The coral quicks of my fingertips peek raw and burning from the arc of skin where my fingernails used to be. I kept those nails slick and lacquered for the longest time. I was religious about soaking my hands, carving the cuticles away from the edges of each fingernail so it would grow fast, straight, and fine. I filed the rough spots down, smoothed the shape to a nice sharply rounded spade at the end. The color was always red. Mama hated red, but there was no other color better suited to this headful of red hair. These nails gleamed finer than that cherry-red hood of Preston Sedrick's car. And even though he wouldn't admit it, I know he appreciated these nails more than he appreciated that car of his, too. When the night was over, it was the car that stayed out in that ol' parking lot--not me. But you'd never know it to look at them now. Hideous hands, dried blood still visible in some places. That was the first clue I got that I really went over this time. The last time I remember tearing my fingernails off with my teeth was when I was twelve years old. Lots of us had nervous little habits around that age, and our mamas were always on our backs about it. "Gabby, don't you let Rita gnaw on 'er fingernails, now"--"Rita, if you see Gabby twistin' at her hair, you tell 'er ta stop." It was so, so hard to stop. But when we finally did give up on those things, it was because of the boys--not because of our staunch self-discipline. I wanted a boy to have a pretty hand to hold, and Gabby wanted her hair to hold its do. It's a long way from twelve, Mama, and there are a few new habits added unto--habits you wouldn't know about, and you never will know if I can help it. Eileen here should be better than a letter. Eileen's shoes barely hang over the edge of the carseat. She's restless, bouncing her feet on the vinyl and rubbing her shoes together. squeak squeak squeak.... My hand jerks--reflex to swat her leg and tell her to be still, to quit scuffin' up those new shoes I bought her, that I shouldn'ta bought her new shoes anyhow if she's jus' gonna go on and mess 'em up like she did that last pair o' pretty white sandals I got her, stupid child, what on Earth would possess her to take a can o' red shoe polish to those brand new shoes? Hadn't even had 'em a day, and I walk in there to find her smearin' that red cake all over the place. I tore her rearend up. And I threw those shoes directly into the trash basket. I couldn't get the stain out of her hands for a week, so I stayed mad for a week. I'll never forget it. Made me so mad I could spit. squeak squeak squeak.... But I don't say a word to her today. She's not even on the plane yet, but I've already come to regard her as someone else's responsibility. If she wants to scuff up those damned shoes, then let 'er. Maybe Johnnie has a better way of handling my daughter than I do. My thumb goes to my mouth and I start chewing on what's left of the nail there. Doesn't do a bit o' good, so I roll down the window and light a cigarette. If I can just hold it together long enough to get Eileen on that plane, all will be just fine. I'll be able to get back to Angel's house and that bottle of Jack Daniels she's got waiting for me, and then I can process this terrible, terrible thing I've done in my own time, a little at a time, without having it all shoved down my throat at once. I hate Hawai'i. How very, very different it is than what Roger and I had first imagined four years ago when he first got his orders. I remember, Nancy Cline and her husband just got back, not long after the war ended, and she pranced around Roe for a solid month, showing off her tanned shoulders in the tropical print dresses she brought back with her. She never would shut up about all the parties and dancing in Waikiki or the beach paradise that practically belonged to them because the United States Army wanted its fine military families to have the best the Pacific had to offer. I swear, Mama was up her ass for weeks, wanting to know all there was to know about the Army and "Ha-WHY-a." It was all I could do to sit and listen to Nancy gab on and on and on, with Mama sitting there encouraging her. Nancy knew damn well what Mama had in mind, and I guess between the two of them, they succeeded in convincing Roger to sign up. So to Hawai'i we came. Eileen wasn't but three months old when we got off the plane there at Hickam. After all that talking Nancy Cline did, she didn't even come close to describing what it was really like. Nancy said the air smelled like flowers, but when I first caught a breathful of Hawaiian air, it was like breathing Eden. The air smelled so sweet, it made me dizzy, and I had to hold on to Roger's sleeve to keep from toppling over, baby and all. We stepped out from behind the big silver wing of that plane, and the first thing I saw was a great green sleeping giant, laid out on his side, from one end of the horizon to the other. Those bright sloping mountains could've only been formed under the mindful and loving palms of God. They towered like guardian angels on the landscape, and it just about took my breath away. Roger and I never got a proper honeymoon. He took me to Shreveport for the weekend, and we stayed at Mockernut Inn. He took me to the nicest restaurants in the city, and we went dancing every night. But that wasn't much compared to what we talked about before we married. Roger spoke of Venice and New York. He told me how we must see Germany and Paris, and California, too. We never talked about how we'd afford to see all those places, but it didn't really matter. He'd get a job that paid enough for us to live however we wanted, and