Blood in the Blonde

 My hair is red now. It used to be blonde. A shade of blonde so beautiful that my schoolmates would have sold their last ruble for a lock. She had blonde hair too. Just like mine. But, my hair must be red now. The color of blood. The color of evil. Maybe it's just the color of my hair.

But it does remind me of the blood.

The blood I lost.

The baby's blood.

But I can't think of that now. I'm not supposed to think about it now. I'm supposed to think only of freedom. Freedom from him. Because I'm in America. Not Russia.

I exit from the little beauty shop onto the sidewalk. It's snowing and my boots shuffle in the snow. Two women walk past me complaining of the cold. They know nothing of cold. They've never stood in Northern Russia freezing in negative forty degree temperatures. But this is not Russia, so why would they?

Every time I look at the snow I am surprised not see red blood. The bright stain among the white fluff. I think of the baby.

I never told my new husband about her. I never told anyone about her. I'm not sure if I like my red hair. It reminds me of her hair. The blood in the blonde.

When I arrive home my husband is cooking dinner. It's real food. Not like the food I ate when I escaped from my first husband. I ate tree bark and snow. I carried my baby for miles. Our blood trailing behind me.

My new husband pours me a bowl of the stew he made. It smells delicious. I sip some. He asks me why I'm so quiet today. That's because it's January 11th. The baby bled to death January 11th. But he doesn't know that.

He tells me his mother is pestering him again. Have a baby, she says. Give me grandchildren, she says. I don't want a baby Besides, I'm forty-five. Too old. I already had my baby. She was shot. She died. Fathers are rotten men. My father gave me to my first husband. Marry him and give him children; make him happy, my father said. I tried, but my first husband shot me and the baby. How do I know this new husband won't do that too?

The next morning my new husband takes me to church with him. The people there seem nice, but they don't know me. No one knows me. He lets us leave right after communion. We get in the car to go home. I look at my reflection in the car's side mirror. I forget my hair is red. Red and blonde. Blood and blonde. Blood in the blonde. Like the baby. The baby is always with me. Like a red stain on my hair. Like a scar. Like an open wound unhealed. Too deep to heal, but not deadly enough to kill. Just to torment.