Putting Makeup on Dead People (19 page)

So here I am, the one-and-only Amazing Donna, superhero of freaked-out insomnia, and proud owner of a team of unruly stallions. I should totally get a cape.

Of course Liz has met someone in Pittsburgh who knows the door guy to The Garage, the club B talked about all the time in college. And Liz decides it’s exactly what I need to get over breaking up with Tim and fighting with Mom.

The Garage consists of one enormous open room with a concrete floor, and does, in fact, look exactly like a garage, a big one that could use a good session with a broom and an extra-large dustpan. As we step into the room and my shoes stick with each step, I realize the floor could also use a mop and a bucket full of sudsy water.

Liz’s new friend makes sure we both get the over-twenty-one red wristbands from the door guy, who, not surprisingly, also gives Liz his number. Liz does look good. She’s got on dark jeans and an army-green tunic dress—a combination I’d never think would work, but one which Liz pulls off completely. I’m wearing lighter blue jeans and a V-necked purple sweater. Not bad, but not Liz.

She introduces us to the bartender, who is Derek, shirtless and decked out in black leather pants. He has a tattoo of a wide-open green eye right in the middle of his forehead, and tells us that his third eye has informed him that we are in serious need of delicious shots. Given the week I’ve had, I can’t think of a better idea. And who am I to deny the wisdom of a tattoo with eyelashes?

“The third eye never lies,” Derek says, mixing things in a silver cocktail shaker.

“What kind of shots?” I ask.

“Red Roosters.” He lines up three shot glasses.

Liz grins at me; I can tell she’s working to get my spirits up. She slaps her hand on the bar. “Well, cock-a-doodle-doo.”

Derek winks as he pours. “Any cock’ll do.”

I guess I won’t be making out with Derek tonight.

We raise our glasses and drink them down. The Red Rooster is actually quite a delicious bird. Then Liz orders us two Coronas with limes. “Now go shake those tail feathers,” Derek says.

At the edge of the dance floor, we sit on high chairs that don’t even have the foot rung where you can hook the heels of your shoes. Our legs dangle, and we drink our beers. Already, the dance floor is half full of an interesting crowd. College kids, old Dayton barflies, a cluster of leather-clad goth women, and a few transvestites for good measure. One song ends, and some sugary, boppy music starts. It sounds like candy, and I feel a strong urge to dance. “You want to go out there?” I ask, and point at the disco-ball-lit floor.

“Not yet,” she says. “I think I want to watch a little while.”

You have one choice, I tell myself. “Okay,” I say, “whenever you’re ready.”

And for the first time in my life, I go out onto a dance floor alone. I feel my pulse in my neck and the strength of my legs. I find my own little space and start a little step-touch. My hips start circling with the music, and I lift my arms. Like a practiced diva, I lower them to my sides. I look left and right. And I remember that I’m not actually by myself.

Over my shoulder, I say, “Hit it” to Dad and Nonna and Grammy. Nothing to be afraid of. And I know I won’t disappoint them. Or me. I keep moving and close my eyes. Behind me, I can feel swaying and hear the soft jangle of sequined fringe.

When I open my eyes, some smarmy college guy with an ill-fitting beret is dancing too close to me, shaking his hips and giving me a thumbs-up. “All right,” he says.

“Excuse me,” I say, “but could you not crowd us?”

“You’re alone.”

“Um, no I’m not.” I stand still and put my hands on my hips.

“Okay, whatever, psycho.” He stomps off and tries to break into the lady-goth circle. Good luck.

I roll my eyes and go back to dancing, trusting that my dead backup singers have practiced and coordinated their routine to perfection. I’m sure they can smoothly handle such an interruption.

Someone taps me on the shoulder, and for a second I’m convinced it’s Dad.

I turn, and Liz is standing there, one eyebrow raised. “Okay,” she says, “I’m not sure who you’re with, but do you have room for me?”

“Of course,” I say. “Just stand a little to the right. And this is my ritual, so keep your clothes on.” I smile. “We’ll make up the steps as we go.”

I have lunch with Liz before she drives back to Pittsburgh, and when she leaves this time, I don’t feel quite as sad. In fact, I feel alert, my whole body tingling, as though I’ve really got that magic I see in Liz. And I feel like trying it out.