we were satisfied. That job never came. We didn't see Venice or New York. We didn't even see the Louisiana state line. When it came time for Roger to go off to boot camp, I was two months pregnant with Eileen, and I hardly stepped foot out of that house in Baskin until it was Eileen's time to be born. After that, life seemed to change overnight. One day, I was living with Mama, nursing a newborn baby by myself with Roger hundreds of miles away in Texas. The next day, I was stepping off the plane into Paradise with our new family all together. Nancy wasn't right about the air, but she was right about one thing. When we set foot on that island, I knew right away this place belonged to us, and I decided right then and there I'd never, ever go back to Roe, Louisiana. I've never gone back on my word about that. I never will go back to Roe, but I won't stay here either. I hate this island more than I hate Roe. Louisiana never did a good thing for me. Mama tried for years and years to teach me to be thankful and content, and I tried for years and years to do just that. But I never was able to make peace with the thought of turning out like her. Mama's never left that house in Baskin. To this day, I don't know what it is that enables her to be happy with every day exactly the same as the day before. She doted on me growing up. We did everything together until I turned about sixteen, and then it all started to unravel. That's when I started asking about my daddy, who he was and what he did for a living, where he was now. I don't recall her ever answering any of my questions, so maybe that's when I decided I was going to find out on my own. "Mama," I told her. "I'm goin' ta find my daddy." And all she told me was "Good luck. Don't forget to brush your teeth and change your underwear often." She knew I wouldn't get far, but when I came home with that tiny diamond on my finger and Roger James next to me with his hat in his hand, Mama knew I was dead serious. That's when she introduced me to Nancy Cline, and that's when I knew my days in Roe were numbered. But Hawai'i.... It's a demon pit. It does things to a person, and as Eileen falls asleep against my arm, I realize how sick a person can get if she gives in to this island's evil charm. The car stalls in the airport parking lot, waking Eileen. Her drool drips down my arm and I pick up a dirty hanky from the car seat to wipe it off. Eileen yawns scratches her head, mussing the only curls that haven't already been pressed flat against the seat. I open the door for her, and she hops down out of the car, the soles of her new shoes slapping onto the concrete. "Where am I goin' again?" she asks as I tug her suitcase out from the backseat. "You're goin' ta stay with your Mama Johnnie for a while." "Why do I gotta call 'er 'Mama Johnnie' if I never met 'er before?" "Because you're just a little girl and she's a grown lady, and you're supposed to be respectful. Besides, she's gonna take care o' you just like me, so it's fittin' you call her 'Mama Johnnie.'" "But you're my mama," Eileen argues. Normally, I'd scold her for talking back, but that's going to be someone else's job and someone else's problem from now on. Maybe they'll do a better job than I have teaching her some manners. I slam the car door closed, and we walk across the wide parking lot to the little building that serves as a gate. Eileen has a hard time walking in her new shoes, and she's caught the edge of my skirt in her little fist to keep her balance. "Now don't wrinkle it," I say. "Yes, ma'am." We step into the building, and there are soldiers standing along the walls, lined up at the desk, and seated in the chairs in a tiny waiting area. I take Eileen's hand and step into line behind a young sergeant, his wife, and his little girl who looks to be about Eileen's age. The little girl holds onto her daddy's hand, and when she sees Eileen, she turns around and flashes a gappy grin at her. Eileen stares and winds her fist tighter into my skirt. I light another cigarette. "My name is Linda," says the little girl. "This is my daddy, an' we're going to Washington." Eileen's eyes travel up the man's back, and she looks at his dark, clean-cut head for a long time. "What's your name?" the little girl asks. "Eileen," says Eileen. The little girl makes a face then looks at me. "You sure do have red hair," she says. "Linda!" The little girl's mother hisses and jerks at her sleeve. "Don't be rude." The little girl protests, "But she does!" The mother peers around her husband's shoulder, and her eyes flicker over my hair before she speaks. "I'm sorry," she says blandly. I nod and untangle Eileen's hand from my skirt. "Next," the man at the desk calls, and the line moves forward. I scoot the suitcase up ahead of me. "Mama, I gotta pee," Eileen says. I ignore her. She stands in place and dances, those shoes clattering lightly on the floor. I tell her to stop fidgeting, and she does for a moment. Then it's back to the dancing, louder than before. "I gotta pee, Mama," she says again with rising urgency. "Dammit," I mutter. The little girl's mother pokes her head around her husband again and offers, "I'll hold your place in line if you want to take her." I glance around the building. "Restrooms are over in that corner," she says, pointing behind me. "Thank you," I say, and I grab Eileen's hand and drag her off to the bathroom. Eileen sings behind the door. Her voice echoes a thousand times in that little room, and it simply hammers through my head. I need another cigarette, but I just smoked one. What I really need is a drink, but the way things are going, I won't be back to Angel's