The First Day of the Rest of My Life Read online

  When I watched Sherwinn watching Annie or grabbing her brown curls, those red ants brought out twin fangs.

  I thought our highlights glowed like a red aurora borealis over our heads. My momma, my dad, all four of our grandparents, and that one friend saw it, but no one else noticed, it seemed. The highlights were a gift from our dad, from his Irish ancestry, as much as our toothy smiles were my momma’s. My dad’s red hair was thick and longish, the hair growing past his collar. My momma cut his hair.

  I remember how my dad used to sit in the middle of our sunny yellow kitchen on a pink padded chair, my momma moving around him, slooooowwly, bending to kiss him, rubbing his shoulders. Every few minutes he would swing a giant arm around her and pull her into his lap, and she would laugh and he would kiss her for a long time, her black hair forming a veil between them.

  Annie and I would say, “Eeeew, gross!” and we would spin away on our white Mary Janes. I picked up our cat, Bob the Cat, and said to him, “Isn’t that gross, Bob the Cat?” but in our hearts we didn’t think it was gross.

  Momma would take about five times as long cutting his hair as she would cutting anyone else’s hair. Every time, when she was done, my dad would swoop her up into his arms, her pink heels flying into the air, and she would laugh, deep and rich, her hair swinging back. Dad would say to us, “Girls, your mother needs a nap. She’s quite tired.”

  Our momma would giggle, he would kiss her again, we would say, “Eeeew, gross!” again, and they would disappear into their bedroom for hours, sometimes not coming out until it was time for dinner. Annie and I didn’t mind. When our momma had her “nap,” we were allowed to watch all the TV we wanted and pop popcorn on the stove.

  Dad would come down first, grin, swing us around in the air, then make hamburgers. Every time. Hamburgers. Ketchup, mustard, lettuce, tomatoes. When Momma came down, always looking happy but sleepy tired, he’d kiss her again and we’d have dinner together on our back deck if it was warm, the waves of the sea a salty backdrop to our house by the sea. After dinner our dad would put on a record and we’d dance . . . waltzes and freestyle and dance routines. He loved to dance and he loved the sea because of its depth, its personality, its freedom.

  He talked about how weather is “emotional,” and how as a fisherman, and the owner of O’Shea’s Fisheries, he kept a close eye on it. Stormy nights meant the weather was furious. A golden morning meant the weather was calm, waiting for a laugh. A strong wind meant the weather was agitated, worried, or in a hurry. “Weather is a woman and she’s got a lot of feelings, so don’t mess with her.” Annie and I agreed not to mess with Weather.

  Sometimes, when I saw my dad looking at me, those green eyes happy and twinkling, like the stars above our sea on a pitch-black night, I’d smile back and he’d recite an Irish poem with a thick Irish brogue.

  In the misty hills of Ireland

  A long, long time ago,

  There lived a lovely Irish lass

  Who loved her father so.

  One day he went to fetch some wood,

  But he did not soon return,

  And so his loving daughter’s heart

  Was filled with great concern.

  She searched for him throughout the day,

  And when a fog came in

  She wept, for she was fearful

  They would never meet again.

  Then suddenly, a little band

  Of leprechauns came by.

  They all were very saddened.

  To hear the lovely maiden cry.

  They asked if they might have a lock

  Of her long and golden hair,

  Then tied the silken strands across

  A crooked limb with care.

  ’Twas a magic harp they’d made,

  And when the maiden touched each strand,

  The music led her father home

  Across the misty land.

  —AUTHOR UNKNOWN

  But when I saw Sherwinn watching us, those ants would attack, up and down my back, around my legs. It felt like those red ants were biting me inside, too. It was instinct taking over, I think, every part of me screaming to get away from Sherwinn.

  Get Annie and yourself away from Sherwinn.

  Hurry! Hurry!

  My dad wasn’t the only one reciting poetry to me.

  He did, too. It was usually about snakes.

  He liked snakes.