In the yellow room, I sit at my desk and look at the box from Tim. The wood feels smooth under my fingers, and I still think it’s beautiful and, yes, artful, even the creepy pictures. But they are all dead people. And right now, I want someone warm and breathing.

From my top drawer I pull out the laminated card Becky made for us, and look for the one number that seems most interesting at this moment, one I believe will connect me to warmth on the other end.

I take myself for a walk in the neighborhood around Brighton Brothers. It feels good to wear a scarf and thick sweater and to breathe in the crisp air. The sun is shining, and I’m not so angry at the trees in all their red and gold and orange glory.

I pull out my phone and dial the number. When Charlie answers, I let the bold trees inspire me, and say, “Hey, it’s Donna. How are you?”

“Great. Wow. Hi.” His voice sounds warm and animated, like soup bubbling on a stove.

“I was wondering if you wanted to go for a walk.” I take a breath, and the air feels so crisp and good it makes me smile.

“Well, I have class in ten minutes. But I can get the notes. How about now?”

Half an hour later, when I get back to the parking lot at Brighton Brothers, I see Charlie leaning against his car. I haven’t been inside since I called him, and my nose is cold. I grab on to the inside pockets of my sweatshirt, clutching at the thick cotton.

Walking over to him, I feel my heart beating. I feel everything in my body. I think this is what passion is supposed to feel like, and I look at his lips. I ask myself what an amazing person would do, and I know the answer.

Right there, by the Brighton Brothers “Peace” sign, I grab Charlie’s shoulders and kiss him. His lips are soft, and I slip my arms around him. He tastes sweet, like spring water, and I feel his warmth spreading over me. He kisses me back, like he might be feeling some passion too. Then he pulls away.

“Nice to see you too.”

I laugh and suddenly feel hugely self-conscious.

“What was that for?” he asks.

I put my hands back in my pockets and look at the leaves spread out like multicolored handprints on the concrete. “I wanted to see what it would be like.”

“So, what’s the verdict?”

When I look up, Charlie is smiling and his eyes are so open and clear that my nervousness melts away. I slip my hands out of my pockets and rest them on his hips. “I think I’m going to have to try again to make an informed decision.”

A week later, I’m eating the whole-wheat noodles and organic pesto Charlie has made for us, using the hot pot in his dorm room and the microwave in the student lounge down the hall. Charlie eats out of his mug—he insisted I use the bowl—and the feast tastes terrible and delicious at the same time. Being here with Charlie has no resemblance to being with Tim. At this moment, every part of me feels awake—my brain, my body, and even maybe my heart.

I pick up a noodle from my bowl and slurp it from my fingers. “This is pure elegance.”

“Nothing but the best for you.” Charlie smirks.

My phone rings, and it’s Mom. “I’ll be right back,” I say. I go out into the hallway, which smells like a men’s locker room, or at least what I would imagine that to smell like—sweaty socks and full-throttle cologne. No one is in the student lounge, so I go in. “Hi.” My voice sounds weak.

“Hi.” Mom’s doesn’t sound a whole lot stronger. She clears her throat. “So I’m having a bridal shower for Gwen and B next month.”

“For B?”

“They wanted it to be co-ed.”

I sit down in the corner of the stiff, low-backed couch. “Whose good idea was that?”

“Gwen’s.”

I’m not sure why they call this a student
lounge
—this furniture actually seems to encourage the opposite. “Yeah, doesn’t sound like something B would request.”

“Not exactly.”

We both laugh, and then the sound disappears like the last ladle of punch at a party. All we’re left with is a big sad bowl with a faded sliver of strawberry stranded at the bottom.

“Well, I just wanted you to get the date on the calendar.”

“Okay, I’ve got it.”

“Donna?”

“What?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Mom.”

When I go back in to Charlie, tears start streaming from my eyes.

He stands up and walks over to me. “What’s the matter?”

But I can’t answer because I’m crying, and I don’t know how to explain how far away I feel from my mom, and how much it hurts.

T
he next Sunday, I wake up like I have every Sunday since I moved into the yellow room—feeling as though I should be somewhere. Church. I pull the covers over my head and slide my knees up to make a little tent. The sunlight pushing through the blue blanket and sheets makes a soft glow.

