Mrs. Perfect

I haven’t a clue. I’m beginning to have some reservations about doing my hair color this way. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this—”

“No. We should. We’re going to help you.” Jemma looks up at me. “Let’s forget all the names. Let’s just match your hair to the hair on the box like we agreed.”

Why I listen to a ten-year-old is beyond me. But I do.

We head home with Natural Medium Golden Blonde—after Brooke has announced to the senior citizen man working the register that we’re all going home to color my gray hair—but as we troop into the house, I’m worried.

I’m not that golden, and Medium Champagne Blonde sounded like a much better fit to me, but Jemma said it’s because I like the name “Champagne” more than the color on the box.

The girls crowd around me as I open the box and take out the instructions. There’s a lot of instructions but only three steps. Hmmm, something doesn’t fit.

Jemma’s reading the instructions out loud while Tori is pulling out the bottles and tubes. I’m feeling close to freaking out. This is too chaotic. I don’t want to do anything wrong. I like my hair, and it’s cost a fortune over the years to maintain.

“Girls, I don’t know. I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

“Mom . . .” Jemma sighs, looking up from the instructions. “What could possibly go wrong?”

What could go wrong? How about everything? I could have an allergic reaction. My scalp could burn. My hair could fall out. My hair could turn orange.

My hair turns orange.

Okay, not as orange as orange fruit, more like screaming gold. Think hollowed-out pumpkin with a candle inside.

My former highlights are darker, too. Darker orange. On the burnt amber side.

I’m surprisingly okay with it, and I don’t know if it’s because having Crayola-colored hair is less traumatic than losing your house, but the girls are shattered.

I knew something was wrong the moment I rinsed the color out of my hair and stepped out of the shower and looked into the mirror.

Jemma was waiting on the other side of the shower door with a towel, and she knew it, too, only she didn’t want to believe it. This was her pick, after all, and she begged me to blow-dry my hair fast, hoping and praying that once my hair was dry the color would be softer . . . more apple cider and less tangerine punch.

My hair’s dry, and it’s still fluorescent.

Jemma’s facedown on her bed, crying. She hates my hair almost as much as she hates her sisters, who have ruined her life by being born.

Tori’s a little weepy, but not bad. She’s more fascinated by my transformation than anything else. Apparently I look like Charmander from Pokémon.

Brooke is quick to point out that being called Charmander is not a compliment. Charmander isn’t just orange but has a weird dinosaur head and spiky teeth.

Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror, I turn my orange head this way and that. I wouldn’t even mind the screaming gold if it was more complimentary to my skin tone. But copper and orange is harsh. It makes my skin sallow. Right now I look at least thirty-nine.

I pick up the phone and dial my very expensive, very snooty hair salon. They’re going to be livid when they see what I did to my hair.

Why, oh, why do I learn everything the hard way?

Chapter Eighteen

I can’t get into the Salon until Monday noon, so I spend Sunday working at the house, getting us prepared for the move, trying not to be overwhelmed by the staggering amount to do in the next few weeks. There’s just so much to sort, organize, pack, and toss out.

While the girls play games, I pull down the ladder to the attic and tackle the sea of boxes stored up there. Everything’s up there: clothes, small furniture, lamps, pictures, and dozens of boxes of Christmas and holiday decorations. The sad thing is, unless the box is Christmas or holiday decorations, it’s just collecting dust.

Tired of dust and tired of stuff, I’m determined to get rid of everything that can’t fit into the new house, and since very little can fit into the 1,650-square-foot house, almost everything has to go.

While going through plastic tubs and cardboard boxes, I find a bin filled with old cassettes and record albums from my high school days.

I smile at my collection of music. Keith Green, 2nd Chapter of Acts, Amy Grant, Matthew Ward, Sandy Patti. I was born again in high school, and my dad, despite being a deacon in our church, wasn’t thrilled by my evangelical fever. Memorizing scripture and prayer was fine, but joining a “worship group” and singing praise songs for hours was going too far. The charismatic movement made him suspicious. Emotion and passion made him suspicious, but emotion and passion were what I craved.

I needed to feel something good. I longed to feel something hopeful. Brave.

