Thank God. Finally.
“No,” Daisy’s voice was clogged with tears, I could tell even on that one word. She kept talking. “I’ll just go down to the gift shop, get a magazine and stay with her. Hector said he won’t be back for awhile.”
At least that was something.
“You sure, darling?” Marcus asked.
Daisy didn’t answer but I heard footfalls again, the door opened and closed.
I opened my eyes. I was alone. That was until whenever Daisy got back with her magazine.
I thought about how much energy it would take for me to understand what on earth was going on.
Then I realized, just before I fell asleep (for real this time) that I didn’t have enough energy to figure it out.
* * * * *
I opened my eyes and saw Daisy sitting in the chair where Hector slept.
She was wearing shoulder-to-toe dark denim, fawn-colored fringe falling from the shoulder pads of her blazer, more fringe down the sides of her skintight jeans. She had on fawn-colored, spike-heeled, platform, round-toed boots, her jeans tucked into the boots. There was more than a hint of rhinestones and rivets sprinkling her outfit everywhere.
She looked like she was going to get up and start singing, “Jolene”. Instead, she sat, legs crossed and read National Enquirer.
Darn. Now what?
I couldn’t feign sleep and avoid her forever. Or could I?
“Sadie?”
My eyes moved to Daisy’s and she was looking at me.
There was the answer, I couldn’t feign sleep and avoid her forever.
I didn’t respond. Instead, I sat up and lifted my good hand to pull my hair away from my face. When I dropped my hand, my hair tumbled back in my face again.
I sighed.
“Let me get that,” Daisy said softly and I looked at her again.
Her Enquirer was on the chair; she was up and digging through her purse. She yanked something out and dumped her purse on the night table.
She showed me a big, pale pink clip.
“Voila!” she said as if she’d pulled a rabbit from a hat not a hair clip from a handbag.
“Turn your back to me,” she ordered and even I wasn’t Ice Princess enough to tell her to go jump in a lake.
I turned my back. Her hands went through my hair, her long fingernails gently scraping my scalp.
It felt nice. It reminded me of when I was little and my Mom used to brush my hair at night before I went to bed. Sometimes when my Mom would brush my hair, she would tell me stories. Sometimes they were funny stories, sometimes romantic, sometimes adventurous. I used to love when my Mom brushed my hair and told me stories.
Daisy carefully pulled and scraped my hair for longer than was needed then she twisted it and I felt the clip go in.
Her hands went to my shoulders and she gently turned me around to face her. When I did, her eyes were on my hair. Then her gaze dropped to mine.
“All better,” she said.
“Not even close,” I replied.