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Part 2: Mia
I stood in the driveway. Staring at the torn bag of hair.
My husband, Jason, picked up my wedding ring from the counter. He held it out to me.
He said, I should have told you. I’m sorry.
I didn’t take it yet. I said, Why did she make you promise?
He said, Because of the wedding.
Seven years ago, at our wedding reception, his younger sister Mia got drunk. She stood up during the toasts.
She said Jason was making the biggest mistake of his life. She said I was a gold digger. She said I’d leave him within a year.
Then she knocked over the cake table on her way out.
Jason told her never to speak to me again. She didn’t. For seven years.
Jason said, She called me six weeks ago. Out of nowhere. She said she had breast cancer. Stage two.
He said, She has nobody. Her boyfriend left when she got diagnosed. Mom and Dad are in Florida. They’re too old to drive her.
He said, She asked me not to tell you. She said, She’ll think I’m using cancer to get back into your life.
He said, I didn’t know how to say no. She’s my little sister.
I took the ring. I put it back on.
I said, How is she?
He said, Bad. The chemo is hard. She’s lost twenty pounds.
He said, She’s having her fourth treatment on Saturday.
I said, I’m coming.
He stared at me. He said, Are you sure?
I said, No. But I’m coming anyway.
That afternoon, Jason’s mother called me from Florida. Patty.
She’d heard from Jason. She was upset.
She said, You’re going to the hospital? With Mia?
She said, After what she did at your wedding? You don’t owe her anything.
She said, Mia’s always been dramatic. Even this. She calls me crying every night. She wants attention.
She said, Let Jason handle her. Don’t get pulled into her mess.
I kept my voice calm.
Patty, I said, she has cancer.
Patty said, I know. It’s terrible. But Mia makes everything harder than it needs to be.
Then she said something that made me sit down.
She said, quietly, She was drunk at your wedding because I told her that morning she’d never be as good as her brother.
I never told Jason that.
Part 3: Seven Years
I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the kitchen with the bag of hair on the counter. And I let myself count.
Seven years since our wedding.
I counted the times I’d mentioned Mia. Maybe three. Jason always changed the subject.
I counted the family holidays. Fourteen. Mia never came to one. Patty always said she was busy.
I counted the times I’d been angry about the wedding. Hundreds, at first. Then fewer. Then I stopped thinking about her.
Then I counted Jason’s last six weeks.
Five chemo appointments. Four hours each. Plus the drive. Plus the waiting room.
Three late-night calls when Mia couldn’t stop throwing up.
One Saturday at the wig maker. Four hours. Measuring. Fitting.
He did it all. Alone. And came home and pretended he’d been at errands.
Then I counted Mia’s hair.
Jason told me she’d been growing it for ten years. Down to her waist. She loved it. It was the only thing she said she ever liked about herself.
She cut it off in the parking lot of the cancer center. With kitchen scissors. Before her first treatment.
She handed it to Jason in a grocery bag. She said, Make me something I can wear.
The wig maker charged eight hundred dollars. Jason paid it himself.
Then I counted the mice.
Jason left the bag in his trunk overnight on Monday. The garage door didn’t close all the way.
The mice found the hair. They dragged it into the exhaust pipe. To build a nest.
If they hadn’t, I never would have known.
On Saturday morning, Jason and I drove to the cancer center.
In the waiting room, a thin woman sat alone. A scarf over her head.
She looked up. She saw me.
She went white.
Part 4: Patty
Mia stood up. Slowly. She was so thin.
She looked at Jason. She said, You told her.
Jason said, The mice told her.
Mia didn’t laugh. She looked at me. Her eyes filled with tears.
Before I could say anything, someone else walked through the waiting room doors.
Patty. Jason’s mother. From Florida.
She’d flown in that morning. Without telling anyone.
She saw all three of us. She stopped.
She said, Well. Isn’t this a reunion.
She sat down next to Mia. She said, I came because Jason said she’s getting worse.
Then she turned to me.
She said, I appreciate you coming. But this is family business. You and Mia have never gotten along.
She said, You don’t need to be here. Mia has me now.
She said, And honestly, it’s a lot of pressure for Mia. Seeing you. After the wedding.
Then she said the thing she came to say.
Let us handle this. You can go home.
I felt that one land. It was meant to.
Because part of me wanted to go home. I didn’t know Mia. Not really.
I took a slow breath.
Patty, I said quietly, I’m not going home.
She stared at me.
Jason’s been driving Mia alone for six weeks, I said. Nobody else came.
Patty’s face tightened.
I’m not here because of the wedding, I said gently. I’m here because she’s my daughter’s aunt. And she shouldn’t be alone.
Then Mia spoke. Quietly.
She said, Mom. You said I’d never be as good as Jason. The morning of his wedding.
You told me his bride was perfect. And I was a disappointment.
I drank a whole bottle of champagne in the bathroom before the reception.
I’ve been ashamed of what I said for seven years.
Patty went very still.
Mia looked at me. Her voice was shaking.
She said, I’m sorry. Everything I said at your wedding was what Mom said to me.
I just said it about you.
Part 5: The Wig
I sat down beside Mia. I took her hand.
I said, I’m sorry too. For seven years of being angry.
Mia started crying. So did I.
Patty sat on Mia’s other side. She didn’t say anything for a long time.
Then she said, quietly, My mother said the same thing to me. That I’d never be as good as my brother.
I promised I’d never say it to my kids. And then I did.
She put her hand on Mia’s back. Gently.
She said, I’m sorry, baby.
Mia leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder.
I sat with Mia through her whole treatment that day. Four hours. We talked about everything. Her job. Her ex. My daughter.
She asked to see pictures. I showed her dozens.
She said, She’s beautiful. Does she like purple?
I laughed. I said, She has six purple water bottles.
Mia finished chemo in the spring. Eight treatments. Then surgery. Then radiation.
Her last scan in August was clear.
I drove her to every appointment after that first Saturday. Jason took turns with me.
Patty flew in once a month. She cooked for Mia. She sat with her. She didn’t criticize anything.
The wig was ready in October.
The wig maker had made it from Mia’s own hair. Long. Black. Down to her waist.
Mia put it on in our living room. She looked in the mirror for a long time.
She said, quietly, I look like me again.
Then our daughter walked into the room. She stared at her aunt.
She said, Your hair is so long! Can I braid it?
Mia smiled. She said, Of course.
She sat on the floor. Our daughter sat behind her. She braided her aunt’s hair. Badly. Lopsided. With a purple ribbon.
Mia didn’t fix it. She wore it all day.
That night, Jason checked his car before work.
He crouched down. He looked into the exhaust pipe.
Then he looked up at me. He grinned.
He said, All clear.
I laughed so hard I had to sit down in the driveway.
I’ve never been so glad to find another woman’s hair in my husband’s car.
