Putting Makeup on Dead People (14 page)

In stark contrast, Mom looks paler than usual, like some beautiful alabaster princess about to be sacrificed to a god. “Donna, hi.” She pulls her hand back and puts it in her lap. “This is my yoga teacher.”

“Hi.”

He bows his head to me. “Hello,” he says in a voice as smooth as his skin looks.

“His studio’s out here, so I came for class tonight.”

I am having a little trouble breathing, so I say, “Okay. I’ll see you at home,” and quickly turn back around and out the door. In the car, I realize I never got coffee, but my heart is beating so fast, I feel like I’ve gotten an injection of pure caffeine. I’m not sure what just happened. I’m not sure if I want to know.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table, where Linnie has left a note:
Out with Snooter. Be back 11:30.
I’m reading Sunday’s newspaper, and by reading I mean staring at the words and watching them all bleed together in black blobs on the gray paper. When Mom walks in, I notice that she’s wearing a white sundress that shows off her shape and a little cleavage, too, and I realize she was wearing it with the yoga teacher. Her face is flushed, and she doesn’t look directly at me as she hooks her big straw summer purse over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “Need some dinner?”

“No thanks.” I pull a red grape from the fruit bowl and pop it into my mouth, hold it in my cheek.

“So what were you doing out in Yellow Springs?”

I bite down on the grape, and it bursts in my mouth. I feel my neck getting hot. I think of yoga guy holding Mom’s hand, like he was
with
her, like he was Dad or something, and I tighten my grip on the newspaper. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Be careful, Donna.”

“You mean like I should be careful about spending time with Aunt Selena? Because it might be too late. I was out there visiting her, at her house.” I fake a gasp.

“I didn’t give you her number.”

“I found it myself. In Dad’s address book.”

“You went through his things.” Mom’s face turns a deeper shade of red. “You had no right.”

“He wouldn’t mind. I’m still his daughter, and Aunt Selena’s his sister.”

“And I’m your mother.”

“You should have seen it,” I say. “She had all these upside-down crucifixes, and we did a blood sacrifice and everything.”

“That’s not funny.” She holds on to the back of the kitchen chair, and I see her knuckles turn white.

“It is funny, actually, because it has absolutely nothing to do with who she is. You know, Mom, she’s really great.”

“I’m sure she is.”

I break off a small bunch of grapes and find that my hand is shaking. “You should give her a chance.”

“You should watch yourself,” she says. “I’m just looking out for you.”

“Well, you’re doing a shitty job of it.”

Mom doesn’t say anything, but looks like I’ve just slapped her. I want to take it back, but I don’t. I can’t.

Into the silence in the kitchen, over the sound of Mrs. Grant playing piano next door, over the sound of the crickets, Mom says, “Well, maybe you should take care of yourself.”

Quietly, feeling like I’m floating outside of myself, I say, “Okay, I will.” I stand up and walk out of the kitchen and down the hallway toward the basement.

“You want to know?” Mom calls after me.

I stop, stand still in the hallway, and find myself looking at the painting of the ocean that Dad bought for Mom when I was born. He would always tell me that the idea of a daughter was as big as the ocean to him, and that he would give me my own ocean one day if he could. When I was eight, I told him I wanted it to be called the Hidden Sea. I thought it was funny because it sounded like hide-and-seek. He laughed and said, “Does that mean I’ll never be able to find it for you?” I looked at him very seriously and said, “Just look for the best hiding spots. That’s where it will be.”

Now I feel like I could drown in that ocean in front of me, and Mom says, “You want to know what I was doing in Yellow Springs?”

I say nothing and wish I could dive right into that picture, into the blue green waves.

Somewhere down the hallway, from behind me, Mom says, “Trying to be happy. You should give it a shot.”

T
he next morning, I tell Mr. Brighton I’ve decided to move into the yellow room, if it’s still okay—to get settled before school starts. All smiles, he agrees very quickly. I call B and ask if he can help me move on Friday, when Mom has an in-service day at St. Camillus. B says sure and that Gwen can probably help too.

When I get home from work, Mom follows me down to my bedroom. “We should talk.”

“I think we’ve talked enough.”

“Your brother tells me you’re moving out.”

