Charlie's hand froze above Rosemary's head. There was a sudden and swift emotion sweeping over her that she was afraid was homesickness with a touch of longing, and it took her far longer than she liked to regain control. Irritation took its place, and she had to wait a while before she could resume brushing Rosemary's hair without dragging the stupid needles out in her frustration.
Yeah, I had someone brush my hair once. And yes, it was technically my mom. But... But it was a one-of-a-kind sort of experience. The one and only time Madeline Spencer had ever behaved like a real mother to her only daughter. The fact that it was a small degree of warmth and love nearly overwhelmed by a childhood of ignorance, apathy or irritation always left her heart feeling bruised and aching. Her right hand suddenly felt itchy, holding one of the only trinkets left of her old LA life.
But she couldn't actually tell Rosemary that. Nor Royce. That was just... something they didn't need to know.
But what would she say? It's not as if Rosemary wouldn't wonder why Charlie suddenly started commenting on Doc's temper problem as a means of subtly changing the topic. And she couldn't just not say anything, either. That was always suspicious and left room for even more questions. That just wouldn't work.
"Hang on just a second, I need a drink," she said quietly, leaving the brush on the table. There was a half-filled cup on the counter next to the sink, the one she had poured and sipped from while she had been prepping the meatloaf, and it was this she reached for, gulping down the contents. The water helped to clear her mind and unclench her chest, and when she finished it, she pulled the cup away with a sigh of relief.
Mom's not here she told herself, walking back toward Rosemary. The girl was already on her last cookie, so Charlie grabbed two more- leaving three left to share between herself and Royce- and dropped them in Rosemary's lap.
"Here you go. If you leave the rest for my and Royce, I'll make another batch exclusively for you after the oven's free." Charlie reached for the brush again, relieved that there was no lingering itchiness, and resumed brushed from the section she had dropped.
"And to answer your earlier question," she added, speaking calmly. "My mom used to work a lot when I was a kid, so she mostly didn't have time to brush my hair. Hence the reason I used to wonder about it."