Church, of course, makes me think of Mom, and that makes me feel like I might just stay in bed for the rest of my life. I remember Mom sharing her hymnal with me when I was learning to read. I got so excited when I could understand the words I was singing by looking at the lyrics in the book, and Mom smiled at me as if I were the smartest, most beautiful kid in the world. Now I don’t know what she thinks of me. I just know I’m not making her smile that big smile anymore.

I miss Mom, and today I realize I miss something else—church. At the same time, I don’t want to go to church. So within my first ten minutes of consciousness for the day, I’m already sad and confused, and another horse has trotted up to the watering hole. Awesome.

I reach out under my tent, first for my Terra necklace and then for my phone so I can call Charlie, who sounds like he’s still asleep. “Are you awake?”

“No.”

“Oh.” I wrap my other hand around Terra and like how the shell feels curved under my palm.

“Yes, I’m awake. You just called me.”

“Sorry.” I stretch out my legs and let the sheet fall over me.

“I don’t mind, but whatever you want, it better be good.”

I almost whisper, “I miss going to church.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“Hey.” I’m getting a little claustrophobic now, so I pull the covers down to my chin and let the sun hit my face.

“Okay, so you miss church. Call your mom. Meet her there.”

“But I don’t want to go to church. And Mom and I aren’t so much talking these days.”

“Now you’ve got me. What do you want?”

The windowpane rattles with a burst of air, and I see a bare oak tree branch waving at me. “I want something holy. Something sacred.”

“How about talking to me on the phone? Does that work?”

I grin. “It’s a start.”

“Well, excuse me.” I can hear Charlie’s bed creak, which means he’s sitting up now. “Maybe you could think about what you like about church, or don’t like. Maybe you could start there and then make up your own holy.”

In church, I realize, I used to worry, think about Dad and how things were when he was alive. I would miss him. I don’t want to worry. I don’t want to be sad. I don’t want to be the moper B thinks I am.

And I didn’t like being talked at by Father Dean or even Father Bill. Or having to repeat words I’m not sure I understood. Or having to stand up and sit down and kneel because I’m supposed to.

“Are you still there?”

“I’m thinking, like you said. Shush.” I think of the quiet after Communion, of listening to the organ, or singing, or being still while Father Bill would walk up and down the aisles, swinging a big ball of incense so that the sweet smell settled around us all like a smoky blessing. I realize I’ve closed my eyes, and I open them. “But what about God? Where does he fit in?”

“Or she, or it. Where do you want God to fit?”

Bearded God pops into my head. “Isn’t God supposed to be in charge of everything, to tell us what we can do and can’t do? You know, lay down the law?”

“When I look around at all the different plants and animals and people, and the things we all make and do, I think the divine must be pretty big. Has to be. So for me, God or Goddess or whatever has to be big enough to hold everything.”

I realize how tightly I’m holding on to Terra. When I pull my hand away, I see my palm full of indented little half moons from her shell. And I imagine a giant sea turtle big enough to hold me and Charlie and Aunt Selena and B and Gwen and Linnie and Mom. Even Roger fits there. “Could God be a sea turtle? A girl one?”

“Why not?” Charlie laughs. “And can she fly and have X-ray vision?”

“Make up your own God,” I say, sitting up and leaning against my pillow. “Thanks so much. You’ve been a big help.”

“You’re saying good-bye? I just woke up. Just now. For real.”

“I have more thinking to do.”

Later that night, in between studying and Brighton Brothers chores, I’m still thinking, and I look up another number in my phone. I like Charlie’s idea for making up my own holy, and I know someone who might have some ideas how I could do that.

Aunt Selena sounds delighted to hear from me, and says Charlie and I should come to dinner next week. She suggests some candles and chants I might like, and tells me, “These days are good ones to talk with your dad. In many traditions, people believe that the veil between the worlds is thin right now, that it’s a good time to take care of unfinished business, to let go and help the dead to let go too.”

I nod. I like the idea of letting go. “Thank you—for everything.”

From down the hall, Mrs. Brighton calls, “Dinner’s ready!” and it sounds so much like Mom that I get a little dizzy.

