A Mother's Homecoming (9 page)

“There you are!” Dawn's friendly greeting was just below shriek decibel, and Pam struggled to smile instead of wince. “Glad to see you took me up on my offer. Just give me a few minutes. We're shorthanded today and it's been crazy. I need to put some stuff in the computer and sweep up.” She jerked a thumb toward the styling stations behind her.

The floor at one booth was dusted with brown hair,
so short that Pam guessed the chair had been occupied by a male client getting a trim. In the next seat over was a redhead with a handful of tissues; she was sniffling about her louse of an ex-boyfriend and periodically instructing the smocked hairdresser to “lop it all off!” Judging by the pile of strawberry locks accumulating in the floor, the hairdresser was doing exactly that. Put a blonde in the third chair, and the checkerboard tile would have a new neopolitan theme.

Pressing a hand to the small of her back, Pam volunteered, “I could sweep if you want.” It would be visible progress—an easily defined and accomplished job. In other words, the opposite of everything else she'd done today.

“You sure you don't mind?” Dawn asked.

Lowering her voice discreetly, Pam said, “I'm getting a free haircut out of the deal. Sweeping is the least I can do!”

“Okay, then.” Dawn smiled brightly and retrieved a broom from the spacious storage closet on the other side of the reception counter. “Appreciate the help. One of our girls is pregnant, and she had to go to the E.R. last night. She should be all right, but the doctor has her on bed rest for the remainder of her last trimester! Which means we're going to be shorthanded for September homecoming, when pretty much every female student at Mimosa High School comes in for an updo and all the women over thirty come to get their gray covered before the alumni luncheon. I don't suppose you're a licensed cosmetologist?”

Pam laughed. “Hardly. But I wield a mean broom.” She got to work sweeping, surprised to discover that her headache receded from excruciatingly unbearable to just annoyingly painful.

Her skull had throbbed for pretty much the past twenty-four hours. Although she'd enjoyed talking to Faith far more than she'd expected, it had been difficult to spend that time with her daughter. Last night Pam had been plagued with uncharacteristic what-ifs. She'd been unable to reach Annabel and had tortured herself with not only the milestones she'd already missed in Faith's life—first step, first loose tooth, first day of school—but also the ones still to come. Her high school graduation, her wedding day.

It hadn't helped Pam's conflicted emotional state that Nick had called. Checking on her seemed chivalrous, despite his surliness by the end of their conversation, and she didn't deserve gallantry from Nick. It only served to confuse her. Considering his eventual return to hostility, maybe he was confused, too.

“Uh, did we hire someone new and no one told me?”

Pam turned to see a skinny woman in head-to-toe black emerge from a room at the far end of the salon.

The background staccato of keyboard typing paused while Dawn explained, “This is my friend Pam Wilson. She chipped in to help with closing cleanup since Stacey's out. Pam, do you remember Nancy? We all went to Mimosa High around the same time.”

Pam stifled a groan.
Nancy Warner?
Pam hadn't recognized her at first because the always thin girl had lost even more weight—the only plumpness on her entire body was in her shiny lips. The two women had never been in the same grade, but Pam knew exactly who Nancy Warner was, a former cheerleader with a wicked crush on Nick. Even though Pam hadn't stolen her boyfriend from anyone, she'd already been the indirect recipient of Nancy's hostility. Rumors had
run rampant one month that Mae was sleeping with Nancy's still-married father. The Warners had divorced a year later.

From the way Nancy's unnaturally violet blue eyes narrowed, she definitely remembered Pam. “Wow, is that you, Pamela Jo? Goodness, what a surprise. We haven't seen you around these parts since … Let me think. Well, I guess not since you left your husband and baby.”

Behind them, Dawn sucked in her breath in a sharp gasp, but didn't say anything. Probably because she was too stunned. Everyone froze, including the other stylist in the room and her client. The jilted redhead in the chair actually stopped sniffling, her mouth falling open as she was temporarily distracted by someone else's problems.

“That's right,” Pam said mildly. “This is my first return visit since then.” She continued to smile pleasantly and left it at that.

If Nancy was hoping for a catfight, she was going to be sorely disappointed.

But the woman took another stab at baiting her. “Alert the media! The
Monitor
should post an adultery warning. ‘Be advised, there's a home-wrecking Wilson in town.'”