  That night, at home, I picked up the manila envelope again and felt an attack of poor breathing, as if the air were stuck in my kidneys. He wanted $100,000 immediately or he’d release the photos. Of course he did.

  How did I know it was a man? Because he misspelled the words beauty parlor. As in, “I know you from the beauty parlor.” He used two t’s.

  I don’t take easily to blackmail. I don’t think anyone does. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

  Impossible situation.

  I knew already I wasn’t going to play this game, though. I couldn’t.

  I knew what would happen if I didn’t play.

  I knew what would happen if I did.

  Both bad results.

  Very bad.

  But I will not, I will not, allow a man to manipulate me, or my life, again. Not again.

  My breath was stuck.

  6

  You will learn a lot in a pink beauty parlor if you keep your ears open, including, but not limited to, how to get rid of a wart, marriage in all its glories and downfalls, dating, falling in lust versus love, stabbing your ex-boyfriend, all gossip, how men are so proud of their thingies, going broke, getting old, yeast treatments, how Jude Miller’s husband has terrible gas, and Carla’s boob job—yes, she did have one; that, the ladies knew for sure; why, they went to high school with her and she was flat as a plain pancake then.

  The topics of discussion were wide ranging, frequently shouted over hair dryers.

  Much of the talk was about men.

  When old Mrs. Robisinni bellowed, at the exact moment her hair dryer shut off, “I had better sex with myself than I ever did with my husband,” it echoed right through the parlor.

  When Rochelle Menks said, “Ladies, how many of you have the art of faking it down to perfection?” and almost all the women raised their hands except for Twyla Thorpe, who said, “I never fake it. I make him keep going till I get my pleasing done,” my momma would not explain to me what the ladies were talking about.

  When Terralynn Forge said, “Men are like measles,” I thought my momma was gonna fall down with laughter.

  And when a woman came in who Carman knew was having an affair with the husband of a friend of hers, Carman dyed her brown hair white with black streaks. “Like a reverse skunk,” Carman said proudly. “I have always enjoyed skunks. I can’t wait to tell Bobbie.”

  But anytime you have a group of women together, you get fireworks, and Marie Elise’s French Beauty Parlor had its fair share of fireworks.

  Trudy Jo had a thunderbolt sort of temper. People said she got it from her grandma, who threw rocks. Sometimes Trudy Jo had to go out back and jump up and down and screech if a hair color or highlighting job set her off. She was not allowed to do the hair of Mrs. Berns or Ms. Loyola because twice she swore at their hair. “Dammit, why didn’t you suck up that dye, hair?” she shrieked. Or, “You damn curls, I am going to cut you off and shove you up a nose if you don’t lie flat! Lie flat! Lie flat!”

  Then she dove into Shakespeare. “Cowards may die many times before their deaths, and I am not a coward! Lie flat hair! I will win this fight!”

  Shell Dee for some reason liked to get into the thick of the body when she was doing highlights. I don’t know why. “Did you know that if your man smokes, his penis can be shortened by an inch? An inch! So there’s another reason to hide the cigs, Duffy!” and “Your brain is seventy-eight percent water! Water, not coffee, not beer, water!”

  But those sisters did fight. One time Trudy Jo was so mad at Shell Dee, she sprayed hair spray right in her face. For revenge Shel
l Dee dumped shampoo on Trudy Jo’s head. Trudy Jo retaliated with mousse, Shell Dee with cream rinse. It was a mess.

  Another time the sisters were fighting because their oldest boys had decided to steal the principal’s car and park it in the middle of Main Street about two in the morning after plastering it with pictures of naked ladies they got from a naughty magazine. Each screeched the other’s son was “a bad influence” on their son. Trudy Jo threw a roller at her sister, who was giving Mrs. Cornwell a dark rinse at the time to cover up her white hair, and the roller broke the mirror. Mrs. Cornwell did not appreciate glass being added to her hair. She did not leave a tip.

