Putting Makeup on Dead People (20 page)

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Authors: Jen Violi

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Social Themes, #Death & Dying, #Adolescence, #Emotions & Feelings, #Fiction - Young Adult

BOOK: Putting Makeup on Dead People
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“This is my business. She’s my mom too.” I must be the only one who gets this tone from B; otherwise he wouldn’t have so many friends.

By the grace of God or Sea Turtle, Uncle Lou comes over and reaches up to slap his hand on B’s shoulder. “What the hell is a guy supposed to do at something like this?” He’s got on a pumpkin-colored suit jacket and a tie with a cartoon turkey and the words,
I’m For Dinner
written below it.

“How’d you get out of the house with that tie?” I ask.

“I put it on once I got here.” He winks. “I think I look pretty snappy.”

“That you do,” B says, and shakes Uncle Lou’s hand. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to see if Mom needs help setting food out.” With the word
Mom
, he shoots me an accusing glance and walks off.

“Who put the bug in his boxers?” Uncle Lou asks.

“Guilty,” I say.

“Yeah, you look guilty.” He pulls on his turkey tie. “So, how’s funeral school?”

“Good,” I say. “I really like it.”

Uncle Lou takes a step closer to me and looks around, like he’s checking to make sure we’re not being watched. “So Irene tells me she heard from your mom that you’ve seen my sister.”

“Aunt Selena?”

“Yeah, that one.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot. “So how is she?”

“She’s great. She has this beautiful little house in Yellow Springs. You should go visit her.”

Aunt Irene sees us and makes a beeline in our direction.

In a very low voice, Uncle Lou says, “Tell her I said hello, would you?”

I nod, and feel sad for Uncle Lou. And Aunt Selena.

When Aunt Irene gets to us, she hugs me and then turns her eyes to Uncle Lou. “You look like the cat that ate the canary.”

“Speaking of which, I’m starving.” Uncle Lou strains his neck toward the kitchen. “Where’s this food your brother was talking about?”

After food and before presents, Mom catches me on the way out of the bathroom.

For a second, we look awkwardly at each other. There’s so much to talk about, I can’t think of anything to say.

She hugs me and touches the sleeve of my sweater. “You look nice. I love that dark green on you.”

I look down at my sweater and khaki skirt and remember something I can ask her. “Oh, you know, I was wondering if you had a dress I could borrow. I’m going to a party. A harvest festival thing.” I neglect to mention that it happens to be on the same day as Thanksgiving, when she’ll likely expect me to be here instead.

Her eyes seem to get brighter, and she smiles. “Oh, I know just the one. Same color as your sweater. Let’s go take a quick look right now.” Mom’s not one to leave her party guests, so I know she’s excited I’m asking her for something. And it’s a relief to discuss something easy. She takes me downstairs to the Wild Youth closet.

I say prayers of thanks as she slides several sparkly pantsuits to the side, and I breathe in the cedar smell of the closet, where I used to stash myself behind long plastic coverings and shoe boxes when B and I played hide-and-seek.

“You know,” she says, “I saw Bob Brighton at the Kroger, and he told me you’re doing a wonderful job.”

“Oh.”

“I told him I wasn’t surprised.” She smiles at me and slides the plastic cover off a dark green, knee-length dress with a flared skirt. “How about this one?” It has a scooped neck and the fabric looks a little like snakeskin, but it’s shiny and ripply, like water. It’s perfect.

“I love it.” I reach down and pull out the skirt to see how far it stretches.

“I wore this to my first New Year’s Eve party with your dad. We danced the whole night. The skirt’s really good for that.”

I let the skirt fall. “Are you sure it’s okay for me to wear it?”

Mom looks at the dress and takes a breath. She hands it to me. “What good is a dress if no one’s wearing it? It’s been shut up in here for too long.” She puts her hand on my cheek. “It’s okay to give it some new memories.”

I want to reach up and touch her hand, but I can’t. Instead, I make my voice cheerful. “Thanks, Mom. This’ll be great.” I slide the plastic back over the dress. “Let’s get back upstairs. We don’t want to miss them opening presents.”

