note to look it up later—after signing Amia’s tardy slip and taking up my new hobby of fighting rude little children.
“Leora loves space,” Amia continues despondently. “I bet Leora would give me space buns every day.”
Leora probably would give her space buns every day. Leora probably would give Amia the beating heart from her own chest if she asked for it.
“We have a rule,” I remind Amia, and myself.
Despite how much I want to bring to life the vision of Leora doing my daughter’s hair—of Leora tugging her long, beringed fingers through Amia’s dark locks with careful precision and love—we do have a rule.
A smart rule, designed especially to override emotions for the sake of safety and decent parenting.
I meet someone a minimum of three times before they get to meet Amia, unless I meet them through Amia— parents, teachers, coaches, and the like—in which case I have to be around them three times before she can go off alone with them.
It’s a good system, and one that’s never failed us.
On top of me only having met Leora face-to-face one singular time—with “met” being a generous term considering the actual circumstances—there’s also the matter of her not having spoken to me since.
Even though it’s been two days, the most interaction I’ve received from her since dropping her off at Hunter’s Moon’s door is a plethora of Discord emoji reactions on all the photos she’d been ignoring while avoiding me.
She’s been heart-eyeing new photos, too, but not sending any of her own, and definitely not sending any messages along.
I would have thought the kidnapping one long dreamy nightmare if I didn’t have five whiteboards delineating my personality tucked into the corner of my office.
I do have the whiteboards, though, along with a crippling anxiety that perhaps Leora has changed her mind and never wants to see me again.
I’m a bad enough person that I did consider breaking our rule and enticing Leora into another meeting with the promise of Amia, who she clearly adores. Thankfully, I maintained my head on the subject. Probably because I didn’t ask for Sterne’s advice.
“You have too many rules,” Amia complains, echoing a sentiment I’ve thought more than once the past couple of days.
“You won’t tell me about the ‘meeting’ you had, which I know was actually a kidnapping because I heard Almond telling Gigi about it over the phone after school yesterday.
And now you won’t let me meet her, even though we already know her because of our letters, and you got to meet her.
It’s not fair.” Tears well in her big, brown eyes.
“I can’t have anything. I can’t have a mom.
I can’t have information.” Her tiny little fists clench.
“And now I can’t have Leora either!” She stands—angry, crying, and red.
“I can’t even have cute hair, because you only have man touch!
” Splotchy-faced and heartrending, she wails. “I want cute hair!”
She crumples, and I slide from the tub’s ledge to gather her in my arms. “Sweet girl,” I murmur.
She cries for a while, saying nothing, and also everything. Her tears speak for her, telling of a turmoil she’s hinted at before, but never fully addressed.
Amia’s mother beats out mean girl Elizabeth on my list of people I’d like to shake today.
My sweet girl does not deserve this. She deserves only the good things in life, and it makes me sick that she doesn’t have every single good thing this world has to offer.
I had an amazing mother. I know just how much a mother can benefit a child.
I believe what I told Amia, that a girl doesn’t need a mother, but that doesn’t erase the fact that a loving mother adds significant value to a child’s life—particularly to a girl child’s life.
There is something distinctly painful about seeing your child’s hurt and knowing you can’t do anything to fix it.
Knowing that, in some part, you caused it by making an impulsive decision with the wrong person.
If I had picked a different woman for a night of selfish indulgence, would Amia have a mother who stayed?
But, then, that line of thinking leads nowhere good.
If I had picked better, Amia wouldn’t exist at all, and I can’t bear the thought of that.
It leads to other, worse thoughts, like pondering if my child’s heartbreak is worth the joy she brings me.
And in the end, none of the what ifs matter anyway, because only one what if happened, and it led us here, now, to my girl craving a mother and wishing with all her might that Leora might fill that role.
I can’t say I blame her. I, too, wish with all my might that Leora would fill that role—and several others besides.
“I just–” Amia hiccups. “I want–Leora–to do–my hair!”
She sobs harder, and I run my hand over her knotted mess.
“I know you do,” I say, hushed. It’s time to strike the tenuous balance between comfort, deescalation, and sticking to boundaries set.