Thinking of Mom, I feel like I’m right back where I started today, confused and sad and hiding under a tent.

On Halloween morning, I get back to Brighton Brothers from an early class and find a big gift-wrapped box on my bed with a rectangular gift card attached to an oversized red bow. On the card:
Everyone’s got to start somewhere. Meet us in Room 1.

Inside the box is my very own Titan 2000. I know it’s my very own because on a silver plate right below the handle, my name has been engraved.

In Viewing Room One, in front of an extra-long coffin, stand both Brighton brothers, grinning like sphinxes. Dentist-head sphinxes.

“I assume I was supposed to bring this.” I hold up my Titan 2000 and grin back at them.

“We thought it was time,” Mr. Brighton says, and JB elbows him. “Okay, Joe thought it was time, and I agreed. We think you’re doing great work, Donna.”

I feel my face getting hot. “Thank you.”

Mr. Brighton walks over and hugs me, a quick, awkward, and perfect hug. “Okay, I’ll leave you two to work.”

JB hugs me too, less awkward and more of a bone-crusher, but still perfect. “Okay,” he says, “now I observe
you.
”

We head over to the front of the room together. Late this afternoon we’re holding the visitation for Abe Carter, who, at age eighty-one and six feet six, is the first since I’ve been here to need one of the extra-long coffins. I set my Titan 2000 on one of the flower stands and crack it open. I look at Abe’s long face and all the laugh lines in it. For a minute I close my eyes, hoping to honor Abe’s life and all the moments that set those lines in his face. I remind myself to love the whole person as I work.

With eyes open, I study his skin tone and notice some discoloration, so I pick a Sandy Beige concealer cream and squeeze some onto a large sponge brush. I glance up at JB, who purses his lips and nods. “I couldn’t have chosen better.”

I take a deep breath and get to work. I smooth the concealer onto Abe’s forehead and cheekbones and chin and wonder if I am getting him ready for the afterlife, like we learned in rituals class. I imagine some underground angel, like a celestial production assistant, drifting into Abe’s coffin once he’s buried, and saying, into a golden hands-free device,
Yep, this one’s been through wardrobe and makeup. Ready to go.

I smile at Abe.
Don’t worry. You’ll be ready.

For his lips, I choose a neutral shade with just the palest hint of red. And then I turn to his hands, brushing concealer over the hills and valleys of the wrinkled landscape there. Abe doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’d ever had or would want a manicure. So painting the clearest of clear polish on his nails, I assure him that this doesn’t count as a salon visit.

As I let a fine spray of powder settle on Abe’s face, and step back, I remember JB’s still here. I raise my eyes, just enough to check out the expression on his face. He’s nodding and smiling wide. “You did it, Donna P.”

Knowing I’ll remember this face, I look down at Abe and whisper, “Thank you.”

That afternoon, after JB and I share a celebratory glass of fruit punch that looks a little too much like embalming fluid, and after I’ve stored my new Titan in the prep room, we’re set for visitors. Since JB says he could use a little brisk air, he wears his long black coat to handle the outside door, and I take the inside post.

Standing next to the cream-colored wall, I’m feeling accomplished, proud even, and I have that grounded, solid feeling, ready to be calm and helpful and kind. And then through the door walks Patty, followed by Jim and Becky. They look like different versions of themselves: serious faces and dress-up clothes. Patty’s got on a long black coat and a silky scarf. She and Becky are both wearing panty hose and heels, and Jim’s got a tie on. They look like grown-ups. I wonder if I look like one too.

All of a sudden, the ground beneath my feet doesn’t feel so sturdy. I feel like I’m back at Woodmont, and I want to hide so Patty can’t tell me that the navy skirt I’m wearing is so last year.

Patty opens her eyes a little wider when she sees me. “Hey. I didn’t know you were still working here.”

I nod. I’m not sure if I should ask about school, and I remember they’re here and dressed up for some reason. “So, um, you knew Mr. Carter?”

Jim nods. “He’s, well, he was our grandpa.”

Becky reaches over and grabs Jim’s hand. “It’s nice to see you,” she says to me.