“No,” Mom says, slowly closing the cedar doors to her wild youth.

Abe Carter, 81

Cause of Death: Stroke

Surviving Immediate Family:

  • Sons: Paul, Greg
  • Daughter: Laura Plintz
  • Grandchildren: Jim, Patty, and Time (ex-boyfriend)

Makeup: Sandy Beige concealer, Pure Sand cover-up cream, Neutral Glow lip color

Clothing: Hunter green wool fisherman’s sweater

Casket: Extra-long birch special

Special Guests in Attendace:

  • Becy Bell

Funeral Incidents:

  • I comfort Patty.
  • I survive brief, creep hug from Tim.
  • On the way out, Patty lets me know that I look better in brighter colors.
twenty-one

M
om calls the day before Thanksgiving and says, “We’re doing dinner at four.”

Out the window of the yellow room, the bare tree branch waves to me as the light fades from the sky. I feel a little sick to my stomach as I say, “Oh, actually, tomorrow’s that party I told you about. At Charlie’s parents’ house.”

“Charlie? Are you two going out?”

“Yeah.” I press my hand onto the cold glass. “I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“Honey, that’s great. You should come by after the party.”

“I think the party goes late.” Which sounds as lame as it feels to say.

“Oh.” Mom sounds disappointed, and I feel like a jerk. “Should I save you some stuffing?”

“Yeah, that would be great.”

“We’ll miss you, Donna,” she says. “You know that, right?”

“I know.” From the corner of the window, I feel a tiny draft of the winter air. Stepping away from it, I put my hand in the pocket of my sweat pants and wonder when the heat will kick on.

On the afternoon of Thanksgiving/Hippie Harvest Festival, I’m waiting for Charlie and watching PBS on the little TV that JB donated to me and the yellow room. Some classically trained British actor narrates a special about crocodiles, and the low voice and ambient noise help my shoulders relax. I don’t want to be nervous about the party or meeting Charlie’s parents, and animal shows tend to comfort me. In the two years before he died, Dad and I watched them together.

It started late one Friday night when I was twelve and counting sheep couldn’t stop me from worrying that no one would ask me to dance at my friend Jenny’s boy-girl party. From the bedroom I shared with Linnie, I heard the distant TV buzz and wandered down the hallway toward the blue light in the living room. Dad was sitting in his paisley pajamas on a corner of the couch, and turned when he heard me step on the creaky floor spot in the doorway. “I can’t sleep,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t get into trouble for still being up.

“Me neither.” Dad held out his arm to me. “Might as well sit down with me and the cheetahs.”

I curled up next to him, even more wide awake with the prospect of just me-and-Dad time. As we watched the sleek muscled cats run in slow motion, Dad made tsking noises. Maybe he wanted to run that fast too.

“Why can’t you sleep, Daddy?”

“Well,” he said, eyes on the TV, “your dad didn’t get a raise at work, and he should have.”

Something fragile in his voice made me nervous. I scooted an inch closer to him and clutched at a soft piece of his pajama top. “What are you going to do?”

He looked down at my hand and then put his own over it. I liked how big his hand was and how it felt warm on my fingers. He turned to me and smiled, like he just remembered something. “I’m still going to do my job. And I’m still going to be good at it.”

I nodded. “I bet you’re the best bridge seller they’ve got.”

Dad laughed and squeezed my shoulder. “Maybe I should work for you. Got any friends who need some steel beams?” We settled in with the big cats until we started to doze off.

I think Dad would have liked this crocodile special I’m watching now. Even with those stubby legs, they can actually run pretty fast on land.

When the phone rings, I know it’s Charlie downstairs. At the back door, he stands all lanky and handsome in a brown jacket over a thin cobalt sweater. “Damn,” I say, appraising him and smiling. “Let’s stay in and make out to nature specials.” I take his hand and lead him back upstairs.

“That does sound like a better idea.”

“Maybe we can harvest and then make out.” I smile.

