Categories > Original > Drama > Separation
May 18, 1979
“Ray.”
He looked up. Misty stood over him, wielding the kitchen scissors, a spray bottle in the other hand and an old towel draped over her arm.
“You need a haircut.”
He did. Initially shaved almost bald due to the first round of surgeries, his hair had grown out far longer than he’d ever had it. Bangs obscuring not just his right eye but also his now useless left, the rear lengths fell nearly to his shoulders, making him look like what Charles referred to as a “hemp-wearing granola-eater”. The look was not entirely flattering on Ray’s fine features and petite build.
“C’mere.”
He didn’t have anywhere to go, really. Wheelchair parked near the window, he’d been sitting paging awkwardly through something small with a heavy leather binding and gold-trimmed edges.
“Foxe? Good grief Ray, you must be in a Mood,” Misty remarked, recognizing the cover. “Or is this a backward attempt at self-encouragement?”
Tilting his head to the right in what passed for a shrug these days, he gave no verbal response. Misty herself became silent for a minute as she draped the towel around his shoulders and took out a soft-bristled brush.
“Hold still,” she told him gently. His head being the only fully mobile part of him at the moment, it was not the needless request it might have seemed. He stiffened briefly as the boar bristles touched his head, but gradually relaxed as Misty drew the brush through his over-long hair. Like a dog having its ears scratched, Ray leaned into the bristles slightly, and Misty followed the brush strokes with another from the palm of her free hand. Eventually she put the brush down and simply stroked his hair with her fingers, letting him lean back against her midriff ever so slightly. With only the back of his head visible, it was impossible to gauge his expression, and he made no sound. Carefully, she leaned and lightly rested her cheek against his head.
“Good to have you home.”
It both saddened and relieved her that he could no longer hear the separate sentence she’d spoken in her head.
Doing her best to regain focus, Misty allowed herself a moment more of smoothing the surprisingly soft brown strands before wetting them with the spray bottle. Deftly, she combed the dampened hair between her fingers and clipped. Ray’s hairstyle had remained more or less unchanged in the six years she’d known him; the cut not unlike something her little brother had sported as a child. It was a slightly juvenile style, but it worked well enough on Ray; cut close in the back, parted off to one side, the lesser part brushed back and short, the longer brushed forward and over one eye. Usually his bangs were a bit long, dangling into his line of vision. However, since it was the only functional eye he had left, Misty purposely trimmed his bangs a few millimeters shorter than normal to ensure his vision wouldn’t be impaired any further.
“There,” she said at length, lightly running the brush over his hair again in order to emancipate any stray snippets and being careful to avoid the god-awful scar that began just under his hairline. They’d learned the hard way that it shouldn’t be touched.
“What do you think?” She held a hand mirror up so he could appraise her handiwork.
“Not bad for a crazy lady with a pair of scissors,” he quipped. The delivery had been a bit flat, his smile more for her benefit than any actual humor on his part, but she still could have hugged him. Swallowing hard, she forced a smile of her own.
“Smart-ass.”
“No, that’s Charles.”
This time she did laugh.
“Right. Charles is the smart-ass, Dan’s the asshole, Alex is the bully, Seth’s the slacker, and you’re…” still handsome even with all these scars…sweet and kind…smart without being a show-off…grounded and faithful… fucking alive and sitting right here in front of me… Again, that guilty relieved feeling that he couldn’t see what was going through her head anymore. If he would meet her eyes they would have given her away just as clearly, but Ray looked at her face as a unit, never meeting her pupil-to-pupil. Maybe it was just as well.
“I’m the Bible-thumper,” he reminded her.
“Right,” she nodded, blinking back tears. “You’re the Bible-thumper.”
The phantom of a smile flickered at his lips, and she leaned forward, not sure she’d really seen it at all.
“Crazy lady,” the words fell softly, the teasing nickname spoken more gently than any “my darling”; inflection sweetly carrying the veiled three syllables he hid from her just as she had hidden them from him.
She’d knelt in front of his chair, the mirror set forgotten on the floor. The smile ghosted past again and she stretched, hoping to keep it in place, to pin it to his lips with her own. Ray too had leaned forward as much as his limited mobility would allow. A hand’s breadth away, their eyes met. Misty inhaled slightly, unprepared for what she’d seen hidden far back in the dark brown depths. Abruptly, his eyes dropped and he turned his head, ashamed.
He didn’t see her brittle smile, but squeezed weakly back as she put her hand around his.
