The Fable of Us

Sometimes I wondered if part of the reason I’d resisted my mom so much was because we looked alike. So similar in our features that when childhood pictures of her and me were put side by side, it was impossible to tell who was who. Where my sisters had taken on my father’s darker features—honey brown hair and hazel eyes—I’d gotten my chunk of DNA from our mother.

Though she’d been dyeing hers for years, our hair was the same cornflower blond, a stark contrast to our deep blue eyes. We were built the same—petite with curvy figures—and I’d even been told we moved in the same way. After growing up in her shadow, being mistaken as her by old relatives nearing senility, and earning praises for my looks—which I knew my mom cared about more than my being praised for my intelligence or personality—I rebelled with what I could.

I couldn’t change the way I looked, not much at least, but I could change the way I thought. I could change what I was made up of on the inside . . . and I had. Maybe a bit too late to make a difference when I’d still lived in Charleston, but enough to have made a difference in my life since.

“Look at you, already cozy in your jammies for the night.” Mom pinched the hem of my T-shirt, her gaze skimming the frayed cuffs of my shorts.

In California, this was the way most of the population dressed. In the South, within the boundaries of Abbott Manor, one didn’t dress like this unless they wanted the cops called on them after being mistaken as a vagrant.

“And what happened to that long, thick hair of yours?” Her hands moved to the ends of my hair, her fingers combing through it like she was hoping it would grow back to its former splendor right before her eyes. “Don’t you worry though, Clara Belle. Hair grows back, and when it does, don’t you dare see the butcher of a beautician who did this to you”—she gave a chunk of my hair a tug, shaking her head—“ever again. I’ll have Janine do a little asking around and find out who out there in California knows a darn about women’s hair.”

“It’s a big state, Mom. Might want to specify to Janine that I live in the Santa Barbara area, because I’m not driving to San Diego for a shampoo and style.” I held my smile and took a couple steps back, far enough away that my Mom couldn’t keep ripping through my just-above shoulder-length hair. The last time she’d seen me, my hair had still been long, halfway down my back, and so thick I could barely get a ponytail holder around it once. Everyone had loved my hair, touching it and claiming just how far they’d go to have the same kind. Everyone loved my hair . . . except for me.

That was why I’d walked into the beauty salon a couple years ago, had her hack off a foot to donate to Wigs for Kids, then thin out what remained attached to my head. I’d lost what felt like ten pounds of hair that day, and a thousand pounds of weight off my shoulders. I was my own person, no longer subject to the Abbotts.

“I’m sure we can find someone who will fit the bill,” she said. “A new hire at SuperTrims would be an improvement.” Her voice trailed off in that familiar way it had for years whenever she’d delivered an insult. She always masked it with a shrug and a just-barely audible tone, but it never tempered the intent of her message.

I made my smile stretch. Kill them with kindness—it was the Southern way. When in Charleston, do as the Charlestonians. “I’ve missed you so much, Mom. I’m glad to be back.”

She covered her chest with her hand. “I’ve missed you so much too, baby. You’d better not stay away so long again or else I might just have to lock you away the next time you come visit.”

I was considering replying with something along the lines of visiting family being a two-way street, then I reminded myself that I did not want my family visiting my home in California. I didn’t want them to be a part of the life I’d made for myself. They belonged here, not out there.

“Girls!” my mom shouted over her shoulder. “Your sister’s here at long last. You won’t believe what she’s gone and done to her hair.” She shot me a wink and waved. “It’s just hair though. It’ll grow back before you know it. Don’t worry a bit, Clara Belle.”

“I didn’t plan on it,” I replied, bracing myself as I heard a duo of heel strikes heading this way. From their pace, I could tell they weren’t in a particular hurry to reach me, though that might have had more to do with the height of their heels than their actual excitement, or lack thereof, to see me.

Avalee was the first to make her way into the foyer, a fairy in every way save for the pixie wings—small in size, wide and curious eyes, graceful in motion. Because of the decent enough age gap between us growing up, I’d always felt closer to Charlotte, though Avalee and I were more alike.

“Clara Belle!” Avalee gushed, rushing forward on, yep, heels that could have pierced through a rhino’s hide straight to its heart. “Oh my gosh, it’s really you!”

I winced as she rushed toward me. I was sure she was going to slip on the gleaming marble and crack open her skull.

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