“He should keep his mouth shut.” Of course he called her. “I’ll be gone on Friday, and then I can take care of myself.” I sit down on my bed and look up at her. I hook the heels of my shoes on the bed frame. “That’s what you wanted.”

“Yes, I want you to take care of yourself. I want all of my kids to be self-sufficient.” Mom’s face is pinched, like when she has a bad headache. “I didn’t mean for you to leave.”

I shrug. “This is what I want.” I’m not sure I believe this, but I hope I sound firm, confident, self-sufficient.

“Damn,” Mom says. “Damn it.”

I don’t like when Mom swears, which she only does when she’s really upset. And I don’t like that she looks like she’s about to cry. I don’t like any of this.

“I want to help you move,” she says.

“You don’t have to. B probably also told you he’s helping me.”

“Can’t we do it on Saturday? I’ll be at work Friday.”

“I know.”

Mom’s cheeks are red, and her mouth is tight. She blinks and breathes. She opens her mouth but then closes it, like she doesn’t know what to say. “You know I want what’s best for you. I want you to be happy.”

A good daughter would make her mother feel better in this moment. Say thank you and all is forgiven. But I can’t get the image of Mom in that coffee shop out of my head. I feel shitty, and I don’t want anyone else to feel any better right at this moment, even Mom. Especially Mom.

* * *

On Friday morning, as I pack my suitcase and fill a handful of empty boxes Mom has in the basement, I quickly realize how little actually belongs to me. I can’t take Mom’s picture table with me or our dining room table or the ugly orange front porch wicker couch I love to sit on.

When I close the suitcase, I remember the time I almost lost it, the year before Dad died, two weeks before he started chemo. When we got to the Naples airport in Florida, none of our luggage was there. Somehow it had landed in Seattle, so we just had to go to the hotel and wait. None of us wanted to be on vacation. It was raining, and we were all miserable. And on the way into the hotel, we got splattered by dirty street water. In our room, Mom and Dad fought, and Dad yelled on the phone at someone from the airline. Mom went out and cried on the balcony, and Dad stormed out of the room.

B and Linnie and I sat for what seemed like forever, and my insides felt hollow until the phone rang. B answered nervously and then smiled. “She’s on the balcony,” he said, and then, “She’s crying, I think,” and then, “Okay.” He set the phone down on the dresser, still smiling. “It’s Dad,” he said to Linnie and me.

I smiled at Linnie. “See,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

B went out and got Mom, who talked with Dad until she was grinning too.

When she hung up, Mom said, “Okay. Showers for everyone.” By the time all of us kids were clean, and Mom had gotten into the shower, Dad came walking in with a big Wavecrest shopping bag.

“What’s that?” Linnie asked.

Dad grinned at us standing in our scratchy white hotel towels. “Evening wear,” he said. He reached into the bag and pulled out a hot-pink, terry cloth, Linnie-sized muumuu and handed it to Linnie. “For you, mademoiselle,” he said.

“Really?” she asked, like that was just what she’d wanted her whole life.

“Hold up your arms,” he said, and pulled the muumuu right over her head. The hot pink did become her.

He reached in again and pulled out an electric blue muumuu covered with exceptionally happy dolphins. He handed it to me.

I rubbed the terry cloth, much softer than the hotel bath towel, between my fingers. “Thanks, Dad,” I said.

“You’re most welcome.”

When Dad reached into the bag again and pulled out a chocolate brown muumuu with white seagulls, and handed it to B, my brother just said, “No way.”

“Brendan,” Dad said. “Everyone’s doing it.” He reached into the bag, pulled out a Dad-sized, almost neon, lime green muumuu, and waved it like a bullfighter at my brother. “Even me.”

“No way,” B said again. “I don’t wear dresses.”

“Suit yourself,” Dad said, tossing B’s muumuu onto the double bed by the wall. “I’m going to check on your mother.” He disappeared into the bathroom with the bag and shut the door. Mom shrieked and then giggled.

I went into the closet and slipped on my dolphin muumuu. I could still hear Mom giggling from the bathroom when I emerged from the closet, so I took Linnie’s hand and promptly led her out to the balcony. “Come on,” I said to B.

