Run! Run! Run!
She made her move. With a sharp tug of her arm, she managed to wrench away from the care worker. Mizz Sour Stinky Wee’s eyes widened, her jaw dropped in surprise as Little Eva made her escape down the corridor.
‘You little black demon,’ Sour Stinky Wee bellowed after her, ‘when I get my hands on you I’m going to . . .’
Little Eva had no idea where to run to, where to hide. All she knew was she had to get away from the man with the scissors, the sharp-edged razor blade. Her little legs kept running and running and—
An arm locked around her middle, hard, almost choking off her air supply. Sobbing hysterically, she kicked and fought and punched. Sour Stinky Wee shook her until Little Eva thought her head would roll off her neck. Soon the girl lay dizzy and dazed in the unbreakable hold of the care worker, her fighting spirit had abandoned her. Sour Stinky Wee didn’t put her charge on the ground; instead, holding her high against her body she marched with purpose down the corridor and into the room. Little Eva tried to fight again, to escape, but her limbs were so heavy.
The woman positioned her on her back on the couch so that her head hung over the side. Her amazing, glorious curls fell over her face, but Little Eva could still see through one eye. She saw her reflection in the long, freestanding mirror on the other side of the room. Saw her terror, her fear, her despair.
The pressure of the woman’s rough hands on her forehead and neck held her head steady. The scissors in the man’s hand grew large as they came closer and closer. Little Eva let out a piercing scream. Warm liquid leaked down her legs. Over her screams, the scissors plunged into her hair, cutting and hacking through her beautiful curls. Hacking and cutting.
The girl started crying in earnest as she watched her beloved curls fall lifeless, unloved on to the floor. Little Eva almost fainted when she saw the man pick up the razor. She couldn’t fight any more, she was too tired now. The razor blade scraped across her head, cut her skin in places where blood bubbled and ran free.
Who’s that girl in the mirror? Not me. That girl with the shaven head and pools of blood looks like a prisoner. That can’t be me.
Little Eva screamed, ‘Mummy!’ Wildly she stretched out her fingers trying to touch the fingertips of the woman only she could see who sat on her bed in the dark of the night.
They came for Little Eva every month after that, to be shaved by a razor. They turned her into a girl who looked like a prisoner. And every time Eva did the same thing:
‘Mummy,’ she screamed, stretching out her fingertips.
‘Eva? Are you OK?’
Danny’s voice reels me out of the horrific memory back into his luxuriant garden. I know where my fingers will be, screwed tight in my hair. Always straight, never curly.
Danny’s peering at me, his features painted with extreme concern.
Self-consciously my hand drops away under the table. Shame creeps hot up my neck and face, blood deepening the brown of my skin.
‘Fine.’ Smile. That’s right. Nice and big. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch what you were saying.’
‘Can you email the photo to me?’
Thankful to have something that shoves the awkwardness aside I send the photo over immediately, along with their names. Please don’t let my father ask me any questions about why my hand was in my hair. Please don’t let him see the crazed Eva who sometimes wakes in the nothingness of the night viciously tugging at the strands of her hair as if trying to tear it out by the root, her mouth drooped and misshapen by the weight of a macabre, silent howl.
Please don’t make me have to tell him that while I sit here I feel the blood from all those years ago dripping from my scalp, slithering, thick and cold down my cheek. The cuts criss-crossed over my head with the impression of a red-hot poker. Please don’t let me have to tell him how broken the past makes me feel.
Something cold presses into my hand. Gulping I look up to find Danny next to me with a glass of brandy. I don’t even remember him getting up.
‘Drink this,’ is all he says.
I knock it back in one. Let the river air wash over me.
Danny softly gazes at me from his chair. ‘I’m a good listener.’
And he is, so that’s why I tell him about the children’s home, what happened to me, the drama-trauma with my hair. And through it all he listens, throws in a few gentle comments, listens some more.
By the end I’m drained and tell him, ‘That’s why I have to find her. I can’t go on like this.’
Danny takes my hand. ‘Mothers can’t heal everything. Sometimes you’re the only person who knows what you need to do to heal yourself.’ He takes my other hand. ‘Now, if I was in your position, I’d go into Sugar’s room myself and find out exactly what he’s hiding from me.’