Girls in Skirts(Short Story completed)

Girls in Skirts

My daughter sits in my lap as I brush her wild hair. We sit in the living room so she can watch the world from the windows opposite of us. But the sun sets earlier each day, and it is only dinner time by the time the light is gone. She slumps in boredom. In the absence of her shirt, I can see her spine. Each vertebrae straining against the skin of her back. With my free hand, I run a finger against each of them, wondering how much she is eating, and if it's enough. She shudders and giggles at the touch of my hand.
The clock ticks endlessly. My daughter wiggles restlessly, and I am very, very tired.

My hands run through her hair repeatedly, feeling the silkiness I once had. ''Mother?'' she says. She sounds a little heavy, a little groggy.
I say, ''Yes?''
''Tell me a story.''
I set down my brush and begin to braid one side of her hair.
''Once upon a time, your father set out to war-''
''Tell me another one, mother. You've already told me that one.'' Her voice has a slight bite to it, almost annoying. But paired with her slight frame and big eyes, it's adorable rather than obnoxious.
''I am old, my love, but I have only so many stories to tell.''

We are the epitome of the American dream. A mother, a daughter, a father, and a son all in a yellow painted home. The mother had built, under father's watchful and amused gaze, a white picket fence to surround the house. We have a dog named Spot and a cat named Phil. It was the 1950s, and we are the American family. I take great pride in this, as there is nothing else left for me to do. But at the same time, I am deeply ashamed, because, in all my years, this is all I have done.

''Tell me a story about what the girls did when the war was going on.''
I pull her hair back tightly, then pin one side up.

''Once upon a time
I met a man named name Ivor
And we were both twenty years old.
I was in love with him, I believe.
When we turned twenty two,
He asked me to marry him.
I said yes.
I wanted nothing more than to be someone's wife.
Then the war started and he left.''

My daughter sits still after leaning back slightly to hear me better. I wonder sometimes, what goes inside her mind. I'm no psychiatrist, believing that children should be left to their own thoughts, but it does fascinate me that she can know so much but say so little. Where does she hear the words she recreates at night, in her sleep? Certainly not from me. What does she dream of at night, twitching her hand and kicking her legs? Hopefully not of this world.

''We had a party before the men in our neighborhood left.
My best friend cried,
My sister danced with her husband,
And the rest of the couples ate dinner in our backyard.
We all kissed the men and said goodbye.''

I hope my daughter is listening, so she doesn't ask for it again.

''And while they were boys in war
We were girls in skirts-
It was our own kind of amour-
Kissing each other because it was our job
To fill the void those men had left.
And I remember my best friends' lips,
They were full and red because even with the boys gone,
She still loved the way Red Velvet looked on her mouth.''

My daughter is silent. I can feel gears turning under my fingers as I massage her scalp.
''Did you love her?'' She asked hesitantly.
''I did.''
''Even more than dad?''
''I grew to love her more than Ivor, yes.
But when the men returned I had no choice but to fall in love with your father again.
You see, we had to give everything to the men when they came back.
Even each other."

I am done with her hair, but I suddenly want to keep talking. I want my daughter to know everything about my first, real love. From the highlights in her hair to the faded white of her teeth. But these are not secrets my daughter is responsible for keeping. So I let her slide off my lap, freshly brushed and braided.

''I just wish I had told her I loved her before the war ended,'' I sigh.
''As soon as it was over she left my city with her husband and I never saw her again.''
Father's key turns in the door. His big frame steps into the house, bringing in an awful draft with him.

I turn my daughter towards me, speaking quickly.
''If you are in love,
Tell them as soon as you can.
Tomorrow can be the start of another war.''
She looked past me at the window, at the house that neighbored ours. Her eyes widened before her father swept her away from me. Her laugh as he tickled her echoed through the whole house.

Two months later the Vietnam war was announced on the radio. My daughter, having overheard the radio from the second floor, dashed down the stairs and ran out the door. Father called out to her, but she slammed the door behind her.
Setting down my crochet needles, I walked to the entry room and opened the door, stepping out onto the porch. There, in front of our neighbor house, my daughter threw her arms around the neighbor child who wore Red Velvet lipstick. They held each other, my daughter crying into her neck, sobbing, "I love you, I love you, I love you."