“That’s what I thought, too,” Joanna agreed.
Suddenly Jenny scrambled off the bed and charged over to her suitcase. “I brought something along that I forgot to show you.”
After pawing through her clothing, Jenny came back and sat down on the edge of her mother’s bed. She was carrying two pictures. “Look at this,” she said, handing them over to Joanna. “See what Grandpa found?”
One was the picture of Joanna taken by her father, the one in her Brownie uniform. The second photo, although much newer and in color, was very similar to the first one. It was a picture of Jennifer Ann Brady, dressed in a much newer version of a Brownie uniform, and standing at attention near the right front bumper of her mother’s bronze-colored Eagle. In the black-and-white photo, a nine-year Joanna Lathrop posed in front of Eleanor Lathrop’s white Maverick. In both pictures the foreground was occupied by the same sturdy, twenty-five-year-old Radio Flyer, and in both pictures the wagon was loaded down with cartons of Girl Scout cookies.
As soon as she saw the two pictures side by side, Joanna burst out laughing. “I guess pictures like that are part of a time-honored tradition,” she said, handing them back to Jenny. “Where did you get the second one?”
“Grandpa Brady got it from Grandma Lathrop.”
“That figures,” Joanna said. “She probably has drawers full of them. I’ll bet somebody takes a new picture like that every single Girl Scout cookie season.”
Jenny didn’t seem to be listening. She was holding the two pictures up to the light, examining in them closely. “Grandma Brady thinks I look just like you did when you were a girl,” Jenny said. “What do you think?”
Joanna took the pictures back and studied them for herself. It was easy to forget that she, too, had been a towheaded little kid once upon a time. The red hadn’t started showing up in her hair until fourth or fifth grade—about the same time as that first traumatic haircut. This picture must have dated from third grade or so since Joanna’s hair still hung down over her shoulders in two long braids.
“Grandma Brady’s right,” Joanna said. “You can tell we’re related.”
“Yes, you can,” Jenny agreed.
“Did I ever tell you about the first time Grandma Lathrop took me out for my first haircut?” Joanna asked.
Jenny frowned and shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Well, get back in your bed,” Joanna ordered. “It’s about time you heard the story of your mother and the pixie.”
“I know all about pixies,” Jenny said confidently. “They’re kind of like fairies, aren’t they? So, is this a true story or pretend?”
“This is another kind of pixie,” Joanna said. “And it’s true, all right. Believe me, it’s not the kind of story I’d make up. And who knows, once you hear it, maybe it’ll make you feel better about what happened to you when Grandma Lathrop took you to see Helen Barco.”
Joanna told her haircut story then. “See there?” she asked as she finished. “It may not make you feel any better, but at least you’re not the only kid it’s ever happened to.”
“I still hate it, though,” Jenny said.
“I don’t blame you.”
Despite Jenny’s fervent pleading, Joanna nixed the idea of watching even one video that night. “Tomorrow morning will be plenty of time for E.T.,” she said, reaching up and turning out the lamp on the bedside table between them. “Right now we’d both better try to get some sleep.”
“Good night, Mom,” Jenny said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Jenny. Sleep tight.”
And they did. Both of them, until the sounds of police and aid-car sirens brought them both wide awake sometime much later. Joanna checked the time—one o’clock—while Jenny dashed over to the window and looked outside.
“What is it?” Joanna asked. “A car wreck?”
Jenny peered down at the flashing lights and scurrying people far below. “I guess so,” she said, “but I can’t tell for sure.”
Joanna climbed out of bed herself to take a look. In the melee of emergency vehicles and flash lights, she caught a glimpse of a blanket-covered figure lying on the ground.
“It looks like someone hit a pedestrian,” she said, drawing Jenny away from the window. “Come on, let’s go back to bed.”
But instead of crawling into her own bed, Jenny climbed into her mother’s. “I don’t like sirens,” she said softly. “Whenever I hear them now, I think of Daddy. Don’t you?”
“Yes,” Joanna answered.
“Do they make you feel like crying?”
“Yes,” Joanna said again.
For some time after that, Jenny and her mother lay side by side, saying nothing. At last they heard another siren, that of an ambulance or aid car pulling away from whatever carnage had happened on the street below. As the siren squawked, Jenny gave an involuntary shudder and she began to cry.
Joanna gathered the sobbing child into her arms. When the tears finally subsided and Jenny breathing steadied and quieted, Joanna didn’t bother suggesting that Jenny return to her own bed. By then the mother needed the warmth and comfort of another human presence almost as much as the child did.
Soon Jenny was fast asleep. Joanna lay awake. The fact that Jenny associated sirens with Andy’s death jarred her, although it shouldn’t have. After all, would she ever be able to see a perfect apricot-colored rosebud or her diamond solitaire engagement ring without thinking of the University Hospital waiting room, without thinking about Andy dying in a room just beyond a pair of awful swinging doors?
Jenny was, after all, a chip off the old block. The resemblance between mother and daughter went far beyond the eerily striking similarity between those two photographs taken twenty years apart.
What was it Jim Bob was always saying? Something about the apple not falling far from the tree.
Remembering that last little proverb should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t. Not at all, because if it was true, then there was a fifty-fifty chance Joanna Brady would end up being just like her mother—tinted hair, lacquered nails, lifted face, and all.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was probably only natural that since Eleanor Lathrop was the last person Joanna thought about before falling asleep, she was also the person who awakened them the next morning. When the phone rang, dragging Joanna out out of what had finally turned into a sound sleep, it was a real challenge to find the phone.
The room at the Hohokam was, after all, the third room she had slept in that week. Bearing that in mind, it wasn’t surprising that she came on the phone sounding a little disoriented.
“Hello, Mom.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Eleanor said.
“Same to you,” Joanna mumbled, stretching sleepily and glancing at the clock. It said 7:15. Jenny was still huddled under a pile of covers that was only then beginning to stir.
“It took so long for you to answer, I was afraid I had missed you altogether,” Eleanor Lathrop said. “I was about to try Jim Bob and Eva Lou’s room.”
“It’s late for them. They’re probably already down at breakfast.”
“I’m glad I caught you, then. You’re the one I wanted to talk to. I’ve changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“About coming up to Phoenix for Thanksgiving,” Eleanor announced. “Just for tonight, of course. I couldn’t stay any longer than that. What time are you planning on eating?”
“Five. Right here in the hotel dining room.”
“Good. If you’ll add two more places to your reservation, that’ll be fine. And we’ll need two rooms there as well. I’d prefer to be in the same hotel, but if they don’t have rooms, someplace nearby will be just fine.”
“Wait a minute,” Joanna interjected. “Two dinner reservations. Two rooms. Who are you bringing along, Mother?”