I love you…
They’d never know it had been thought in unison.
“Ray.”
He looked up. Misty stood over him, wielding the kitchen scissors, a spray bottle in the other hand and an old towel draped over her arm.
“You need a haircut.”
He did. Initially shaved almost bald due to the first round of surgeries, his hair had grown out far longer than he’d ever had it. Bangs obscuring not just his right eye but also his now useless left, the rear lengths fell nearly to his shoulders, making him look like what Charles referred to as a “hemp-wearing granola-eater”. The look was not entirely flattering on Ray’s fine features and petite build.
“C’mere.”
He didn’t have anywhere to go, really. Wheelchair parked near the window, he’d been sitting paging awkwardly through something small with a heavy leather binding and gold-trimmed edges.
“Foxe? Good grief Ray, you must be in a Mood,” Misty remarked, recognizing the cover. “Or is this a backward attempt at self-encouragement?”
Tilting his head to the right in what passed for a shrug these days, he gave no verbal response. Misty herself became silent for a minute as she draped the towel around his shoulders and took out a soft-bristled brush.
“Hold still,” she told him gently. His head being the only fully mobile part of him at the moment, it was not the needless request it might have seemed. He stiffened briefly as the boar bristles touched his head, but gradually relaxed as Misty drew the brush through his over-long hair. Like a dog having its ears scratched, Ray leaned into the bristles slightly, and Misty followed the brush strokes with another from the palm of her free hand. Eventually she put the brush down and simply stroked his hair with her fingers, letting him lean back against her midriff ever so slightly. With only the back of his head visible, it was impossible to gauge his expression, and he made no sound. Carefully, she leaned and lightly rested her cheek against his head.
“Good to have you home.”
It both saddened and relieved her that he could no longer hear the separate sentence she’d spoken in her head.
Doing her best to regain focus, Misty allowed herself a moment more of smoothing the surprisingly soft brown strands before wetting them with the spray bottle. Deftly, she combed the dampened hair between her fingers and clipped. Ray’s hairstyle had remained more or less unchanged in the six years she’d known him; the cut not unlike something her little brother had sported as a child. It was a slightly juvenile style, but it worked well enough on Ray; cut close in the back, parted off to one side, the lesser part brushed back and short, the longer brushed forward and over one eye. Usually his bangs were a bit long, dangling into his line of vision. However, since it was the only functional eye he had left, Misty purposely trimmed his bangs a few millimeters shorter than normal to ensure his vision wouldn’t be impaired any further.
“There,” she said at length, lightly running the brush over his hair again in order to emancipate any stray snippets and being careful to avoid the god-awful scar that began just under his hairline. They’d learned the hard way that it shouldn’t be touched.
“What do you think?” She held a hand mirror up so he could appraise her handiwork.
“Not bad for a crazy lady with a pair of scissors,” he quipped. The delivery had been a bit flat, his smile more for her benefit than any actual humor on his part, but she still could have hugged him. Swallowing hard, she forced a smile of her own.
“Smart-ass.”
“No, that’s Charles.”
This time she did laugh.
“Right. Charles is the smart-ass, Dan’s the asshole, Alex is the bully, Seth’s the slacker, and you’re…” still handsome even with all these scars…sweet and kind…smart without being a show-off…grounded and faithful… fucking alive and sitting right here in front of me… Again, that guilty relieved feeling that he couldn’t see what was going through her head anymore. If he would meet her eyes they would have given her away just as clearly, but Ray looked at her face as a unit, never meeting her pupil-to-pupil. Maybe it was just as well.
“I’m the Bible-thumper,” he reminded her.
“Right,” she nodded, blinking back tears. “You’re the Bible-thumper.”
The phantom of a smile flickered at his lips, and she leaned forward, not sure she’d really seen it at all.
“Crazy lady,” the words fell softly, the teasing nickname spoken more gently than any “my darling”; inflection sweetly carrying the veiled three syllables he hid from her just as she had hidden them from him.
She’d knelt in front of his chair, the mirror set forgotten on the floor. The smile ghosted past again and she stretched, hoping to keep it in place, to pin it to his lips with her own. Ray too had leaned forward as much as his limited mobility would allow. A hand’s breadth away, their eyes met. Misty inhaled slightly, unprepared for what she’d seen hidden far back in the dark brown depths. Abruptly, his eyes dropped and he turned his head, ashamed.
He didn’t see her brittle smile, but squeezed weakly back as she put her hand around his.
I love you…
They’d never know it had been thought in unison.
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