And then a minute later we were in the bathroom, my mother with the scissors, and me staring at myself in the mirror, a towel wrapped around my shoulders, the kitchen garbage can on the floor next to me. My mother had wet my hair and was combing through it. It felt nice. I could not remember the last time she had touched me, hugged me, kissed me. Still I was furious. Jenny was doing cartwheels and somersaults in the hallway outside the bathroom and every few seconds she would roll by the open door. My mother yelled at her to take it outside, but then she turned her gaze to my head. I tried to push my thoughts to Jenny. I wanted her to do something to distract my mother, to make her stop and leave my hair alone. Break something, I prayed to whoever was up there listening in the skies. And then I thought meanly: Break a bone.
My mother split my hair down the middle into two parts and pulled each part over a shoulder. She swiftly took her scissors and cut a huge chunk of hair off. It was at least six inches. And then, a moment too late, there was a thump down the hall, the sound of a glass crashing, and then Jenny’s low whine for our mother.
My mother waved her scissors at me in the mirror. “Stay there,” she said and then walked toward the sound of Jenny’s wail.
I stood there, with one side shorn. Mismatched. Today everything was going to change, I thought. Dr. Muttler had told my mother that my face would look different after the surgery. He was going to pull out some molars, too. All in all, eight teeth. I would be reset in one afternoon. I did not want to cry, but I did, softly, just a handful of tears melting down the side of my face.
When my mother returned, she quickly chopped off the other side of my hair. She let out a little laugh and said, “Really, Catherine, you act like your hair is made of gold.” She was right, though. I secretly believed it was.
“IT IS REALLY PRETTY THOUGH,” said Valka. She twirled her hands in the ends of my hair. She sucked in her breath, remembering her own hair, I suppose.
She pointed at my glass. “Are you going to drink that?” she said.
I RESISTED QUIETLY again that day, a few hours later. We were in the parking lot outside Dr. Muttler’s office. My mother had just shut off the ignition. Jenny was strapped in the backseat, and I was in the front.
“I do not want to go in,” I said. I felt like a big block of cement, and I pictured myself sinking through my seat to the bottom of the car. She would never be able to move me if I turned to stone. “It will hurt. And they are going to stick needles in me. I do not like needles. He said there were needles.” I started to talk faster, and then I began to hiccup.
And for a moment, my mother turned back into my mother again. Like I had seen part of her when she was gently combing my hair that morning, and I remembered what she had been like when I was younger. It was only in the last couple of years that she was anxious and hard almost all of the time. The job was supposed to help her, make her feel like she had something of her own, but only seemed to make her more miserable in the end. But there she was, right there, sitting across from me in the car, her car keys dropped to the seat, her hands on mine, the whole world around us quiet. Like it was early morning. I felt like it was just me and my mother together.
She promised me everything would be fine, that doing this now would help me feel better in the long run. That I could eat ice cream for the next two days. That it would be over in a minute. She stroked my arm. She told me I was her little girl, and that she would take care of me. “I’ll be right there,” she said. “Waiting for you to wake up.”
Inside I sat back quietly in Dr. Muttler’s dentist’s chair. My mother kissed me on my forehead. She pointed to the wall and mouthed, “Right there,” and smiled her mom smile. The door closed and Dr. Muttler and Tracy moved in over me, and I could feel his thigh and smell her cool peppermint scent, and the whites of her temples looked sharp at the ends. Old lady hair.
Tracy tied a piece of rubber around my upper arm, and tapped my forearm. A small vein surfaced. She took a needle from the tray that seemed to be floating in front of me. Dr. Muttler was organizing some of the tools that rested on it.
“This will only hurt for a second,” she said, and she calmly slid it into my arm. It was true: the prick only hurt for a second, and then I felt nothing. After a few seconds she mumbled, “Nope.” She pulled the needle out.
“What?” said Dr. Muttler.
She said something to him in German. He shrugged.
“Honey, we’re going to have to try again,” she said. “Your vein collapsed.”
My heart started to beat a little faster.
“It’ll be fine, I’ll just find a stronger one,” she said. “You’re just a little thing, that’s all. We need to feed you, plump up those veins.” She tied the rubber a little tighter, and studied my arm, then dove in again with the needle. Again, she pulled the needle out in just a few seconds. She spoke rapidly to Dr. Muttler in German again. “Nein,” he said. She made another point, a little bit louder, and then he nodded.
“I’m just going to try this other arm, Catherine,” she said.
“I do not like it,” I said. “Where is my mom? Does she know you’re doing this to me?” I was starting to freak out. I could hear the chug of the train in my head.
Tracy briskly untied the piece of rubber and moved it to my right arm. She and Dr. Muttler switched positions. She ran her finger lightly on my arm. And then—she must have seen how terrified I was—she patted my head gently.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said.