Mention of infidelity must have hit too close to home for the newly shorn redhead because she started sobbing again. The girl's beautician sent a scathing glare in Nancy's direction, mouthing,
Thanks a lot.
Pam decided this would be a good time to return the broom to the closet—a space bigger than most of the rooms at her house. Perhaps she'd stay there and thumb through old fashion magazines until tensions had lessened.

Next to the coatrack against the closet wall was a
tiny table boasting a coffeemaker and a couple of folding chairs. Pam slid into one of them, unsurprised to see that Dawn had followed her.

“You okay?” her friend asked, looking miserable.

Pam nodded. “There's bad history between her family and mine. And it's not like she was wrong. I did leave Nick and Faith.”

Dawn shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah, but that's none of her business. I'm sure you had your reasons.”

Fragments came back to her—pretending not to hear the baby crying so that someone else would get her, the disjointed thoughts she'd had after they'd brought the baby home from the hospital. It was funny because, even though she hadn't had a drop to drink during her pregnancy or in the weeks after Faith was born, Pam recalled that postpartum phase much the way she did her worst benders. Blurry, shame-inducing snippets that felt more like bad dreams than reality.

“I wasn't a good mother. I decided Faith would be better off without me.” And from what she'd seen yesterday, she'd made the right call. “Look, Dawn, you've been very sweet, but you don't have to do my hair. I've had a he … Heck of a day, and it sounds like you have, too.”

“No, don't go! You can't let Nancy run you off just because she clearly has PMS.”

Pam laughed despite herself.

“See, being around me has cheered you up already,” Dawn said. “I'm delightful company—ask anyone. So quit hiding in the closet and get your butt out there. I think our last official client is finished and paying as we speak.”

“The redhead? There's someone who looks like she's having a bad day,” Pam said sympathetically.

Dawn blew out a breath. “That girl is gonna hate herself tomorrow. She's worn her hair long for
years.
I've told Maxine, C-3's owner, when it comes to radical changes, we should have some kind of mandatory waiting period like they have for guns. Especially for any woman who's just been done wrong by a man.”

Pam laughed again. It felt good. “All right, I give—you are delightful. I guess I'll stick around for that haircut.”

“You won't be sorry. Wait until the shampoo! I give a very relaxing scalp massage. Have you ever thought about maybe changing your color a little, too?” Dawn asked. “Nothing radical, just some subtle lowlights to give the blond more depth.”

Why not? If Pam was going to continue dealing with complicated mixed emotions and her newly acquired money pit, she might as well look good while she did so.
Never underestimate the power of a good hair day.

“All right, show me to your booth.”

While Dawn wrapped sections of Pam's hair in foil, Nancy finished her share of the cleaning and stormed out, taking the tension with her.

“Whew!” The stylist who'd been working on Red let out a low whistle. “I know Nancy's not always Little Miss Sunshine, but that was extreme.” She met Pam's eyes in the mirror. “I'm Beth. And I'm guessing you must be the Wicked Witch of the West?”

Pam's lips quirked. “Something like that.”

Beth nodded. “Which would explain your familiarity with the broom. You want a regular job sweeping up? We could sell ringside seats for the locals to come watch the fireworks between you and Nancy.”

Considering the number of people in town who no doubt shared Nancy's opinions of Pam and her late mother, that idea sounded like hell.

Dawn painted another strand of hair and expertly rolled it up, the aluminum crinkling as she went. “Actually, Beth, people probably
would
turn out in droves to see Pam. But not because of any crazy grudge Nancy has. Pam was a real live TV star!”

“
Star
is too strong a word,” Pam protested. “Even
personality
would be a stretch.”

Dawn clucked her tongue. “Well, I watched you every single week while you were on, and you were way better than that girl who took your spot when you left … or anyone else they had after. In fact, I think losing you was why
Country Countdown
stopped airing on that channel!” She stopped what she was doing, tilting her head to the side. “Speaking of careers, Beth may be on to something. Would you have any interest in some part-time work at the salon? Only temporarily, of course.”

Nancy would hate the idea. “We already established that I don't have any cosmetology credentials,” Pam said diplomatically.

“That's okay, we can't hire another stylist full-time and still hold Stacey's spot for her. With her being pregnant, she'd already cut back to a minimum of select customers. She didn't need to be working directly with chemicals and couldn't stand on her feet all day. So she was doing receptionist stuff—taking payments, answering phones, scheduling—along with just a few appointments and some light housekeeping.”