  Once a month, on the first Wednesday, my momma, Shell Dee, Trudy Jo, and Carman had dinner together. The parlor paid for it. “To keep the peace,” Momma said. A lot of wine was consumed.

  One night Shell Dee danced on top of a bar and started a strip tease before my momma yanked her down. Her husband was not amused that the other men saw her yellow smiley face bra.

  Another night Trudy Jo, who had had too many gin and tonics—“her weakness”—took her sister’s dare, painted herself bright orange, donned a wig of red curls, and ran through the center of town. She was recognized by many because of her bottom. Everyone said that Trudy Jo had a “wriggly” bottom, and they knew it when they saw it.

  One Wednesday night they drove off the Cape, then snuck into a railcar for a “train picnic,” they called it, to spice up their usual restaurant scene. The train started to move unexpectedly and they ended up outside of Boston.

  People learned quickly that the best day to come in for a perm was not the Thursday after the first Wednesday of the month.

  But Marie Elise’s French Beauty Parlor thrived. Anyone who went there came out new and improved. That was the goal, my momma said. “If you look special, you feel special.” She gave me a kiss on my nose. “You are my special, Pink Girl.”

  She was my special momma and I loved her to pieces.

  In that pink beauty parlor with the crystal chandeliers and gilded mirrors, that’s where Annie and I spent the first years of our lives.

  We loved it. Loved the women who loved us, loved the conversations, the friendships, we even loved it when Trudy Jo and Shell Dee got in cream rinse fights and when Carman drank champagne and burst into love songs. “You are my one trrruuueee love . . . I cannot liiivvve without you . . .”

  But Annie won’t go to beauty parlors again. “I can’t go. I won’t go. There are some things in life we need to get over, we need to suck it up and deal, but there are some things in life we can’t get over and we should quit angsting about it and accept it. I have accepted that I will never walk into a beauty parlor again and the smell of hair spray will always make me miss Momma. Here’s the scissors. Start cutting.”

  If she didn’t want hair spray in her life, I got it. Snip snip.

  A couple of weeks ago, in the middle of Grandma’s kitchen, I cut Annie’s hair.

  She turned this way and that when I held a mirror up to her.

  “I look like a horse.”

  “No, you don’t.” I laughed.

  She pulled the mirror close to her hair. “Do you think our hair is getting redder as we age?”

  I had noticed the same thing. I put my face next to hers and we studied ourselves in the mirror, that red sheen that so very few people could see. “Yes. It is.”

  “It’s like Dad’s still with us.”

  “That Irish blood.” How I missed the man with the Irish blood.

  “Yep. Probably where I got my temper.”

  “I’d definitely blame the Irish line for that. You are a spitfire.”

  “And you aren’t? When you’re onstage, you’re a volcano.”

  “Spewing rocks and lava, plumes of ash.”

  “Definitely the Irish in us.”

  “Yep,” I agreed, but I did not say this: When I’m onstage, I’m a lie.

  The man with the Irish blood was huge and had a huge laugh and a huge smile and a huge heart.

  When I told him I wanted to be a detective, he bought me a fingerprint kit and we went around town taking people’s fingerprints. “You’re sharp and you’re as determined as a bull dog, Madeline. You’d make an excellent detective.” He said that in all seriousness, so I took myself seriously. I could do it because my dad said I could.

  When Annie said she wanted to be a doctor, she got a doctor kit and he took her to the café to take people’s blood pressure and check people’s ears. “Annie, you’re a compassionate person and you like learning about the human body. You’d make an excellent doctor.” He said that in all seriousness, so she took herself seriously. She could do it because her dad said she could.

  When I changed my mind and decided in second grade that I would be the president of the United States, he brought home a podium so I could “practice giving speeches that will rally the American public!” He helped me write my speeches, and when I gave them he draped an American flag around his shoulders and boomed, “Please welcome, the president of the United States of America, Madeline O’Shea!”