Being deeply religious had its benefits. God took me away from the disaster at home, and believing in Jesus Christ meant I didn’t have to believe in me. I didn’t have to be perfect because that was the Holy Spirit’s job. I just had to show up with an open heart.

I suddenly miss that young me, the one full of fire and grace. I was so sure I’d be a light in the world. So sure that I, Tammy Jones, could make a difference.

Reluctantly, I slide back the box of cassettes and albums and reach for another box, unsure what to do with my Christian music. I don’t play the old albums anymore, but I still can’t bear to think of tossing them away.

I lift the lid on the next box. A white cotton quilt edged in the most gorgeous blue and white silk ribbon.

Matthew’s baby blanket.

I slowly lift the blanket from the box and bring it to my face. I made this blanket.

Matthew was the baby between Jemma and Brooke, the baby boy I lost at seven and a half months.

No one could tell me why I lost him. At the seven-month checkup, he was healthy and moving, kicking up a storm, and then two weeks later he stopped moving.

I knew something was wrong the night he stopped moving. Matthew had always been such a busy boy in my tummy. When I went to sleep, he’d start to play. But that night when I went to sleep, he never did his kicks or somersaults.

I kept putting my hand on my stomach. Wake up, Matthew. Wake up, Matt, wake up for Mommy.

I woke Nathan early in the morning to tell him something was wrong, and Nathan put his hand on my belly, and then his cheek and then his lips, as if he could breathe life into the baby.

I had to deliver Matthew the next evening. They induced me, and I went into labor. It was horrible. Jemma was a hard delivery, but this was so much worse. I remember begging for the epidural, but they said they were afraid it would stop the contractions and the baby had to come out. Nathan was with me the entire time. He held my hand. He wouldn’t let it go even when I was screaming at God and the doctors for taking my boy.

Thank God Nathan was there. He made sure I got to hold Matthew after he was cleaned up and wrapped in a little blue hospital blanket.

He was small but otherwise perfect, with wisps of gold brown hair on his head.

I’m glad we named him Matthew. Matthew was my favorite apostle.

I tuck the soft quilt back into the box with the crib sheets and bumper. I made everything for Matthew’s nursery, just the way I made everything for Jemma’s.

I stack Matthew’s box on top of the box with my Christian music. These two boxes will go to the rental house. Although I can’t bear to look at either one, I can’t bring myself to get rid of them, either.

I’m emotionally and physically flattened by bedtime. I spent nearly five hours hauling boxes downstairs, but the attic is now completely empty. A third of the boxes will go to the new house

, another third will go to the garbage, and the last will be dropped off at a Goodwill station.

I shower and, still wrapped in a towel, apply my evening skin repair cream, the one that’s supposed to erase fine lines, fade age spots, and even out a blotchy complexion. I hear the phone ring, but I don’t answer it. I’m too tired. I just want to get the girls in bed and then collapse in bed, too.

My bedroom door opens and Jemma walks in, carrying one of the cordless phones. “It’s Patti, Mom. She has to talk to you.”

“Oh, okay.” I quickly finish smoothing the lotion over my face and throat and then rubbing the leftover into my hands.

As I take the phone, Jemma whispers to me, “We called Dad and talked to him. He’s going to try to come home for Thanksgiving. Isn’t that great?”

I hold the phone against my chest. Nathan’s coming home for Thanksgiving? “Really?”

She nods and smiles. “He’s going to help us move, too.”

“That’s wonderful.” I kiss her forehead and then bring the phone to my ear. “Hi, Patti.”

“She wants it.” Patti’s voice squeaks with excitement. “All of it. Including the art on your walls.”

I press the towel to my chin. “She’s lost her mind.”

“I told her the moving truck arrives Wednesday, so she said she’ll bring you a check over tomorrow.”

I can get the house. We’ll have the rental house. I sag against the counter, overwhelmed.

“But, Taylor, won’t it be hard seeing her in your house with all your things?”

“I won’t be back. When I walk away, I’m walking from this house for good.” But just saying the words brings a lump to my throat. This house has meant a lot to me. It’s still so painful to think it’ll soon be someone else’s.

“Have you started packing yet?” I ask, needing to change the subject.

“No, we have movers doing it. I’m just taking care of personal stuff, putting things in suitcases that I don’t want in the truck. How about you? Do you have a company coming in?”