Then Patty’s face crumples, which at first looks like her face when she thinks something is stupid, but which I realize is something else entirely, and before I know it, Patty is crying on my shoulder and hugging me. Or more accurately, I’m hugging her; she feels fragile.

“I don’t know what to do,” she says.

Something, very definitely, is happening in my heart. And it’s not the need to hide or escape to the Dead Zone. I find I don’t actually want to escape to anywhere, and that what I’m feeling is compassion, bubbling up from a deep well inside me and filling the empty place in my chest. The strength in my legs comes back, and I feel the ground under my feet. I hold Patty in my arms and whisper, “You don’t have to do anything.”

I think of Patty strutting around Woodmont like she owned the place, a feeling I never had there. But at this moment, I know I’m in my element. I know Patty and I aren’t so separate. And I understand, I think for the first time, what it means to love the whole person. I don’t think Mr. Brighton was just talking about dead people: he meant the live ones who come to us, too. And it turns out that I can love the whole person after all.

“But this sucks.” Her voice shakes, and she sniffles.

“I know,” I say. “That’s why you’re crying.”

Patty clutches at the back of my sweater, and I let my compassion rise up, maternal and protective, and encircle us both. I stay solid, holding her like earth.

“I’m right here,” I whisper into her ear.

Over Patty’s shoulder, Becky and Jim look at the carpet, and after a minute, Jim says, “I need to get some water.”

Patty pulls away from me and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Me too.” She tugs the scarf off her neck and bunches it up in her hand.

“Water fountain’s just down there.” I point to the end of the hallway.

“Thanks,” Jim says.

“Yes, thanks.” Patty glances up at me with shy eyes. She reaches out and lightly touches my arm. “Thank you.”

As they head down the hallway, I feel like something has let go inside of me, and I don’t even panic when, a few minutes later, cousin Tim shows up with his parents. I find that I feel only compassion for him as he says hello and hugs me. And then a little disgust as he checks out my ass. Which leads to reassurance that I was wise to walk away from that.

“I saw our lunch table today,” I tell Charlie that night. We’re sitting on my bed with the hot chocolate Charlie brought for us, and his arm feels good around my shoulders. I explain that Jim and Patty’s grandpa died, and add that I also saw Tim.

I feel Charlie’s arm tense, and he raises one eyebrow at me.

I set my hot chocolate on the nightstand and turn back to him. I put my hand on his waist, and I can feel the edge of his jeans, just above his hip. “I still can’t believe I wasted my time with that.” I kiss him. “You are clearly the superior choice.”

“Then,” he says, smiling at me like he’s up to something, “you won’t mind attending a little party with the superior choice.”

I’m hoping for some kind of event right here that involves taking our clothes off, but it turns out Charlie wants me to go with him to his family’s version of Thanksgiving, one they call the Harvest Festival, so as not to dishonor the Native Americans. “Beware,” he says. “The festival has the highest concentration of hippies in the Dayton metro area. It can get a little scary.”

“But you’ll protect me, right?”

“You’ve got it.”

“Then I’m in.”

“Thank you,” he says, and kisses me softly, just a brush on my lips—an activity I’ve decided won’t ever get old.

On the day of Gwen and B’s shower, Mom has the house decorated like its own harvest festival. The house is crawling with cornucopias and Gwen’s equal-parts perky and athletic friends. A lot of B’s friends are here too, holding cans of beer and looking awkward. Uncle Lou and Aunt Irene have Linnie cornered, and I’m sure Uncle Lou is pestering her about Snooter. And there, in all his godlike glory, is Roger, looking like a model in jeans and a white sweater, with his arm around my mother.

I look across the room at them, standing in the corner of the living room and talking with a very animated Gwen.

Part of me wants to run over and tell Mom about all the good things happening. About class and work and Charlie. But Roger feels like a force field I don’t want to penetrate. Going over there would mean that I think it’s okay.

I realize I’m not standing by myself anymore, and see B. He looks toward Mom and tells me, “You’re hurting her, you know. And she’s the only parent you’ve got left.”

This, I decide, is why bridal showers are usually just for girls. That way, stupid brothers or stupid yogic boyfriends can’t come and ruin them. “Why don’t you mind your own business?”