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ONE
WILL
I don’t understand women. Females are as foreign to me as green Martians from out of space. With three older sisters, I should have insider knowledge of menstrual cycles and fashion and friendship drama. But my sisters are six, eight, and ten years older than me. I’ve never had a normal sibling relationship with them. There was certainly nothing ordinary about our family.
I considered my wife a real girly girl. Although Tracy didn’t wear her femininity like a badge, as though she had something to prove. She was the quintessential Southern girl—pretty and sweet on the inside and out. She owned a boutique specializing in women’s fashions, never left home without her face on, and paid a stylist four hundred dollars every eight weeks to dye her hair the perfect shade of blonde.
Tracy insisted I help with our young daughters, but I almost always screwed things up. I got shampoo in their eyes at bath time and chose the wrong color combinations for their clothes. And now, in getting my two-year-old ready for her first day of preschool, I’ve gotten the round hairbrush stuck in her unruly mass of sandy waves. I twist the brush, trying to untangle it, but it becomes even more embedded in the rat’s nest.
“Ouch, Daddy! That hurts,” screeches Sophie.
Caroline, my four-year-old, stands patiently next to me with hairbands in hand, waiting for her turn with the brush. “This isn’t good, Daddy. What’re you gonna do?”
“I’m not sure. Do you have any ideas?”
Caroline looks up at me with blue eyes so like my own. “You could try the detangle spray.”
“Detangle spray? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“It sometimes works. Except . . . ” She furrows her brow. “I forgot. We ran out.”
The toaster pops up, and I glance over at the charred pieces of bread. “Great,” I mutter under my breath.
Caroline follows my gaze. “Dad! You burned the toast again.”
“I’m sorry, honey. I don’t have time to make more. You’ll have to eat a Pop-Tart.”
“But you got the wrong kind,” Caroline whines. “Mama always buys the ones with frosting.”
It’s been six weeks since Tracy died, yet the girls still referred to their mama in the present.
When I twist the brush again, Sophie lets out a scream that echoes throughout the house, making my ears ring and my heart pound against my rib cage. Opening the utensil drawer, I remove a pair of kitchen scissors and cut the brush out of her hair.
Caroline gasps, her eyes wide at the sight of the gaping hole in the back of her sister’s hair.
The ringing of the doorbell is followed by a loud knocking.
“Who’s that?” Sophie asks, completely unaware of the havoc I’ve wreaked on her hair.
“Probably Miss Ellie,” I say. “She’s picking you up for school.”
Caroline pouts. “Can’t you drive us? Mommy always takes me on the first day.”
“Not today, sweetheart. Miss Ellie was kind enough to offer, and we don’t want to hurt her feelings.”
The clicking of heels on hardwood precedes Ellie’s appearance in the kitchen doorway. “Is everything all right in here? I thought I heard someone scream.”
Caroline blurts, “Dad got the brush stuck in Sophie’s hair. He cut it out with the scissors.”
Sophie’s eyes dart from me to the brush in my hand. Her tiny hand reaches behind her head, feeling for the hair that’s no longer there. She whimpers and big tears fill her pale eyes. I feel like crying too. It hurts how much she reminds me of her mama.
Ellie teeters on her heels as she enters the room. “Here, honey. We can fix that right up.” She takes a hair band from Caroline and smooths what’s left of Sophie’s messy waves into a ponytail. “There. Now. All set. Are you going by Sophie now, not Sophia?”
“Caroline started that,” I explain. “It fits her personality.”
Caroline hands Ellie the other hairband. “Will you please do mine? I don’t want Daddy touching my hair.”
“Sure, sweetheart.” Ellie fastens Caroline’s hair back in a ponytail. “Where’s Kayla?” she asks about our most recent nanny.