Beth was nodding enthusiastically. “Like sweeping up the stations and doing laundry. None of it's too
difficult, but it's hard for us to keep up with that stuff when we're already down a stylist.”

“Especially since she won't be back until after the baby!” Dawn added. “We weren't expecting her to be gone so soon. I'll bet Maxine would appreciate the extra manpower to help us transition.”

Pam knew that Dawn was just trying to help an old friend and didn't even have the owner's authorization to make such an offer. Still, it was nice to be wanted for something, to be thought of as useful and competent—the mirror opposite of how she'd felt all morning while pieces of her former home fell down around her. “Thanks for asking me, but I am going to be swamped trying to remodel that house.”

Then again, she did need to finance the remodeling.

And she'd certainly taken worse jobs before, notably a waitressing gig at a truck stop just off the interstate. If she could survive that, she could manage some dirty looks from Nancy Warner. Now that the other woman had vented, she would probably give up trying to rile Pam and simply ignore her. Pam's aunt and uncle had assured her that they were glad to help, but she was a grown woman. She didn't want to feel like a teenager who had to come to them for her allowance. Besides, they weren't made of money, no matter how successful Uncle Ed said his wife's jewelry-making had become.

Pam sighed. “So, this hypothetical job we're talking about—how much do you think it would pay?”

Faith shrank into the sofa, doing her best to disappear while Morgan and her mother argued in the adjacent kitchen. They were both yelling at top volume. It was so different here than at Faith's house.

On the flipside, at least Morgan had a mother.

Not that Morgan currently appreciated that blessing. “She is driving me
crazy,
” she complained once after her mom had stormed out of the house for an after-school meeting with the assistant principal. Morgan flopped dramatically into a beanbag chair, next to the coffee table where Faith had spread out their research articles. Ignoring their homework, Morgan continued her rant. “The assignment was creative writing, wasn't it? So I wrote a creative piece of fiction.
Fic-tion!
I'm not sure why everyone's making such a federal case out of it.”

“Maybe because your story was too hot for a school assignment and sounded like it might be autobiographical?” Faith had actually been too squeamish to ask if any of it had been true. She didn't want to think about Morgan and Kyle like that. “If you don't want an uproar, don't be a pervert.”

Morgan tossed her blond hair. “It was an artistic exercise.”

“If you say so,” Faith mumbled.

The two girls finally resumed work on their history project, a partner paper on the way fear had affected domestic race relations during World War II. Other student pairings had been assigned different periods throughout America's past.

After a few minutes, Morgan glanced up from her binder with a smug smile. “I'll tell you this. Mom is worked up enough about my short story that she actually called my dad. Do you know the last time they spoke that didn't involve lawyers? He's phoned every night this week
and
he's been answering my emails. Maybe that's what you need.”

“A lawyer? Or email?” Faith frowned. “I don't follow.”

“Honestly, Shepard.” Morgan rolled her eyes. “You know I love you, but you can be so naive! You need an angle to get your mother to pay more attention to you.”

“We should really focus on this project,” Faith said. Her stomach hurt. “It's due in two days, and you spent more of this afternoon with your mom than me.”

“Hey, this is me, your BFF! We can talk about this, right?”

“I guess so.” But she'd rather not. For starters, Morgan kept insisting that her own mother and Faith's dad would be great together—
so not happening—
which made their conversations about Pam awkward. Mostly, though, Faith just didn't want to discuss the situation.

At first Faith had thought it would be enough to meet her mother. They'd never had a relationship before, so trying to force one now would be weird. Faith wasn't
looking for anyone to French-braid her hair or read her stories. All she'd wanted was a few minutes to see the woman in person, have an actual memory of her. Once she had that, Faith had truly believed she would be at peace with the situation, content to have her dad.

But that had been before Pam took up residence in Mimosa! Word got around town fast, and Faith knew her mother had started working at the salon on Witherspoon.
So much for just passing through.
Growing up with no mother wasn't nearly as hard as not having a mom when the mom in question only lived a few blocks away!

What's wrong with me? Why doesn't she want anything to do with me?
Maybe it was her dad's fault. There were obviously “issues” between him and Pam. Had he told Pam to stay away? Or was Pam simply not interested in getting to know her daughter? After all, Faith had spent her entire life in North Carolina and Mississippi, and she could be a little … bland. She wasn't as colorful as someone like Morgan. To a woman who'd traveled extensively, had lived in California and had even been on television, Faith must have seemed utterly boring.

