She stepped out of the shower and stood, dripping, on the fuzzy pink patch of carpet. The old pipes pinged and clanged as water gurgled down the drain.
Through the mist, she saw herself in the mirror. She swiped the moisture away and stared at a blurry reflection of her face.
She experienced one of those rare moments when, for a split second, you see yourself through a stranger's eyes. Her hair was too short, and raggedly cut, as if that stupid, gum-chewing, purple-haired girl at the beauty school had used pinking shears instead of scissors. What in God's name had made Ruby choose to dye it Elvira Mistress-of-the-Night black?
It made her skin look vampire-pale in comparison.
No wonder she'd been unable to attract a decent guy. Laura Palmer looked better in Twin Peaks-and she'd washed up dead on the shore.
Ruby realized she'd been trying to make herself unattractive. The truth of that realization was so stunning she literally watched her mouth drop open.
All that mascara, the black eyeliner, the haircut and color ... all of it was a camouflage.
She dropped her makeup bag in the metal trash can. It hit with a satisfying clang. No more heroin-chic makeup or refugee clothing. Hell, she'd even quit dying her hair and find out what color it really was. Her last memory was of a nice, ordinary chestnut brown.
The decision made her feel better. She went into her bedroom, dressed in jeans and a jade-green V-neck T-shirt, and then hurried downstairs.
Nora was standing by the counter, leaning on her crutches. The plop-drip-plop of the coffeemaker filled the kitchen with steady sound. She looked up as Ruby entered the room.
An almost comical look of surprise crossed her face. “You look ... beautiful.” Immediately, she flushed. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have sounded surprised.”
“It's okay. I guess I didn't look so great with all that makeup on.”
“I'm not touching that one with a ten-foot pole.”
Ruby laughed, and it felt good. “I need a haircut. Badly. Is there still a beauty salon in Friday Harbor?”
“I used to cut your hair.”
Ruby hadn't remembered until that moment, but suddenly it came rushing back: Sunday evenings in the kitchen, a dishrag pinned around her neck with a clothespin, the soothing clip-clip-clip of the scissors, Dad's steady turning of the newspaper pages in the living room. Ruby stood there a moment, strangely uncertain of what to do. She had a nagging sense that if she said the right thing now-in this heartbeat of time which felt steeped in sudden possibility-she could change things. She felt vulnerable suddenly, a child wearing her emotions like a kindergarten name tag. “Could you cut it again?”
“Of course. Get the towel, and a clothespin. The scissors should be here ...” Nora reached for her crutches and limped toward the utility drawer, where the scissors had always been kept.
Ruby was momentarily nonplussed, though she wasn't sure why. It seemed as if Nora were as eager as Ruby to avoid a breakfast conversation.
“Get the stool from the laundry room and take it outside. It's such a pretty morning.”
Ruby gathered up the necessary supplies and carried everything outside. She set the stool on a nice flat patch of grass overlooking the bay and sat down on it.
She heard Nora coming toward her. Thump-step, thump-step. Down the porch steps and across the grass, her mother moved awkwardly, a woman clearly afraid of stepping into a hole and twisting her good ankle.
“Are you sure about this?” Ruby asked, watching her. “I'm suddenly hearing you say oops! behind me, and I wind up with one of those horrible asymmetrical cuts from when I was in grade school.”
Nora moved around behind Ruby. “Remember your sophomore year? You didn't use hairspray-you used boat lacquer. I was scared to death I'd accidentally pat your head and shatter my wrist.” Laughing, she wrapped the towel around Ruby's neck and pinned it in place, then began running her fingers through Ruby's still-damp hair.
Ruby released her breath in a sigh. It wasn't until she heard the sound--air hissing through her teeth--that she realized what she was feeling.
Longing, again.
“I'm just going to give it some shape, okay?”
Ruby blinked, came stumbling out of the past. “Yeah,” she said. Her voice was barely audible. She cleared her throat and said again, louder, “Okay.”
“Sit up straight. Quit fidgeting.”
The steady snip-snip-snip of the scissors seemed to hypnotize Ruby, that and the comforting familiarity of her mother's touch.
Nora touched Ruby's chin, tenderly forcing her to look straight ahead. Snip-snip-snip.
“Eric called me last night. He said you'd visited him.” Ruby closed her eyes. “I'm not ready to talk about Eric,” she said quietly.
“Okay. Why don't you tell me about your life in Hollywood?”
Ruby's first thought was: the article. “There's not much to say. It's like living on the third floor of hell. I don't want to talk about that, either.”
Nora paused; the scissors stilled. “I don't mean to pry. I just wonder who you have become.”
“Oh.” It wasn't something she thought much about-who she was. She usually concerned herself with who she wanted to be. Better to look ahead than behind, and all that. “I don't know.”
“I remember when Doc Morane first put you in my arms.” Nora paused in her cutting. “From the very beginning, you were fire and ice. You'd scream for what you wanted, but a hurt animal could reduce you to tears. You were walking by eight months and talking by two. And boy, did you have a lot to say. It was like living with a Chatty Cathy doll who could pull her own string. You never shut up.”
Ruby realized suddenly that she missed herself, missed who she used to be. In forgetting her mother, she'd misplaced herself. “What was I like?”