  When Annie changed her mind and decided she wanted to be a sculptor, he bought her a chunk of clay and they made sculptures together in the garage. “Sculptures are the finest art there is,” he told her. “They’re reflective of what’s going on at that time, in that place, in that artist’s mind. They’re full of talent and thought and planning. You’re going to be a famous sculptor so let’s take our time.”

  And they did.

  Our dad made time for us. He had a fishing business and many boats. He had a wife he adored. He had two girls. He made us feel like we were the most important people on the planet. Because to him, we were.

  He also loved being of Irish descent and regaled us with sayings and songs.

  May the luck of the Irish possess you.

  May the devil fly off with your worries.

  May God bless you forever and ever.

  And . . . May you live to be a hundred years, with one extra year to repent!

  We spent a lot of time dancing with our parents. Our dad taught us Irish poems, Irish songs, and Irish jigs. He loved life, he loved us, we knew that. I have carried that love with me my whole life.

  7

  “Good morning, Madeline.” Tracy Shales, the host of Portland Sunrise, smiled at me, perky but not annoyingly so.

  I could barely move my face. I’d been in makeup and had so much foundation on, I thought it would crack. They’d also straightened my hair.

  “You have so much curl,” the stylist gushed, wrapping it around her fingers, which gave me the shivers in a very, very bad way. “Let’s leave it natural.”

  “No, thanks.” I pulled the curl out of her hands before an avalanche of memories snuffed the life out of me.

  She tried again. “But they’re sexy, glossy.”

  “Absolutely no curls.” I pulled them from her hand again, my breath getting stuck in my body, somewhere behind my intestines. I did not want curls. Never.

  “Good morning, Tracy, thank you for having me.” I smiled, and tried not to look directly at the cameras. The audience was filled with women, most between the ages of forty and sixty.

  “As Oregon’s and America’s most loved life coach, we know you’re busy, and we appreciate you being here.”

  “It’s a pleasure.” I hoped that the makeup would hide my fear. Not my fear of being on a television show, of which I had none, but the fear that lived in my stomach always like a knife-wielding vulture.

  “So, Madeline.” Tracy leaned toward me. We were in red chairs facing each other. “Tell us about your work. What do you offer people?”

  “I offer them a way to gain back their freakin’ sanity.”

  “What do you mean, freakin’ sanity?” She knew, I’d told her about it, we were part of a gig. The Tracy–Madeline gig.

  “I mean that women’s lives can be Godzilla awful whether through circumstance or lousy choices, and they need to get their sanity back and
start living a kick-ass life with adventure and creativity and fun and deeper thought about who they are and where they’re going.”

  “Lousy choices?”

  “Sure. I know that will offend a lot of your viewers, Tracy, but it’s true. Women often make lousy, blood-sucking, life-draining choices. They screw up. I’ve screwed up. We all screw up again. Truth is what I’m after with my clients. I tell them the truth. If they’ve made lousy choices, I’m honest. I lay it on the table and say, ‘Hey, screwball girl, admit that your choice was so poor, you would have made a better decision if you were tossing back vodka tonics while standing on your head. Now how are you gonna turn this choice around?’ Then we go through the steps she needs to take, and if she waffles or is vague, I tell her she needs a slug to the brain, to toughen up, and make those hard choices, even if it drags her bouncy fanny to a place she doesn’t want be.”

  Tracy smiled. She liked an outspoken guest. “Don’t be boring,” she’d told me.

  “My fanny doesn’t like to be in a place where it’s uncomfortable,” Tracy said, wiggling in her seat. The audience laughed.

  “No one’s fanny likes to be there. We’re protective about our fannies. We like our fannies and we don’t like change if it’s going to require us to rip our fannies apart. I believe in truth, direction, and encouragement. I call it Mind-Splitting Truth, Door-Die Direction, and Self-Examining Encouragement.”

  “Wow. Now that’s edgy. Let’s try one of those slang things on me.”

  “Okay, Tracy.” I smiled, crossing my legs. Whoodalehoo. This part would be fun. Fun and fun, as Adriana would say. Tracy and I had planned it all out. “How are things going at work?”