Brandi’s lips moved in the mirror, but I couldn’t hear her against the blood pounding in  my ears.

Eliza was a sweet girl. She loved dancing, playing with her cousins, and she was excited to start playing soccer this fall. 

I’d rehearsed the eulogy so many times that the words were meaningless. No, worse than meaningless: a cheap reflection of what little kids were supposed to be like. 

Her death will always be a tragedy from which Ben and I will never recover. Still, Eliza would want us to remember the good times we had with her. 

God, it was all so overdone. 

“Alice?” 

Brandi stared at me in the mirror. She’d asked me a question. 

“Sorry,” I shook my head. “Just got lost in my thoughts for a minute.” 

Her smile was iced-tea sweet. “Of course, honey, I’m sure … well, I can’t even imagine what y’all must be going through.” 

I tried to mimic the picture-perfect smile my Mom had always taught me. My reflection proved it was nothing more than a grimace.

“What were you saying?” Mirror-me croaked. 

“I was wondering if you’d consider adding some layers,” Brandi twisted a tress of my auburn hair through her fingers. “Maybe give this ‘do some volume?” 

“Okay,” I said hollowly. Eliza inherited the same dark red color but got Ben’s gorgeous green eyes. The nose? Well, she was too young for us to tell which side that was from. 

We’ll never find out, I guess. 

My black dress clung to my skin, heavy material that would keep me warm against the chill of autumn. Now it only exacerbated the heat from blow dryers and flat irons. Ben’s sister picked it out for me when I was still too shattered to leave my bed. 

To my right, a woman chatted rapidly to her own stylist. “And Kendra has it in her mind that my Emma shouldn’t be allowed to try out for JV cheer. Just because she’s on a club team too doesn’t mean she can’t be on the school squad! I’m going to give that coach an earful …” 

I shut my eyes against the threat of tears. Would Eliza have gone for cheerleading? Or maybe drama? I couldn’t cry now, I wasn’t going to have time to redo my makeup before the service. I needed Advil. Brandi put down her scissors and picked up a blow dryer while I heaved my tote bag up from the ground. I knew I had a packet of painkillers somewhere, and immediately went to searching.

My fingers wrapped around something hard and plastic. I pulled it from the recesses of my bag. A small container of Playdough with a tiny E.J. on the lid. 

‘Look, Mommy, I made a snake! She’s red because that’s my new favorite color!’ 

‘Oh, sweetie, it’s amazing! What’s her name?’

“Shiny! Because her scales would be sparkly!’

The container hit the floor with a sharp thwack. Perhaps it was the sound that caused Brandi to turn off the blow dryer, but instead she was staring at my face in the mirror. 

“Honey?” Brandi asked quietly. 

“An artist,” I said. 

“Pardon?” 

“She wanted to be an artist when she grew up. Ben and I took her to the High Museum last month and she stared at the statues for nearly an hour. Went on and on about how she wanted to make something that pretty one day.” 

Tears burned hot against my cheeks. 

“I got her a picture book all about Van Gogh and for the past month our kitchen table’s been a disaster zone of crayons and watercolors.” I laughed, a scary humorless laugh. “I said to Ben: ‘We’ve probably doubled Crayola’s profits by now’.” 

Brandi blinked nervously at me, the hairdryer still aloft in her hold. My eyes were crazy and bloodshot, hands wringing together and mouth trembling against the sudden burst of words. 

“I found her the perfect modeling clay kit just last week,” I whispered. “All different colors, with a manual to show you how to make little animals. I was going to give it to her for her birthday next month. I know kids go through phases, but the way she talked about being a famous artist one day – I really did believe her!” 

I leaned down, picked up the Playdough, and held it tightly between my hands.  

“I should have given her that clay set right when I bought it, should have made her cookies when she asked for them two weeks ago. Should have done it all for her. You think there’s more time, and then …” 

“Honey, can I get you water or –”

“I need to go,” I stood up so quickly that the chair behind me tipped and clattered to the ground. “I’m so sorry, I just –” 

Every patron in the salon stared at me with horrified expressions. Many of them mothers who no doubt had heard through the HOA or PTA grapevines that I was the woman with a dead little girl. 

“But Alice, your hair,” Brandi said. I snatched a pair of scissors from the counter, bunched my hair in my hand, and chopped it as short as I could. 

“It’s perfect. Looks amazing.” 

I stormed out of the salon, not thinking about how I’d pay, nor considering the rumors that would certainly be flying by now. As soon as I slammed the car door, I uncapped the Playdough with shaking hands. Nose to the edge, I inhaled the familiar plasticky scent and wept. The funeral was in an hour. I had nothing but a mangled head of hair and a revised eulogy.  

Eliza was going to be an artist. But now, I’ll never know. And that’s the worst part.