In the yellow room, I grab my jacket and purse and go to turn off the TV. I pause to hear British Actor Man explaining how crocodiles let out this noise called a bellow. He describes it as their own unique cry, a deep rumbling, like building thunder. He says they must do it for no other reason than it’s their noise, something that identifies them just as them, and not some other creature.

My mind jumps back to that night watching the cheetahs with Dad. Around two a.m., when he tucked me back into my bed, he whispered, “The only person who needs to believe in you is you.” He kissed my forehead. “And you’ve always got me in your corner.”

I wonder now if Dad just needed to say those words out loud, if that night he was reassuring himself as much as he was me. I look at Charlie, and my chest feels full—my corner has turned out to be really well staffed.

“Ready, Super Croc?” Charlie asks.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Outside, the air smells like snow. I remember I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, and my stomach growls. Or maybe it’s the sound of my own distinct bellow, rumbling up from the center of me and demanding to be heard.

On the way there, Charlie tells me that his mom and dad, who he calls Erin and Gabe, are really excited to meet me. I’m looking forward to meeting them too, even if I feel a little intimidated. Charlie’s told me that Erin and Gabe are mega-smart and always learning something new. Like when Erin learned how to ice-skate a few years back, and not just circle-round-the-rink skating, but things like double salchows and leaps and spins and stuff. And she’s actually pretty good. And while she skates, Gabe grows herbs in the kitchen window and cans things they plant in the backyard.

Once I learned how to make pot holders out of multicolored pieces of panty hose, but that doesn’t seem quite on par.

When we arrive, Charlie’s parents’ house is already buzzing with people, and Charlie leads me through them for a quick tour. Gabe and Erin have outdone themselves. Every room holds at least one candlelit table full of food and drinks—brown rice risotto with asparagus, butternut squash soup, pumpkin bread with maple sage butter, Crock Pots full of hot spiced cider. But my favorite spot is the enormous backyard, twinkling lights lining the trees and shed, and in the middle, a blazing fire pit with little benches all around.

Erin wears a bulky wool sweater and an orange corduroy skirt down to her ankles. Her hair hangs in one long braid, and she hugs me tight as soon as she meets me. “We’re so glad you’re here. I’m sure you miss your family, but I hope you’ll feel really welcome.”

“Thank you,” I say. And even though I do feel welcome, even though the Harvest Festival might be the most beautiful party I’ve ever been to, even though we all sing around the bonfire and listen to Gabe play guitar, and Charlie stands behind me with arms circled around my waist, I still can’t help but feel sad. And then angry with myself for feeling sad in the midst of so much joy.

When Charlie drives me back to Brighton Brothers, he says, “What’s up? Was it my dad’s singing? It can be a little dorky.”

“No, I loved it.”

“Or the stuffing? I know other people don’t usually have nuts and berries in theirs.”

At
stuffing
, I start to cry. “Mom makes really good stuffing,” I say between tears.

“You want to stop there? It’s still early, and I don’t mind.”

“No!”

Charlie pulls in next to the hearse at Brighton Brothers and puts the car in park. He reaches into the backseat and hands me a napkin.

I wipe the tears from my cheeks, and the napkin smells like french fries—I guess even environmental studies majors sometimes fall prey to fast food.

“Donna, you’re making yourself miserable. And you’re probably making your mom miserable too. Is this Roger guy really that bad?”

I blow my nose into the napkin.

“Don’t you miss your mom? Haven’t you said that to me about a billion times?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you make up?”

“I just want things to be how they used to be.”

“That’s not possible,” he says softly. “Maybe it’s time to move on.”

“Maybe you don’t know what you’re talking about.” I reach for the handle and open the door. Cold air pours into the car.

“I’m on your side here.”

“It doesn’t sound like it.” I get out of the car and slam the door. Once I’m inside, I wait to hear the car pull out. I wait a while. I should go back. I feel angry and sad and embarrassed. Then I hear the car start and the sound of the motor fade. And all I’m left with is sad.

twenty-two

O
n Friday, Charlie doesn’t call. Mom does call and leaves a message that she has stuffing waiting for me. Mostly, I stay in the yellow room and stare at the walls.

