Thirty minutes later,Bleu and Fiona were sitting side by side in the bathroom. I’d mixed together vinegar and oil in a bowl and planned on spreading it over all the hair, then using the comb section by section to get the nits and their eggs.
We’d left Beaumont in the sitting room to look at a picture book while I worked on his brother’s head. I’d stripped Bleu’s shirt and had him put on his old knickers. He’d filled out since we’d brought him home with us. I could no longer see his ribs when he breathed, I noticed, as I picked up the scissors James had brought by the apartment. I held them up to the light. “They seem sharp.”
Fiona shivered despite the warmth of the small bathroom. “Maybe you should cut mine off, too.”
“No, we’ll comb yours out.” I wasn’t physically capable of cutting Fiona’s black curls. They were too precious to me. If it took me all night, I would rid her of the unwanted guests.
“You ready?” I asked Bleu.
He nodded and wrapped his arms around his bare stomach, clearly undeterred by this latest drama.
“Here we go then.” I gathered a section of Bleu’s hair and chopped. The clump fell to the floor, where I’d laid newspapers. I would take them down to the garbage later. “This will rid us of them.”
Systematically, I moved around his head, leaving only about an eighth of an inch of hair, and dropped my trimmings onto a newspaper on the floor. His scalp had several scars I hadn’t seen before now. “Look at these,” I said to Fiona in English.
Her eyes went cold at the sight of what must have been cuts and gashes. “I’ve never said a curse word in my life, but I really want to now. Ask him where he got them.”
“Where did the scars come from?” I asked him in French.
His thin shoulders lifted into a shrug. “Here and there. Before our mother died, there was a man who lived with us. He liked to beat our heads. Then afterward, with the bad man.”
I caught Fiona’s gaze. “What did he say?” Her brow furrowed.
“He says they came from various places.” I snipped another lock of hair. “Including a man who lived with them before they lost their mother.”
“There is a place in hell for him,” Fiona said, sounding disgusted.
After I finished cutting all of Bleu’s hair, I scrutinized him. Even cut short, there was a chance for the bugs to cling to the strands. It would be best to shave his head entirely. I asked Fiona her opinion and she agreed. I explained it all to Bleu, half expecting him to protest a blade that close to his head. Instead, he looked up at me with trusting eyes and asked if it would be like I did in the morning to my face. “Yes, just like that.”
“I’ll be like you, then?” Bleu asked.
“Yes, a little like me,” I said.
Fiona asked me to translate and I did so. She smiled over at Bleu before returning her gaze to me. “He admires you. Do you see the way he looks at you?”
“I hope he understands it’s his head I’m shaving and not his face.” I went to the cabinet and pulled out my shaving powder and razor. While I mixed it up, Fiona told Bleu to get one of the picture books from the sitting room to look at while I did the deed.
He scampered off, returning just as I’d finished mixing the shaving powder into a cream. “Now, sit here again,” I said.
When he was seated, I put cream on the top of his head and as gently as I could, scraped the blade over his scalp. Little by little, I progressed around his head until it was as smooth as a billiard ball. I stood back to gaze at my work. He seemed smaller and thinner without his hair, more like his brother. For the first time, I could see how they were truly identical.
He ran a hand over his head. My stomach clenched, worried he would be upset. Instead, he commented that no bug could cling to him now. “Too, my head’s no longer so hot,” Bleu added in French as he looked at himself in the mirror and grinned. “Je suis beau.”
“You are handsome,” Fiona said.
“You understood him?” I asked.
She scratched the side of her head. “I’m learning. Catching enough words that I can sometimes piece things together.”
Bleu grinned at her. “Je suis un garçon propre maintenant.”
“Yes, you’re a good boy.”
“He said he was a clean boy,” I said, laughing.
“Clean is a nice thing to be,” Fiona said. “But good is better.”
“I’m a good boy,” Bleu said in English. “And a clean boy.”
“Other than the nits,” Fiona said, chuckling. “Your English is sounding very good. I’m proud of you.”
He looked at her blankly. I translated to him with the French word for proud. “Elle est fière de toi.”
An expression suitable to Fiona’s praise drifted over his face, leaving him looking content and happy with himself. I brushed stray hair from his shoulders with a rag.
Fiona went to the tub and turned on the water. “Speaking of clean, you’ll need a bath before you go to bed. I’ll need to change his sheets, too, won’t I?” she said under her breath before looking at me. “Would you watch the water and I’ll get clean pajamas for him? Gabriella will do the washing when she returns tomorrow.”
“I’ll look after teeth brushing and bath,” I said. “Send his brother in to do the same?” The twins’ teeth had needed a good cleaning when they came to us. They would both lose their baby teeth soon, thankfully, as they were sure to have cavities.
About then Beaumont wandered into the bathroom. He grinned at the sight of his brother’s new hairstyle, or lack of one. “Me too,” he said. “I want to match my brother.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Fiona said. “That way we know he’s safe from critters.”
“All right then,” I said to Beaumont. “Come sit.”
While Fiona went to strip their cots and put new sheets and pillowcases on, I shaved Beaumont’s head, noticing he too had scars, but not as many as his brother. Bleu was the protector of the two of them. I could easily imagine him jumping into danger to save his brother.
A bit later, both twins were bathed and ready for bed. I offered to tuck them in while Fiona changed into clothes suitable for a possible dousing of vinegar and oil. Once I had them in their cots, which they’d begged to have scooted close together, Beaumont asked for a story. I told them they couldn’t have one tonight because it had gotten too late. Lately, I would tell them a story in English about my childhood growing up with Fiona. I don’t know how much they understood, but they seemed to love them regardless. They both looked up at me from their cocoons with such disappointment in their eyes that I relented. “A short one,” I said.
“Oui, oui,” they said together.