“I’m not going anywhere,” B said, pouting and glaring at the chocolate fabric lumped on the bed.

“Suit yourself,” I said, and pulled Linnie along.

“What are they doing?” Linnie asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said.

Two minutes later, B joined us on the balcony, wearing his muumuu. “Don’t say a word,” he said, and sat down on the lounge chair, tucking the muumuu between his legs.

And I didn’t. I just enjoyed standing at the railing, letting the sea breeze blow around and under my muumuu, feeling like I could just fly right out and over the ocean.

Eventually, Dad and Mom emerged from the bathroom, she in her yellow muumuu with red tulips and Dad in his lime green number. Mom knocked on the balcony door and motioned for us to come in.

Inside, Dad held up the room service menu. “Tonight,” he said in his best dramatic voice, “we’re dining in. And by the way, B”—he nodded to my brother—“you look fantastic.”

“Yeah, yeah,” B said.

“Are we really getting room service?” Linnie asked.

A reasonable question since we never got room service. Whenever we asked, Dad would always say, “Room service is a scam. Overpriced and never very good.”

But that night he said, “You can order whatever you want.”

“Like we do for my birthday?” Linnie asked.

“Yes,” Dad said. “It’s a new holiday.” He winked at her. “Muumuu Fiesta.”

“I love Muumuu Fiesta,” Linnie said. “We should get off school for that.”

B ordered a hamburger and two plates of cheese fries. Linnie ordered onion rings and four scoops of chocolate ice cream. I ordered fettuccini and fresh-squeezed orange juice. Mom ordered a filet, and Dad ordered lobster. After Dad placed the call, Mom said, “That’s going to be expensive, Nicky.”

“Now’s not the time to worry about that,” he said, and kissed her on the lips. “Remember, it’s a holiday.”

“You’re right.” She took a deep breath and nodded.

After the room service came, we ate like we were starving, and Dad turned on the radio and found an oldies station. And we all danced, even B, who did the twist with Mom, yellow and chocolate muumuus swishing back and forth to the beat.

Later, I lay down next to Linnie, to the soft sound of her breathing and the warmth of that breath on my shoulder, and B conked out within two seconds of his head hitting the pillow on the rollaway bed.

My eyes adjusted to the dark room, with just a hint of light from the cracked-open bathroom door so Linnie wouldn’t get scared.

That night, Dad and I were both on the side of the bed closest to the nightstand, and I watched him frowning just a little with his eyes shut. I knew he wasn’t asleep, because he wasn’t snoring. And probably, knowing I was watching him, he opened his eyes and looked at me. It almost hurt to look at him right then, because big shadows of fear and sadness cluttered his eyes. Still, I smiled at him, and he smiled back. “I love you,” he mouthed to me.

“You too,” I mouthed back.

And then he turned away from me and spooned up against my mother. Half an hour later, when I heard him finally start to snore, I let myself fall asleep, too.

It’s Friday morning, and that night seems far away, like it belongs to some other girl and some other family. And my grown-up brother and his fiancée arrive to help me move. We pack our cars, with lots of room to spare, and get it all over to Brighton Brothers in one trip.

With hands on her hips, Gwen scans the yellow room. “This is a great space.”

B kisses her on the cheek. “Hey, sweetness, can you give us a minute?”

“Sure.” She hugs me, a quick awkward one from the side. “Call me if you need anything.”

I can’t imagine ever calling Gwen for any reason. She’ll be calling me soon enough to go dress shopping. “You call her sweetness? Ick.”

“Keep it to yourself, Donder.” B sits on my bed. “Actually pretty comfortable.”

“Yeah, it’s not bad.” I reach down and hold on to Terra. Her turtle shell feels good under my palm.

“You should make up with Mom.”

I sit at the desk and open the three drawers. All empty. “You should mind your own business.”

“She’s just looking out for you. She’s just Mom.” He shrugs and laughs.

“Everything’s so easy for you, isn’t it?” I slam the top drawer shut, a little more loudly than I wanted to. “Did you even feel anything walking into this place?”

“You think I don’t remember it? You think it’s easy for me?” B stands up. “Shit, Donder. Not everyone wants to mope around for the rest of their lives.” He heads for the door and then turns around. “Dad wasn’t a moper. And I won’t be one either. And for the record, in case you give a shit, Mom’s not the only one who’s been worried about you.”