“I screwed up,” Faith muttered. “I'm so stupid.”

“Don't say that! Half my grade depends on you.” When her joking got no response, Morgan reached up to poke Faith in the shin. “Seriously, what's the deal, Shepard?”

“Pam asked me if I was interested in music. Like, professionally interested, and I told her I thought I'd rather work for NASA. Dumb! Music's one of the things I have in common with her. I should have, I don't know, pretended to think about it.”

“That would have made a difference?”

“You said yourself, I need an angle. Music could have been it.” Truth be told, Faith did love to sing. She just wasn't excited about the idea of doing so in front of crowds. What she really loved was writing her own songs, but she'd always been too embarrassed to show them to anyone. Maybe that was one of the reasons she liked Morgan—she admired her friend's fearlessness, even when it led her to make questionable choices.
At least she takes the risk.

“It's not too late.” Morgan rocked back, gradually getting to her feet. “You could still talk to her about music. You could talk to her about anything you want.”

Faith snorted. “She hasn't been in contact with me since the one and only time we met.”

“So?” Morgan grinned. “This is Mimosa. It's not like you don't know where to find her.”

A
FTER HER FIRST
full week on duty, Pam concluded that Beth the stylist had been right: there was nothing specifically difficult about Pam's new job. Her part at the salon required minimal talents—sweeping, answering the phone, cleaning equipment, shampooing customers. But she couldn't shake the feeling that none of those were the real reason Maxine had hired her.
I'm the sideshow freak.

“Business has doubled since you've been here,” Dawn whispered in between blowing steam off the top of her mug. The two of them were stealing a few moments' respite in the gi-normous storage closet that served as break room.

“Ah.” Pam stirred vigorously. “So it's not just my imagination, then?” She used obscene amounts of sugar in her coffee, but she figured that, as far as vices went,
that one was pretty innocuous. Life with Julia—who never met a sweetener she liked—was making Pam's habit even worse.

“You know,” Dawn said sympathetically, “not everyone's here to gawk. Some people generally—”

“I realize the two of you are superbusy gabbing,” Nancy announced from the doorway, enunciating her words so clearly that people down at Granny K's could probably make out what she was saying, “but there's someone out here who's specifically requested Pamela Jo.”

“Coming,” Pam called cheerfully. She enjoyed being cheerful to Nancy; it seemed to tick off the bitter woman. Dropping her voice, she turned to Dawn with a sigh. “You were saying, about how not everyone's coming to gawk?”

Dawn smiled sheepishly. “Look at it this way, most of the gawkers stick around as paying customers. You're like a one-woman boost to the local economy.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” Pam took one last sip of her coffee and poured the remainder into the sink. “Got a mint?”

“Sure.” Dawn fished a plastic container out of her apron pocket, although if the person here to see Pam was only showing up to get good gossip, they probably deserved her rank coffee breath.

Nah. No one deserves that.

Pasting a cordial smile on her face and reminding herself of the latest batch of supplies she planned to purchase after work, she emerged into the main room of the salon. And found all eyes on her—some through surreptitious, sidelong glances, other gazes nakedly curious. Let them goggle, she didn't care. The only pair of eyes she was concerned with were the hazel
ones staring back at her, filled with equal measures uncertainty and youthful bravado.

“Faith!”

The girl tucked her hair back behind her ear. “H-hi, Mom.”

Pam flinched. “Don't call me that.”
Not here, surrounded by these vultures.

Cosmic irony. When Pam had been Faith's age, she hadn't want anyone to link her to Mae Wilson in public because she'd been embarrassed, felt she was better than her mother. Now Pam didn't want anyone to pay close attention to her relationship to Faith because the kid deserved better. Far better.

Rather than timidly retreat, Faith scowled, demonstrating a spark of temper. “Why not? You
are
my mother. Everyone in town knows it already. Pretending otherwise won't change anything.”

“Fair enough.” Pam didn't have much practice defusing angry tweens, but she figured proceeding with caution was her best bet. “How did you get here?” Mimosa was too small to sustain public transportation, but not so small that the girl could have walked to the salon from where she lived.