That evening, I can’t sit still any longer. I’m mad at myself. Frustrated that I’ve probably really pissed off Charlie, that I missed Thanksgiving with my family, that Dad isn’t here to make it all better, that Dad isn’t here at all, that he’s not ever coming back. And that even with so many good things happening, I still feel so painfully stuck.

I have to do something, so I pull out my Chapman books and notebooks. Homework is a good distraction. Right on top are my notes on the project for Dr. Landon, which is due next week. I have no idea how I’m going to get from one page of handwritten notes to turning in a polished final project in seven days. And now I have something new to worry about. Great.

Then I remember I might know something about getting from one place to another. I have a flash of something that Kirsten said in that class last spring about how rituals can do just that, and I realize I got so mad at Charlie yesterday because he’s right. I have to move on.

I remember what Aunt Selena said about the veil between the worlds, about letting go. I wonder if it’s still thin, if I can still talk with Dad. And at this moment, I know very clearly what my final project will be.

The next morning, I wake up to my alarm at six. I slip on my Terra necklace, bundle myself into flannel-lined jeans, a T-shirt and sweatshirt, and my winter coat. I wrap my neck in my purple scarf and slip on my gloves. I take the paper grocery bag I’ve prepared and walk softly down the steps and out the front door. The cold shocks the skin on my face, but it feels good. In the dark sky, stars glow clear and bright. I warm up the Lark and drive a route I know well, winding around to the spot I usually visit once a year with Mom in April.

I park, grab my bag, and walk up the little hill to the gravestone. A light wind sends a chilly ripple through my coat, and my body feels more charged and alert with each step. My eyes have adjusted to the dark, and it’s not actually that hard to see when I get there. I run my hand over the round edge.
Domenic Parisi, beloved husband, father, brother, and friend. Rest in Peace.

I set down my bag and find a stick. Into the ground, I start to trace a line. The earth resists, hard and cold, not soft like in the springtime, but I hold the stick steady, and finally, all around me and Dad’s grave, I make the shape of a turtle, one that I think is big enough to hold it all.

I pull my Terra necklace out so it’s resting on top of my coat, and from my bag, I take out a piece of paper. I’ve filled the paper with a drawing of a turtle shell, and I made a copy. One I’ll save for Dr. Landon’s class, and one I’ll use this morning.

On each of the little sections of the shell, I’ve written words, what I know about death. And it’s a full shell. I inhale, just a little, fighting against the cold air. “I love you, Daddy,” I whisper. And then, one at a time, I rip off the sections and say each one aloud.

My father died when I was fourteen
.

I like to think about death, but I don’t like to feel about it.

I believe there’s a heaven for people to go to.

Death must hurt.

With each piece I rip and say and drop, I feel my breath get deeper, my lungs fill more fully.

I am angry at death.

People grieve in many different ways.

Everything and everyone dies.

Death changes everything.

Once I’ve spoken them all, I’ve covered Dad’s plot of earth with the little white pieces, like snow or a sheet, or a very thin veil between me and whatever’s left of him there in the ground.

I know I want to end my ritual with singing, to use my own voice, the one that identifies me as myself. And at this moment, all I can think of is the Ave Maria, which makes me giggle as I start it. I sing and laugh, realizing I can only remember the first four Latin words, so I just keep repeating those, knowing I’m not any better than the lady in church that Dad and I couldn’t stop laughing at. I hope wherever he is, Dad is enjoying this, that he knows I’m okay and I’m letting go, singing and laughing and crying all at once.

Behind the gravestone, I watch the sun seep into the sky, behind the hundreds of other gravestones that mark other fathers and mothers and beloved people of beloved people, behind the bare and skeletal trees. Behind it all, light is rising. Fuchsia strips pulse over a light blue palette and white brushes of clouds.

I sing until I can’t sing anymore, until I drop to my knees and sob into the hard earth. And when the tears have stopped flowing, when my head hurts and I’m done, I feel warmth on the top of my head and I raise my face to see the sun creeping, like a great red-orange turtle, up and up and up. When I close my eyes, all of the sky colors are still there. The pounding in my head slows, and layers of fear slip off my heart, which now takes up the pounding, beating in my chest, steady and sure.