I hold my hand to my stomach, which suddenly feels like it’s been punched, quick and hard.

When I don’t hear his footsteps anymore, I shut the door and lean against it. I look at Maurice standing on my desk next to the RIP box of coffin pictures from Tim, who may have been swallowed up by a sand dune. The pain in my gut aches, and I almost choke as tears pour out of my eyes, and my body shakes with the sobbing.

When I wake up, the sun is shining on my bed, and I smell something sweet and doughy. My head hurts, and I reach up and feel puffy spots around my eyes. From down the hall, I hear giggling that sounds like none of the Brightons I know.

I brush my hair, wash my face, and put on shorts and a T-shirt. I could use a distraction. And some waffles.

In the kitchen, Mrs. B says, “Good morning. We’re babysitting today. This is Delia. Hope she didn’t wake you up.”

“Time to wake up!” Delia shouts. She’s got long black hair, as curly as Liz’s, and looks like a baby doll, a mischievous, oversized baby doll. I can see immediately why the Brightons are in love with her. Looking at her little face and big wide eyes, I can’t help but smile. “Hi, Delia. I’m Donna. We both start with D’s.”

“Deeeeeeeee!” she yells, and can’t stop laughing.

All morning I play with Delia, which is good because she gets Mr. and Mrs. Brighton tuckered out pretty fast. At noon, I excuse myself and say I’m going to do some reading. In the yellow room, I see that Tim has called, and I call him back.

“You’ll never guess where I am,” I say.

“Where are you?” Clearly, Tim is not as good at this game as I am.

When I tell him I’ve moved into Brighton Brothers, he says, “Rad. I’m almost at the Utah-Colorado border.” He’s at a rest stop because Tina and Bud ate bad burritos and are yacking behind the Texaco station. “So I was just thinking about you.”

I wonder if it’s the vomiting or the diesel fuel that brought me to mind, but I can’t help but be glad he’s thinking about me at all.

“I should be home in a few weeks,” he says. “Then we can hang. Cool?”

“Cool,” I say. It’s not like I’ll be doing anything else.

The next day, I wake up and feel like I’m supposed to be somewhere. Church. I bolt out of bed and wash my face. As I’m brushing my teeth and looking in the mirror, I realize that Mom’s not actually here to make me go, and I’m not sure who to ask to see if I have to. Since I’m the only one currently around, I ask myself.

Looking at my reflection, I answer “No,” which feels powerful and strange.

Then my new powerful and strange self decides my next course of action is to crawl back under the covers. As I drift back to sleep, I decide to say a little prayer.
Thank you for my new bed and a yellow room just for me.

Two weeks later, on the Monday night before I start school, I’m paging through my textbooks, and my phone rings. It’s Mom. “May I come over? I have some things for you.” She tiptoes with her words, tentative.

“Yes,” I say, and my voice sounds tiny, too.

Forty-five minutes later, Mom gets to Brighton Brothers. We stand in the front hallway looking at each other, and she glances down toward the viewing room where Dad was.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I say.

I take her up to the yellow room and notice she’s carrying a brown paper bag. From the bag she first pulls a dark purple envelope. “This came for you.”

She sets the bag down on my desk and looks around the room. “I like it.”

While she inspects my bathroom, I open the purple envelope. Inside is a card with a quote on the front from someone named Rumi:
Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are a hundred ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
Inside is a note from Aunt Selena:
Blessings to you and your destiny. Remember you’re already living it. Just be you. And come visit again. I’d love to see you.

I slip the card into the envelope and set it on my night-stand, hoping Mom won’t ask about it.

We don’t talk about Aunt Selena or about the yoga teacher or even church, and I don’t mention that Tim has called me twice from the road, both times when his travel companions were somehow ill. But I do tell Mom about watching JB put makeup on corpses like he’s a salon professional, and how Liz and I went for a picnic. And Mom tells me she thinks Linnie’s in love, even if she’d never say it, and that Snooter is the nicest boy with a ring in his nose that she’s ever met.

“You don’t know anyone else with a ring in their nose.”