Her mother handed her the apple and then tied the plastic bag handles together and hid it at the bottom of the garbage can. The girl gnawed on the apple while her mother paced around the room.
The day crept by slowly. Her mother was preoccupied. Nervous. The girl asked what was wrong, but her mother just smiled and said everything was just fine. A sliver of worry pricked her chest, and she ran to the cupboard to see how much food they had left. She sighed with relief. There was plenty.
“Do you think he will come tonight?” the girl asked.
“I don’t know,” her mother said, staring up at the door. “I hope not.”
Her father did come that night and he was in a foul mood. He told the girl to go to the bathroom, and she did so reluctantly. She knew it was going to be bad. She picked a book from the shelf and closed the bathroom door behind her. She couldn’t see what was going on, but she could hear everything. The bed squeaked violently and her mother cried out with such pain the girl had to cover her ears until it was over.
For the next three days, the girl awoke to find her mother gone, but she always returned, each time with an item to add to the bag hidden at the bottom of the garbage—a pair of sharp scissors, an electric razor, two bottles of water, two keys.
“Aren’t you afraid he’s going to come back?” the girl asked.
Her mother shook her head. “He’s always leaving at six. He goes into town for coffee and a donut,” she said. “He’s always back by eight. I love you,” her mother murmured out of the blue. The girl smiled, but an uneasiness settled in her chest because the way she said the words sounded a lot like goodbye.
Later, the girl’s mother shook her from her sleep. “Wake up,” she said. The girl rose to her elbow and looked blearily back at her.
“What time is it?” the girl asked.
“Just get up and do what I say—we have to hurry,” her mother said, pulling a red sweatshirt over her head. “Get dressed and go to the bathroom.”
The girl did as she was told. The room was dark except for the flickering light from the television. A weather anchor was taking about sleet and snow and gusts of wind. She went to the bathroom and pulled on her jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and a pair of tennis shoes.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Is he coming?”
Her mother shook her head. “No. Now listen, we’re going to do something scary, but you need to trust me. Do you trust me?”
The little girl nodded. Her mother went to the garbage can and pulled out the plastic bag. She untied the handles, reached inside, and brought out the pair of scissors and the electric razor. The girl looked at her in confusion. There was nothing scary about a pair of scissors, though these were much sharper and the blades longer than the pair she had in her art box.
“Come here, sweetie,” her mother said. “I’m going to cut your hair.”
“Why?” the girl asked.
“Do you trust me?” her mother asked again, staring directly into her eyes.
“Yes,” the girl said in a small voice.
Her mother lifted a section of the girl’s hair and, using the scissors, began to snip. Long dark curls fell to the floor. The girl gasped, and her hand flew to her head.
“Don’t worry, it will grow back. I promise,” her mother said and kept on cutting, and she didn’t stop until there was a thick mound of black hair on the floor. She plugged in the electric razor and it came to life with a low buzz. Her mother pressed the razor to the girl’s scalp and the remaining bits of fine hair floated around her head.
Finally, her mother let out a long breath. “Okay, I’m done.”
“Can I go look?” the girl asked, and her mother reluctantly nodded.
She hurried to the bathroom and stood in front of the cracked mirror. She looked awful. Not like herself at all. She was practically bald and her neck and ears felt naked, exposed.
“Please don’t cry,” her mother said, her voice thick with her own tears. “I need you to be brave.” The girl tried, but she couldn’t stop the tears from falling. “We’re going to be different people for a while. I had to cut your hair, and I’m going to cut mine and change the color after we leave. Can you pretend to be a boy? Do you think you can do that just for a little while?”
The girl nodded.
“Good,” her mother said. “We’re leaving now and we’re never going to come back.”
“Won’t he be mad?” the girl asked through her tears.