Page 33 of Maybe in Another Life

“A Hannah Savannah sentiment if there ever was one,” my dad says proudly. “If that doesn’t describe you, I honestly don’t know what does. ‘I don’t know, I felt like it.’ ” He laughs to himself.

This is exactly the kind of stuff I’m trying to change about myself.

“Yeah, OK, Doug, but that’s not the moral of the story,” my mom says.

My dad puts his hands up in mock regret. “My apologies,” he says. “I’d hate to guess the wrong moral to a story. Call the police!”

“Must you interrupt every story I try to tell?” my mom asks, and then she waves him off. “What I was getting at is that we had to take you to the hairdresser, and they cut your hair into a little pixie cut, which I’d never seen for a little girl. I mean, you were no more than six years old.”

That’s what I remember, seeing pictures of myself with hair cropped tight to my head.

“Get to the point, Mom,” Sarah says. “By the time this story is over, I’ll be ninety-four years old.”

It’s jarring to hear Sarah tease my mom. I would never say something like that to her.

“Fine,” my mom says. “Hannah, your hair was gorgeous. Really stunning. Women kept stopping me at Gelson’s to ask me where I had the idea to cut your hair like that. I gave them the number of the lady who did it. She ended up moving her business out of the Valley and into Beverly Hills. Last I heard, she cut thatJerry Maguirekid’s hair once. The end.”

“That story was even worse than I thought it was going to be,” Sarah says. “There! I’m done.”

“How’s it look?” I ask my dad and mom.

They smile at me.

“You are one gorgeous girl,” my dad says.

“Maybe people will see Hannah’s bun and one day I can do Angelina Jolie’s bun,” Sarah says, teasing my mom.

“The hairdresser wasn’t the point!” my mom says. “The point of the story is that you should always have faith in Hannah. Because even when it looks like she’s made a terrible mistake, she’s actually one step ahead of you. That’s the moral. Things will always work out for Hannah. You know? She was born under a lucky star or something.”

Sometimes I think my mom’s anecdotes should come with Cliffs Notes. Because they’re quite good once someone explains them to you.

“I really liked that story,” I tell her. “Thank you for telling it. I didn’t remember any of that.”

“I have pictures of it somewhere,” she says. “I’ll find them when we get home and send one to you. You really looked great. That’s why I’m always telling you to cut your hair off.”

“But what would she do withoutthe bun?” Sarah asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “I am nothing without this bun.”

“So fill us in, Hannah Savannah,” my dad says. “The doctors said you will recover nicely, but, as is my fatherly duty, I’m worried about how you’re feeling now.”

“Physically and mentally,” my mom says.

“I’m OK,” I say. “They have me on a steady amount of painkillers. I’m not comfortable, by any means. But I’m OK.” No good would come from telling them about the baby. I put the thought right out of my head. I don’t even feel as if I’m keeping anything from them.

“Are you really OK?” my mom asks. Her voice starts to break. My dad puts his arm around her.

I wonder how many times I’ll have to say it before anyone believes it. Ugh, maybe it will have to be true first.

“You must have been so scared,” my mom says. Her eyes start to water. My dad holds her tighter, but I can see that his eyes are starting to water, too. Sarah looks away. She looks out the window.

All of this joking-around, let-me-do-your-hair, old-family-memories thing is just a song and dance. They are heartbroken and worried. They are stunned and uncomfortable and miserable and sick to their stomachs. And if I’m being honest, something about that soothes me.

I can’t remember the last time I felt like a permanent fixture of this group. I have, for well over a decade, felt like a guest in my own family. I barely even remember how we all were when we lived in the same place, in the same house, in the same country. But with the three of them in front of me now, letting the cracks in their armor show, I feel like a person who belongs in this family. A person who is needed to complete the pack.

“I wish you guys lived here,” I say as I start to get emotional. I’ve never said that before. I’m not sure why. “I feel like I’m on my own so much, and I just... I miss you a lot.”

My dad comes closer and takes my hand. “We miss you every single day,” he says. “Every day. Do you know that?”

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