until after dark. "Eileen, honey," I say. "Let's stop singin' now, okay? Mama's head hurts." "Okay, Mama," she says, and she falls silent. A minute later, though, she nudges open the door and shouts, pointing to a corner along the ceiling! "Look, Mama!" she yells. "A lizard!" Her voice slices through my ears. I pop her cheek and lean down to scold her in her face. "Eileen!" I say. "Didn't I just tell you, I have a headache! That means no singin', no talkin', and certainly no yellin'!" Eileen's hands goes to her face, and her mouth opens wide, crying before the sound ever escapes her throat. Dammit. I light another cigarette, and Eileen sobs at my knee. I catch a view of myself in the mirror. I'm stunned, but not surprised. The woman I see there does not look like she's twenty-four years old. Her red hair stands away from her scalp in irritated wisps. Her eyes are sunken and bruised. Lines of fatigue and anxiety traverse the deep corners her mouth and at her temples. The woman in the mirror appears to be a sour, scowling hag of at least forty. The smudge of red lipstick on her lips is half-licked away, and it lends the lady a crazed, clownish look that reminds me of how Betty Davis will look one day when she's a sauced old has-been. Any other child in the world would be horrified to be penned up in this little bathroom with that woman in the mirror, especially if she just popped the child on the mouth for shouting the way she did. I've successfully exiled the guilt, and I've successfully graduated beyond the grade of considering I can possibly stop whatever it is that's got its claws so embedded in me. Just a few more minutes, Eileen, and you'll be free of the monster forever. I lean into the stall and toss my cigarette into the toilet bowl. Eileen's whimpering, snot running down her nose and onto the collar of her dress. I fish my clean hanky out of my handbag and squat next to her. "Look here," I tell her, taking her chin in my palm and wiping her eyes and upper lip. "No need to cry anymore, Eileen. I'm not mad. Aren't you excited? You get ta go on an airplane and see Mama Johnnie and Mama Dellie and Aunt Helen?" Eileen sniffs and searches my eyes. "I don't wanna go see Mama Johnnie," she says, clutching my shirt sleeves in her fingers. "Can we go home now?" Tears continue to fall from her tired brown eyes. She is the only Rosalind ever born to have red hair and brown eyes. I remember looking at her when her eyes first began to change. I had no doubt she was my child. Only a Rosalind has red hair like that. But her eyes never turned hazel-green like Mama's, or glass-blue like mine. They turned brown, brown--chestnut brown, just like Roger's. What a wonder that was. A brown-eyed child. So many women told me a newborn baby was an angelic thing, but Eileen looked to me to be just like a little imp--that stubby little nose, those pea-sized eyes, and that rebellious red hair. But as the weeks went by, Eileen began to turn those brown eyes on me when I'd hold her or feed her, and she lay so still in my arms, regarding me with the sweetest, softest expression I'd ever seen. There was indeed a little angel in there, and even though Roger was gone for so long and sometimes it felt like we didn't have a family at all, I honestly thought I could make one then, just me and Eileen. Me and my little red-headed angel. I never could. I think I came real close to it a time or two. When I found out I was pregnant with Danny, I made every effort to steer clear of Angel and Waikiki. I stayed home with Roger every night he was home from flying back and forth across the Pacific. I only drank on the holidays that year, and I never drank too much. I even painted and decorated Danny's room myself, with no help from anyone. And it was a lovely, lovely room. Powder blue, to match the sailboats on the blanket I made for him. I crafted a mobile of paper birds and hung it above his crib, and on the wall, a cross-stitch sampler of the verse from the Bible: "For every hair of your head is numbered. You are worth far more than two sparrows." I almost made a family. And for twelve days after Danny was born, I felt it was in my hand. All I had to do was close my fingers around it, and it would be mine. But that twelfth day, the nurse came and told me Danny was gone, he was too little, he never had a fighting chance. That baby's eyes were blue. I know they were. "I promise you'll be happy when you see Mama Johnnie," I say, taking Eileen's hands in mine. She's still crying, but she nods her head. "You can't come with me, Mama?" she asks. "I can't come with you, Eileen," I say. "But I'll stay and watch you fly up into the sky. How's that sound?" "I guess that's fine," she says, and she wraps her pale little arms around my neck. It is the first time in what must be months, maybe years, that I've held my daughter this way. There has never been any break in the way time just crushes past me, leaving me scrambling to pick up pieces, just so I have all the parts I need when I get a chance to put it all back together. Eileen has ridden along on my coat tails, watching me grab for fragments, patiently enduring the jolts when I slip and the roar and bite of so many days burning by. It never pauses until I'm just at the end of something, and then time slows down again, almost to a stop, allowing me to catch my breath and adjust to a new nail pressing against my heart. This time, I won't worry Eileen may not be able to hang on. I won't worry I may not be able to catch the tatters as they flit to the ground. It's a terrible, terrible thing I've done, but it's the best I've ever done, the best I really ever hope to do.