Chapter 5 - Echoes in the Mirror
We spent the rest of the afternoon in Tessa Ward’s office. Caroline had arrived at 2:15 PM, looking like a ghost in an oversized coat, her eyes swollen shut from crying.
She didn't look at me when she entered the conference room. She sat across from Tessa’s court reporter, laid her trembling hands flat on the polished table, and gave a ninety-minute sworn deposition recanting every word of the affidavit Vivian had forced her to sign. She laid out the financial panic at the feed store, the bank notices, the plan to raid Ellie’s VA trust fund, and the systematic coaching Vivian had subjected Ellie to for the past three weeks.
When Caroline finished, she signed the new declaration with a shaking signature, pushed her chair back, and walked out into the rain without saying a word to anyone. I watched her from the second-story window as she crossed the street, her shoulders hunched against the cold, heading toward an uncertain life that was, for the first time, free of Vivian Dalton’s grip.
At six o’clock, Ellie and I were back in Owen and Mae’s guest bathroom.
The bright vanity bulbs lit up every inch of the mirror. Ellie stood in front of the sink, looking at her reflection. She hadn't put the beanie back on since we left Vance’s office. She just stared at the two halves of herself—the long, dark waves on the left, the jagged, pale stubble on the right.
“It looks like an accident,” Ellie said, her voice devoid of tears now, replaced by an exhaustion that made her look ten years older than fourteen. “It looks like somebody hated me.”
I stood behind her, my hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “Nobody who loves you did this, Ellie. And hair grows back. It always does.”
“Not for months,” she said. “School starts again on Monday. Everyone’s going to look. Everyone’s going to talk.”
I looked at the shelf beside the mirror. Mae had left a pair of professional hair shears and a small set of grooming clippers there, along with a clean towel.
“What if we finish it?” I asked quietly.
Ellie looked up at me in the mirror, her eyes wide. “What do you mean?”
“What if we don’t let Vivian’s haircut be the story?” I reached out and touched the shears. “What if we make it something you chose? A fresh start. Clean slate.”
Ellie stared at the scissors, then down at the white ceramic sink. “Will you do it?”
“Only if you want me to.”
She stood there for a long time, the fan humming overhead, the only sound the steady drumming of rain against the small frosted window. Finally, she nodded.
“Do it,” she said.
I draped the towel over her shoulders, pinned it with a wooden clothespin, and picked up the shears. I didn't use clippers; I used the scissors, cutting carefully, evenly, bringing the remaining long hair down close to the scalp, working with slow, steady movements. Clump after clump of brown hair fell into the sink, joining the memory of the blonde dye that had started this war.
When the bulk was gone, I used the clippers with a short guard, evening out the lines, smoothing over the jagged patches Vivian had hacked away, until Ellie’s head was neat, tight, and uniform—a clean, sharp buzz cut that showed off the strong curve of her cheekbones and the bright, clear determination in her hazel eyes.
Ellie ran her hand over her head. The stubble was soft, like velvet.
She looked in the mirror for nearly two minutes without speaking. Then, a tiny, tentative smile touched the corner of her mouth.
“I look like a swimmer,” she said.
“You look like someone who doesn't take anybody's nonsense,” I told her.
Then I reached down, picked up the clippers, turned them on, and brought them straight up through the middle of my own thick, dark brown hair.
“Mom!” Ellie gasped, turning around on the stool. “What are you doing?”
A heavy strip of hair fell onto my shoe. The clippers buzzed steadily in my hand.
“You think I’m going to let you walk into that courthouse tomorrow looking like the only Dalton woman with some fight in her?” I said, smiling through the sting in my eyes as I took another pass over my temple.
“Mom, stop! You loved your hair!”
“I love you more,” I said, working the blades back over the crown of my head until the hair fell in thick ropes around my feet. “We’re in this together, El. From the roots up.”
Ten minutes later, we were both standing in front of the mirror, two women with bare scalps and broad shoulders, looking like soldiers who had just survived the same fire.
May you like
Ellie reached out and took my hand, squeezing it until her knuckles went pale. And for the first time in three days, the terror was gone from her eyes.
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