days. My persistent, ordinary need to pee was one of the things that had convinced me I wasn’t dreaming. Or dead.
“Teeth first, please,” I said.
Thomas set a small wooden brush with short bristles and a tube, not unlike the toothpaste I was familiar with, on the sink. The bristles were some sort of animal hair, and they were rough. I tried not to think too much about it or the soapy taste of the paste. I scrubbed carefully, finishing with my finger to avoid making myself bleed. Thomas waited for the warm water to gurgle through the pipes, though I caught him watching me, a small furrow between his brows.
When I was finished, Thomas moved a wooden stool of medium height next to the enormous claw-foot tub and eased me down onto it. I wrapped Brigid’s ill-fitting old nightgown around me and tried to lean over the edge of the large tub, but the angle made me hiss in pain.
“I don’t think I can bend over yet.”
“Stand. Hold on to the side, and I’ll do the rest.”
The angle was better with me on my feet, but I was wobbly and weak, and the weight of my head was uncomfortable. I let it fall against my chest as he began to fill a porcelain pitcher and pour the water over my head, following the lukewarm stream with steady hands.
It felt wonderful, the warmth and his gentle ministrations, but I felt so undignified as I tried to keep the voluminous nightgown from getting wet while I struggled to stay upright that I started to laugh. I felt Thomas become still beside me.
“Am I doing it wrong?” he asked.
“No. You’re doing fine. Thank you.”
“I’d forgotten what it sounded like.”
“What?”
“Your laugh.”
I stopped laughing immediately. I was an imposter, and the knowledge was ugly and frightening. The stream of water continued until my head was so heavy with the watery weight, it pulled at my side. I swayed, and Thomas steadied me, wringing the length of my hair with his right hand while he held on to me with his left.
“I need both my hands to wash your hair. If I let go, are you going to fall?”
“No.”
“It does no good to say you won’t if you will,” he chided. Something about the accent, the singsong words chopped with very distinct Ts, slid beneath my skin. I didn’t know if it was simply the sound of my childhood, of Eoin, but it comforted me. Thomas released me slowly, testing the veracity of my claim. When I didn’t wobble, he rushed to lather the streaming mass with a chunk of soap. I grimaced, but not from pain. I couldn’t imagine what my hair was going to look like when it dried. I used expensive hair products to keep my curls from becoming frizzy and unmanageable.
He was thorough but gentle—working the soap through my hair and rinsing it free, long fingers on my scalp, a steady presence at my side—and his kindness made me weepy. I gritted my teeth to battle the tears that pricked my eyes and told myself I was ridiculous. I must have swayed again because Thomas pulled a towel around my shoulders, squeezed the excess water from my hair, and eased me down to the stool once more.
“Do you have . . . oil . . . or tonic . . . to smooth the hair?” I stammered, trying to use appropriate terms. “Something to ease the tangles?”
Thomas’s brows rose, and he pushed back the dark lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. His shirt was damp, and his sleeves, rolled to the elbows, hadn’t fared much better.
I felt like a needy child. “Never mind. I’m sorry. Thank you for helping me.”
He pursed his lips, thinking, and turned to the tall cupboard near the door. “My mother used to wash her hair with a well-beaten egg and rinse it with rosemary tea. Maybe next time, eh?” He looked at me with the barest hint of a smile. He took a fine-toothed metal comb and a small glass bottle from the cupboard. A yellow label with “Brilliantine” written above a drawing of a man with deeply parted, slicked-back hair made me think the bottle belonged to him.
“I’ll just use a wee dab. It leaves a greasy residue that Brigid complains about. She says I leave spots on the furniture where I rest my head.” He sat on the toilet and pulled the stool I was sitting on toward him so that I