The Nakeds by Lisa Glatt Page A

resting on a pillow on the coffee table. A day earlier, she’d twisted a coat hanger and used it to scratch at her calf. When she finished, she stashed it underneath the sofa. She was hoisted up on one elbow, bent over, searching for it now.
    All she could think about was the itch, steadily getting worse. The newscaster reported that a woman had dropped dead in line at the bank, fell to the floor clutching her checkbook. Heatstroke, he said. He warned people to take care of their needs, watch out for their children and pets. Hannah wanted that hanger. She was feeling around under the sofa and finding dust. She found a metal button the size of a quarter, a spool of red thread, and a safety pin. She set the objects on the sofa’s arm and continued searching, wondering if maybe her mom had discovered the hanger and thrown it away. Maybe she’d thought about the doctor’s stern warning about scratching inside the cast, his admonition against knitting needles, hangers, and butter knives. Maybe Hannah would be scolded or maybe her mom would understand.
    Finally, she found the hanger pushed up against the wall in a far corner, and then she was holding it in her hand, aiming right inside the dark tunnel, when she heard her mother’s footsteps in the hall. She quickly hid the hanger behind her back, tucked it behind the throw pillow.
    “What’s the story?” her mom said, sitting down in the chair opposite the sofa. “What’s going on in the world?” She wore navy shorts and a white cotton blouse tied at her waist. Her feet were bare. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a tube of lip gloss. She put it on without a mirror and smacked her lips together and Hannah could smell the bubblegum flavor from where she sat. “It’s so damn hot. I can’t take this heat,” her mom said, picking up the TV Guide from the coffee table and fanning herself with it.
    “They’re talking about it on the news,” Hannah said. The itch was getting even stronger, more intense, and she wished her mother would take her horribly sweet lips out of the den and leave her alone. It was the right side of her ankle specifically and she wanted to get to it. She wished her fingers were long and thin enough to reach. She scratched at her knee because it was all she could get to.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “My leg itches.”
    “Try not to think about it. Think about something else. Think about the house finally selling. That would be a great thing.” She paused. She exhaled loudly. “Your dad wants to see you this weekend. Think about that. Think about where you’d like him to take you. He wants you to meet Christy. I told him it was too soon. You don’t want to meet her yet, do you?”
    Hannah shrugged. She didn’t know how she felt. Her knee was red now, but it was her ankle she wanted.
    “What’s that?” Her mom leaned in, staring at the pillow behind Hannah’s back and the couple inches of wire sticking out from behind it.
    Hannah adjusted herself, trying to cover up the pillow. “Nothing,” she said.
    Her mom stood up and reached behind Hannah’s back, pulling out the hanger. “Oh, dear God,” she said. “This is dangerous—what have you done? Have you hurt yourself?”
    “No,” she said.
    “You could break the skin.”
    “But I haven’t.”
    “You know what the doctor said, Hannah. You could get an infection. Dr. Bell said not to scratch. It’s so dangerous, honey. You don’t want to get all scarred up. You’ve been hurt so much already.”
    “I’m careful,” Hannah said.
    “It’s not safe to scratch.”
    “You don’t know what this is like. You think you’re hot? I’m hotter. It’s just a little scratching. I use the curved end. It isn’t even sharp.”
    The two of them stared at the coat hanger for several minutes before her mom finally said, “How do you do it? Show me.”
    And Hannah eased the hanger into the opening, aimed, and reached her ankle. “Ah,” she said. “Oh,” she said, finally, finally