It’s nine o’clock by the time I get home, and I fall into my bed, exhausted. It takes me a while to fall asleep, but once I do, I’m out.

When I wake up, it’s dark, and I have a message from Charlie on my phone. He wants to make sure I’m okay. I call and ask him to come over. He agrees, and I brush my teeth.

When Charlie gets to Brighton Brothers, I meet him at the door in my pj’s and a sweatshirt. Back in my room, I ask if he’ll crawl into bed with me. He smiles and nods. Under the covers, we wrap our arms around each other, and his face feels cold against mine. “You’re freezing,” I say.

“It’s winter out there,” he says, and laughs. “You know, if two hikers are stranded in the cold and someone gets hypothermia, to save him, they both have to take all their clothes off and use their natural body heat.”

I look into his eyes and see a little twinkle there, like the stars this morning. “Are you saying you need to be saved?”

“I totally have hypothermia.” He nods seriously. “This is a life or death situation.”

“I guess we don’t have a choice, then.”

We slip out of our clothes for the first time, and for a second, I think Charlie might really have hypothermia, and I am too distracted by his icy skin to worry about being naked. “Holy crap, you’re cold.”

“I told you,” he says, wrapping his arms around me. “Save me,” he whispers into my ear. “Hold me close.”

I realize that no chorus is currently offering me any guidance or rules or protests. The only one in my head is me, and I’m enough.

The skin on Charlie’s arms and legs and chest warm quickly next to mine, and I feel goose bumps spreading from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. I decide right then that I will do my very best to keep us both alive.

On Sunday morning, I wake up early again, but this time I’m not alone. I listen to Charlie breathing next to me, and I smile. I watch Charlie’s face and want to touch it, but I don’t want to wake him.

I also want to go back to sleep, but I know I can’t. I know that I started something yesterday and that I’m not quite done. I think about Mom and the pained look on her face when I left Gwen and B’s shower, and the sadness in her voice last week. I think about the stuffing she saved for me, and imagine the exact Tupperware container with the blue lid she’s probably put it in. I think about her face when she’s looking at Roger and when he’s looking at her. How she thought she had her life all planned out until it fell apart, and how hard she’s working to start over. She does yoga every week; she’s letting go of things and learning things, like me.

I don’t want to be the person who causes people pain, and I know I have been doing just that. I don’t want Mom to feel like she’s lost me when I’m still right here. I want to be like my dad, who everyone couldn’t wait to be around because he was easy to be with. And, I remember, because he made the effort. Dad used to take us over to Uncle Lou’s on Thursday nights for Aunt Irene’s homemade shepherd’s pie, and over to Aunt Sylvia’s for a packaged-cookie-and-instant-coffee breakfast on Sunday mornings after church. They were all so glad to see him. And that’s how I want to be.

I close my eyes and go to the Dead Zone to be with Dad. And to be with myself, a version that lives up to the best parts of him. A version I can live with. In that peaceful spot inside my chest, I relax and I breathe. Everything gets real quiet, and I imagine everyone glad to see me. It occurs to me that the Dead Zone is as much about being with life as being with death. Sitting up straighter, I remember Nora Mahoney saying, “You only go around the block once.” I rework it in my mind so she adds, “So do it right.” That helps. I decide everyone should have a little Nora on their shoulder, smoking menthols and hacking out imperatives.

This morning, when it’s so early that not much else is going on, I know what doing it right means. I write Charlie a note, slip into sweatpants, and drive out to Yellow Springs to Tranquility Yoga Studio.

When I walk in, I smell incense and see light streaming in through a big bay window. White paper cranes dangle from the ceiling throughout the room. Looking around at the five other people stretching out and chatting, I realize I’m thinking Mom might be here. Then I remember that she’s probably getting ready for church right now. I wonder if Roger goes to church or not, and if it’s a problem. But I know I don’t have to be in charge of that. Instead, I listen to the soft guitar music drifting out of the speakers on the wall.

