Lucy thought. Maybe I’m just scared, and there’s nothing wrong with my stomach – it’s not a travel bug bite. And it wasn’t the hour she’d be spending alone in the airplane that was bothering her, either: it was the three weeks afterwards.
The afghan for Mrs. Freitag was finished. There was hardly any black in it, and most of the grays were light hues. The one brown piece looked like a little smart-aleck there in the second row. It made Lucy smile whenever she looked at it.
“Look, Mama, I’m finished. What do you think?”
“Very nice, Lucy. Only that one piece doesn’t really go with the others. Didn’t you have enough of the other yarn?”
“Yes, I did. I just think it looks... I know it doesn’t go with the others. But I liked it because...well... I’ll just take it down to Mrs. Freitag now.”
Her mother nodded. “But don’t stay too long. I need you to get a few things at the store. Cheese for the lasagna tonight, deep conditioner for my hair, and – here, I’ve made a list for you.”
“Lucy – oh, my, it’s gorgeous!” Mrs. Freitag had spread the afghan out on her couch and was admiring it. “So carefully done, and the colors flow so well! You’re quite the little artist. I love it. Thank you, thank you.”
Lucy felt herself starting to blush. “In case you don’t like this one piece here – the color doesn’t really match – I can change it. But I can’t do it until I come back. I thought at first – but then it isn’t really...”
“Change it? Over my dead body, child. It has to be there. It’s what gives the afghan that special something. And Rufus was that color, wasn’t he? Caramel brown.”
Lucy beamed. “I have to go to the grocery store now. Bye, Mrs. Freitag.”
“Good bye, Lucy. I’ll think of you every time I use the afghan. Very often, in other words.”
Lucy hummed as she hopped up the steps on her way to the sixth floor. In her room, she glared at the open suitcase, which was filling up day by day, sometimes hour by hour. Underwear. Mountains of it.
She ran into the kitchen, where her mother was busy cranking out lasagna noodles on the pasta maker.
“Mama, I think you gave me way too much underwear.”
“Well, we don’t know if Paula has a washer. It’s better to take plenty along.”
“But still – I’m not going to go through that much underwear in three weeks. Shouldn’t I take some out?”
Her mother wiped off her hands on a kitchen towel and sat down. “No, just leave everything the way it is. Come and sit down.”
“I wanted to go to the store now.”
“Yes, in a minute. I have something to tell you. Hmm, you know... Well, I packed so much underwear because you’ll be spending more than three weeks in Ireland.”
Lucy was dumbstruck with fright.
“Let me explain. You see, I’ll be on the ship for almost four weeks. That’s just the way it is; it won’t drop anchor any earlier. And after we do land, Kurt and I want to spend a few days in Cape Town. We’re lucky that Paula can take you in for five weeks.”
Lucy felt as if her throat was closing up. “Five?” she croaked.
“I knew you’d get upset. That’s why I didn’t tell you earlier. But you’ll see – once you’re there, it really won’t matter much if you stay three weeks or five.”
When her mother stopped talking, Lucy stood up slowly. She took the shopping basket, the pocketbook, and the list, and she left the apartment. As she went down the steps, she made sure to hold on to the railing. Her legs felt weak and shaky.
In the park, she sat down on the first bench she came to.
Five weeks. More than a month! That was too much. And it was mean. A mean, dirty, rotten trick. Lucy stood up, grabbed the basket, and then, scowling, stomped off to the grocery store.
She’d picked up most of the things on the list: apples, romaine lettuce, one organic lemon, Gruyère cheese. She was pushing her cart along the refrigerated shelves, looking for diet yogurt, when she suddenly stopped in front of a stack of butter wrapped in gold foil. Irish butter. Lucy stretched out her arm. With her thumbnail, she cut long, deep strips in the foil of the top package.
“There. That’s better,” she muttered. It looked awful.
On to the cosmetics section. She threw two packages of deep conditioner for hair into the cart and slowly pushed it by the hair dye. Some brands had little hanks of hair hanging from the shelf that showed how your hair would look afterwards. And they had really interesting names: Espresso, Wild Orange, Salmon Pink, Red Chili Pepper, Irish Red. Lucy opened her eyes wide. That was new!
She took a box of Irish Red from the shelf and tossed it in with her other items. Now she was in a hurry.
Chapter 4
Irish Red in a Box
“Well, have you calmed down, sweetheart?” her mother asked as Lucy put the basket on the kitchen table.
“No,” Lucy said. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I knew you’d get upset. Besides, I never actually said you’d only be spending three weeks at Paula’s. You just assumed that–”
“Because we were going to go to California for three weeks.”
“Yes, but this is a totally different situation now.”
“It’s mean.”
“Oh, come on, Lucy. Let’s not argue. We can’t change it now. I’ll bring you something nice, all right?”
Lucy took the box of Irish Red and went to her bathroom. She read the directions: Wash hair as usual. Using plastic gloves (enclosed), distribute paste evenly throughout towel-dry hair. Place plastic cap (enclosed) over hair. Leave paste on for 15–30 minutes. Heat increases color intensity.
Lucy washed her hair over the sink, smeared the paste all over her head, and put on the plastic cap.
She moved the study lamp to the edge of her desk and turned it on. Then she sat on the floor with her head under the broad bulb, its light warming her plastic-covered hair.
Lucy felt like a casserole. She leaned against the desk and immersed herself in her favorite Narnia book. After reading several chapters, she checked her watch. Thirty-five minutes had passed. Twenty minutes more, she decided. After all, she wanted to be able to see a difference.
After rinsing until she couldn’t see any more red gunk coming out and towel-drying, Lucy stood in front of the mirror. Carefully, she combed her hair. It was darker than before and had a reddish shimmer. She put the blow dryer on “high,” bent down from the waist, and dried her hair. Energetically, she swung up again and turned to face the mirror. Her eyes opened as wide as saucers.
“Heavens,” Lucy whispered. It looked like her hair had caught on fire. Bright, blazing red, and much thicker than before, it fluffed way out just above her shoulders.
She went to her room and stood in front of the big mirror. A sunbeam shone through the window, highlighting the fiery effect. “Heavens,” she repeated.
“Lucy,” she heard her mother calling as if from a long way away. “Can’t you hear me? I wanted to tell you to – LUCY!”
Lucy turned around. Her mother was standing in the doorway, staring at her.
“Lucy, what in the world have you done?” She approached carefully, making one complete circle around Lucy.
“Good gracious,” she murmured. “What in heaven’s name got into you? Why on earth...?”
Lucy