Chapter 8: What Paula Said
Paula cried on the phone.
Not softly — properly, the way people cry when they've been holding something so long that the release is almost violent.
I sat with it and didn't try to fill the silence.
When she could speak, she said: "I thought I had done something wrong.
I went over it for years.
What I said, what I did, why Delia would call my employer and say—" She stopped.
"She told my manager I had been harassing her.
At the salon.
A client harassing a stylist.
My manager called me in.
I nearly lost my job."
"I know," I said.
"Gerald knows too."
"Gerald," she repeated.
"His uncle."
"His uncle who is now actively working against him.
The trust has been restructured.
He loses everything."
A long silence.
"Is that enough?" she said.
"I'm not asking you to do more.
I'm asking myself." She laughed once, short and dry.
"I don't have an answer yet."
"You don't have to have one yet," I said.
"Gerald is documenting everything.
If you ever want to do anything further, the record will exist."
"Okay," she said quietly.
"Okay."
There was a pause.
"Was there anyone after me?" she said.
"Before you?"
"One other.
A woman named Renee."
She exhaled.
"Four of us," she said.
"Yes."
She was quiet again.
When she spoke, her voice was steadier.
"I want to do one thing," she said.
"I want to send a letter.
To Delia.
Not threatening, not angry — I just want her to know that what she did to me had consequences.
That it was real.
That I'm a real person." She paused.
"Would that be all right?
Is that strange?"
"It's not strange at all," I said.
After I hung up, I sat for a while at my desk.
I thought about Delia.
I thought about the shrug, the scissors, the words *it looked uneven, I fixed it.* And then I thought about what my mother had said — *she sounded frightened.* The difference between those two versions of Delia had been sitting with me for days, and I hadn't known what to do with it.
I picked up my phone and called my mother.
"Delia contacted me again this morning," my mother said, before I could speak.
"She asked if she could come and see me."
"What did you say?"
"I said yes." A pause.
"I want to see her face when she apologizes.
I want to know if she means it."
"And if she does?"
My mother was quiet for a moment.
"Then I'll decide," she said.
"I'm not going to promise anything.
But I'm not going to close a door before I've looked through it."
Three days later, she called me again.
"Delia came," she said.
"She sat at my kitchen table.
She had an envelope.
Inside it was a check — enough to cover two years of professional salon visits.
And a letter." She paused.
"A real letter.
Three pages.
She explained — not excused, she was very careful about that distinction — she explained what Marcus had on her.
He had lent her money to open the salon.
The terms of repayment included, apparently, this.
She said she told herself it was small things.
Haircuts.
It got easier to do because she told herself it didn't matter."
"But it did matter."
"She knows that now." My mother's voice was soft.
"She said she was going to repay him in full and sever the arrangement.
Gerald apparently contacted her separately and made clear that the loan terms weren't legally enforceable given how they were structured." Another pause.
"I'm not going to forgive her today.
But I'm going to think about it."
"That's all you need to do," I said.
"She also—" My mother stopped, and when she started again, her voice had changed slightly, warmer, the way it does when something has surprised her.
"She knew about the charity.
The children's wigs.
She made some calls.
There's a wig-maker — a professional one who works with cancer patients — who can work with hair that's been cut short.
It won't be six years of growth.
But there's something she can still donate.
It won't be nothing."
I had to set the phone down for a moment.
I pressed my hand flat on the desk and looked at the wall.
Then I picked the phone back up.
"Mom," I said.
"I know," she said.
May you like
We didn't say anything else for a while.
We didn't need to.