When Roger sees me, he smiles big. He’s surprised, which seems like something Roger isn’t very often. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he says.

“Me too.”

“This will be a gentle class. I think you’ll really like it. Make yourself at home.” He gestures to yoga mats rolled up against the wall. “I’m going to get us started.”

As I unroll a mossy green mat for myself, I’m struck by how graciously he welcomed me into his space after how snotty I’ve been to him. I feel humble and small. I find a spot in the back corner. Only about ten people are here now, so my fleeting thought of slipping out quietly and subtly doesn’t seem so feasible.

Once class begins, I remember some of the postures—downward dog and bridge pose. A couple of times we did yoga in gym class at Woodmont, but I never relaxed into it. It seemed like something too personal to be doing with all those people I couldn’t wait to get away from, so I kept my guard up. Now I’m letting myself really try each position, feeling the strain in my hips and my shoulders and knees. Roger speaks clearly and with simple confidence, tending to each student as necessary, gently helping to straighten or ease a posture. I forget about him dating my mother and see that he’s a good teacher. And also a decent person.

Forty-five minutes later, we all lie in savasana, which, as it turns out, is also known as corpse pose. Roger comes around the room and covers each of us with a blanket. I think of how Dad used to do this for Mom when she fell asleep in the living room watching TV. And about all the years Mom has lived without someone to cover her. Tears drip down the sides of my face in quiet streams.

After a few minutes, Roger invites us to sit up when we’re ready. He says, “Namaste,” with hands pressed together at his heart center. As other students roll up their mats and begin quiet movement, I sit up and wipe my face. Roger sits down in a perfect lotus in front of me.

“That happens often,” Roger says. “A reaction to the different postures. A release.”

I nod and feel a tight spot in my neck. I cup it with my hand and breathe into the pain. “From trying something new.”

“Or letting go of something old.”

I raise my eyebrow at him. “Don’t get all philosophical on me, Roger.”

He smiles.

“I love my dad,” I say.

“I know you do.” Roger stands.

I say, “And I love Mom too.”

He nods.

“I’m sorry.” I hope he knows I mean it. “I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting.”

He holds out a hand and helps me to my feet. “Thank you.”

I put my palms together and hold them at my heart. I smile and bow my head to him. “Namaste,” I whisper.

When I raise my head, Roger looks into my eyes. He moves his hands to his own heart and bows back to me.

Roger invites me to go to Mom’s house with him to meet her after church for breakfast, but I decide I don’t want Charlie to wake up alone. Roger agrees to tell Mom I’ll be over soon. Back at Brighton Brothers, I find Charlie just waking up. “Where’d you go?” he says, rubbing his eyes.

“I cried on a yoga mat.”

“I drooled on your pillow.” He wipes the side of his mouth. “Does that make us even?”

I laugh. “I think so.”

He smiles and sits up. His hair is huge, like it belongs on some mad scientist.

“Your hair is ridiculous,” I say. “And I love you.” I’m surprised how easily those words come out.

“My hair is ridiculous.” Charlie smiles even wider and says, just as easily, “And I love you too.”

I tell Charlie I hate to kick him out, but I’ve got business to attend to. He gets dressed, and I walk him out, successfully avoiding any awkward encounters with the Brighton family, who appear to be out for their Sunday morning breakfast.

I take a quick shower and change clothes. I head downstairs, car keys in hand, when I see Mom walking through the front door. I’m struck how it’s the middle of winter and how Mom looks just like springtime. She’s got on a new pink wool coat and has a blush in her cheeks, and her curly hair hangs loose and beautiful. She’s standing there, right by the door, where we stood together four years ago, dressed in black and surrounded by darkness. And I’m standing here, from a higher vantage point, seeing clearly that everything has changed.

“I was coming to see you.” I walk down the steps and stand across from her.

“Roger told me. I couldn’t wait. And I have something to tell you.”

“What is it?”

“I asked your brother to invite Selena to the wedding.”

“Really? Wow, Mom, that’s wow.”

“And she’s coming. She didn’t tell you?”

“I haven’t talked with her in a few weeks.”

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