Do you remember when you shaved my head in our front yard? You got up from the table one morning and came back holding electric trimmers. Flicked them on and off. I knew what you were going to say, so before you said it I said, “Never going to happen.”
“It’ll feel great,” you said.
It was August. Out the window, the sun wasn’t quite up. The sky was purple-going-pink at its edges. Dim stars flickered like faulty flashlights. The A/C hummed. Before you went into the bathroom for the trimmers, you complained about how I’d complained about the heat since we moved here. You couldn’t stand my constant complaining. I really believed the sun was more intense in the Midwest.
My theories as to why.
One theory was there aren’t many trees and the trees here aren’t tall. I mentioned this to a local I met at a bar after I drove up to look for apartments. He said it’s the wind. They’d blow down if they were any taller. Same went for the buildings. My other theory was cows. I came up with this later. Once I learned beef rules Kansas agriculture, I couldn't help but blame the cows. All the methane in the cow farts probably thinned the ozone layer to nothing. I told you this more than once. You called me ridiculous but laughed. At least you did the first time.
I ran a hand up the side of my head, lifting my hair. This was for show. “Have you forgotten about my scar?” I said.
You rolled your eyes, and cocked your hips beneath a pocketed T-shirt of mine you had on. You wore underwear, but I couldn’t see them. The shirt hem fell an inch or two above your knees.
“I have a hard time remembering something I’ve never seen,” you said.
I let my hair fall. “That’s the whole point,” I said.
“You weren’t a baby,” you said.
In my confused silence, you readjusted your hips and stood erect. A foot shorter than me, you were a commanding presence. Maybe the silence helped with that. Maybe it was because I was sitting down.
“When you got into your accident,” you added.
“Kristen,” I said. “I’m well aware.”
“Are you aware that you heal slower the older you get?” You didn’t wait for me to answer. “You don’t scar as badly. Babies, toddlers—they scar badly because they heal too quickly. I bet you hardly have a scar at all.”
All I’d told you about the accident is I’d fallen asleep at the wheel. I never mentioned I’d been drinking, that I passed out, which is different than falling asleep. You knew my brother’s death haunted me, but what you didn’t know is back then these hauntings were more frequent and frequently they haunted my dreams, so most nights I drank so I wouldn’t have any of those.
I wanted to tell you this. I was afraid to come clean. Afraid of what you’d think of me. But what I feared most was this admission might open a rift between worlds and my brother would start visiting me again in my sleep. I’ve been a coward my entire life.
So I said, “Let’s get it over with.”
I brought a chair out front while you went to the bathroom for a towel.
Outside, grass crunched beneath my steps, itching my feet. I sat and waited. A little brighter out, but still dark, a car drove by, headlights washing over concrete. It was warm, getting warmer by the second.
“I can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” you said
You wrapped the towel around my neck like a giant bib. Without you having to ask, I closed my eyes and leaned my head forward.
The trimmer teeth felt cold. I flinched when they touched my neck. You laughed and placed your hand on my head to keep me steady, then kept it there to move me how you wanted me to be moved. After a while, I could tell you were nearly finished. The crunches of hair shorn in the trimmer blades were sporadic, nearly imperceptible from its usual buzz. I felt lighter.
You turned them off and brushed my head with your hand and said, “Almost done.” I kept my eyes closed as you traced a finger over the scar. You didn’t say anything about it.
Nicholas Claro is an MFA candidate in fiction at Wichita State and reads fiction for Nimrod International Journal. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Pithead Chapel, Bending Genres, Heavy Feather Review, X-R-A-Y, Necessary Fiction, and others.