“Doesn't matter,” Faith answered. “I just wanted to come say hello. And … and get my hair cut!” She tacked this last part on rather desperately, as if it were a spontaneous bid to keep Pam from sending her away.

Seeing the girl's vulnerability immediately after her anger made it all the more striking. Despite Faith's bravado, she was as fragile as Nick had worried she'd be when it came to her mother. Pam's heart tripped over itself, the beats erratic and her mood conflicted. She wasn't used to thinking of herself as a mother. She shied away from the title, knowing she hadn't earned it.

“You don't have to get a haircut,” Pam said, wondering if her father gave her money for stuff like that or if she was dipping into her allowance, literally paying for the chance to spend a few minutes in Pam's company. That possibility caused another pang. “Come on. We can go for a walk or something.”

If they stayed in the shaded parts along the sidewalk, it might even be a pleasant day for it. September was just around the corner, and some mornings there were hints of fall in the air. October and November were when it really started to turn pretty, with cooler breezes and colored leaves and—

With a start, Pam realized she would be gone before then. Surely even a handywoman with her inexperience could have the house in passable shape before October!

“I don't want to leave, I just got here,” Faith said mulishly. “I want to get my hair cut. I don't mind waiting my turn if everyone's busy.”

What the girl obviously meant was
I want to spend time with you.
In a deep down, undisciplined part of her herself, Pam was thrilled, flattered that her daughter cared enough to seek her out. But panic was right behind—Pam knew from experience what happened when she gave in to her undisciplined, damn-the-consequences side.

Pam pondered her options. “All right. Stay then, but I'm taking that walk.”

“Didn't you just get off your break?” Nancy whined, reminding Pam anew that no conversation with Faith would be private as long as they remained in the salon. “Our policy is one break in the afternoon and one in the morning.”

Feeling more claustrophobic by the second, Pam
whipped her head toward the reception counter where Maxine sat. “I'll be back in fifteen. If that's a violation of policy, fire me.”

Maxine's eyebrows shot up, but there was amusement in her voice when she answered, “Oh, I don't think that'll be necessary.”

It ended up being a more dramatic exit than Pam had intended when she first suggested to Faith that they go elsewhere. At least now the matrons of Mimosa had something to text about this afternoon. All Pam had really been trying to do was remove Faith from the situation so that the girl wasn't fodder for gossip. Pam was passing through—nearly anything was tolerable if it was only for a month—but this was Faith's
home.
The girl was entering her teen years, which would be hard enough without her mother's identity making her the object of speculation or ridicule.

Pam had acted out of a desire to protect her daughter but was left wondering if she'd done the wrong thing. Had she hurt Faith by walking away?
Little late to worry about that now.
Twelve years ago would have been the more appropriate time to second-guess that decision.

Fifteen minutes, as it turned out, were hard to kill. It wasn't long enough that she could truly get anywhere, like Granny K's to order some fries, but it was way too long for her to simply loiter in front of the salon. The way her day was going, the police would pick her up for looking like a suspicious character.
Can't say I'd blame them.
Salon dress code required all employees to wear black. On vivacious, curvy Dawn, her work smock looked like the Little Black Dress, reinterpreted for day wear. On greyhound-thin Nancy, the black added edge
to her look, making her the neighborhood femme fatale. But Pam?

Well, she was still too skinny and since she was cramming in as much renovation work as possible before and after salon shifts, her short, pale hair was often standing on end, accessorized with the occasional paint chip or handful of sawdust. Her build and coloring were not meant for the chic head-to-toe black—she looked like a cotton swab gone goth.

Only a few sidewalk squares from the burbling fountain where Pam sat, there was a tinkle of chimes, announcing the coming or going of a salon customer. Had Faith backed down and finally left? Pam glanced up hopefully but saw only a dark-haired woman who had considerably less gray showing in her hair now than when she had arrived two hours ago.

Pam turned away, hoping to discourage conversation. But the older woman trotted up to her and leaned against the fountain railing.

“I'm Martha,” she said. “Want a licorice whip?”

Despite Pam's mood, she almost smiled. As hellos went, offering someone licorice seemed a bit random. “No, thank you.”

The woman fished a resealable plastic bag out of her oversize purse. “My husband tried one of those patches when he gave up smoking a few years ago, worked like a charm. But not me. This is the only thing that's worked. Whenever I get the craving, I have red licorice. Honestly I think it's been harder for me to quit smoking than it was to quit drinking.”