“Leora will do your hair, sweet girl. I know that she’ll be all over the opportunity when given the chance. It’s just not going to be today.”
Amia begins to protest, and I cut her off softly, but firmly. “Not today,” I repeat. “Today, we’re going to get your shoes on, and we’re going to drive to Auntie Almond’s house, and she’s going to give you as many space buns as you want.”
Amia sniffs.
“While we’re there, I’ll see if Gigi can stop by. It’s Wednesday, so she’ll probably be with her cronies. I bet you they’re getting cinnamon rolls right this second.”
Quickly, I grab a washcloth from a basket on the bathroom counter and hand it to Amia before she can wipe her tear-stained, snotty face on the sleeve of her purple dress—a dress I suspect she picked out because Leora made it for her during one of her bouts of sewing anything and everything she could think of.
“I know what you’re doing,” Amia huffs without any real steam. “I’m not dumb.”
“I’ve never thought you were dumb,” I tell her.
“I’m being quite transparent in my gathering of the women in your life to remind you that they’re there, and that they love you, and that Elizabeth needs to get a life and stop bothering you about yours.
” I tuck her close to me, resting my chin on the top of her wee head.
“I bet you I could even drag Poem out of bed at this hour. She’s just next door, snoozing in Uncle Fox’s guest room. It might be funny.”
Amia rolls her eyes, but her shoulders soften, and she melts into me. “I guess it could be a little funny,” she agrees. “Maybe.”
I kiss the top of her tangled hair. “Elizabeth doesn’t know anything,” I tell her.
“She’s just a mean little girl. And mean little girls?
They learn that from somewhere, and it’s not from experiencing the sort of love that you get on the daily.
Even with a mom, she’s not happy enough to be kind to others.
” I rock us back and forth a few times. “My girl, though? My girl is sweet, and kind, and doesn’t say horrible things to other kids to make herself feel better than them.
My girl has something Elizabeth doesn’t—love that begets more love.
Do you think Elizabeth is enjoying her life?
If she feels like she needs to spend part of it making yours seem bad? ”
Amia sucks in air through the gap where her baby teeth used to be. “Probably not,” she says slowly.
“Definitely not,” I correct. “Happy people spread happiness, and miserable people spread misery.”
She nods, frowning. “Like when Henry broke his leg last year and couldn’t play tag at recess, so he tried to make a rule that nobody could play tag at recess.”
I sigh. “Similar to that, yeah. Except it would be like if Henry couldn’t play tag, and Ben could, but Ben didn’t like tag, so he tried to tell Henry that the reason Henry couldn’t play is because he’s bad at it, even though Henry isn’t bad at it, he just doesn’t have the chance to try.”
Amia tilts her head to blink wide, doe-brown eyes at me. “You’re making this really complicated,” she says.
Taken off guard, a bark of laughter shoots out of me. How silly of me. Of course this isn’t complicated. It’s only, oh, the great trauma of her life. No biggie.
“Sorry,” I apologize. “Am I helping at all?” Even a little bit? Even slightly?
She lifts her hand to hold her thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
“You’ve helped at least this much,” she informs me before flattening her hand and holding it far from her body, doing the same with her other hand until her arms are stretched as wide as they can go.
She grins, the drying tear tracks on her face forgotten for now.
“Gigi bringing me a cinnamon roll is going to help this much.”
I snort and drag her back in for a big, squishy hug. “We better get you that cinnamon roll quick, then.”
She agrees readily, jumping out of my lap to run for her shoes, hair flying everywhere and probably creating more work for poor Almond, who I will be foisting today’s girlie haircare onto.
Amia is going to be late to school.
Amia is going to be a sugared-up, hyper mess.
Amia is going to be a late-to-school, sugared-up, hyper mess who feels loved and cared for.
Relief that we’ve navigated this minefield overtakes me. I’m sure it will come back up, and when it does, a cinnamon roll and a tardy slip might not do the trick. For now, though, we’re okay. Amia is okay.
Amia is loved.
I bet Elizabeth isn’t showing up to school with professionally done hair and cinnamon sticky fingers.
I text my sister to warn her we’re coming, then I text my mother to meet us at Almond’s.
And I ask her to bring the biggest roll the bakery has.