Page 6 of Save Me
The laugh bubbles up and out of my throat before I can stop it. Maybe she’s right. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with my life. I don’t have enough sprinkles. “Whatever you say.” I pick her up, putting her down on the hardwood floor of the kitchen. “Go get changed. We want to drop these off at the fire station before they get cold.”
A possibly broken wrist doesn’t seem to stop her as she runs off to her room. Slowly, I follow behind, allowing her a little bit of independence. Independence has been so important to both of us. I wasn’t sure I’d have it after I lost my husband. The thought of it was almost scary back then—for a young girl trying to find her place in the world with a toddler who didn’t understand where her dad went.
Those were dark days. One minute I was a stay-at-home mother dabbling in art, the very next I was trying to make heads or tails of what his department life insurance offered us in terms of what we could live off of. His manner of death though—it wasn’t covered, and I was forced to make life-changing decisions. Some of those decisions left me with resentment toward him, and I’ve struggled. God, how I’ve struggled to forgive him, forgive myself. It’s taken years, but I’m finally on the path of forgiveness.
“Help me?” Rosa asks as she holds her dress up in front of her.
Pride makes me smile. She’s somehow gotten her shorts off and at least part of her shirt. This injury hasn’t gotten her down or made her afraid. For that, I am beyond thankful. “Come here, let’s make you beautiful.”
This dress is her favorite—one I made from scraps of fabric I found at a store going out of business. After he died, I wasn’t able to afford the Matilda Jane anymore. This is reminiscent of it, and it makes me happy to see her happy. That’s what I live for these days. Her smile makes me smile, makes my heart lighter, and is a physical representation that I’m doing a few things right.
She looks at herself in the floor-length mirror, turning around in a circle, letting the skirt billow in a cloud. “If I can wear my sparkly shoes, I’ll be ready to go,” she announces, turning her eyes to me.
“Those don’t really go with this dress, Rosa.”
“I don’t care.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest. “I want to wear my sparkly shoes when I say thank you.”
These days I’m learning to pick my battles, and perhaps this isn’t a battle I want to pick. If we can get out of the house without too much of an argument, I’ll take it. “Let me go get them for you.”
When I put them down in front of her, she slips her feet inside, squealing excitedly. It’s not often she’s this excited for anything. A little bit of it bleeds over to me, and I question if we can leave. “You ready?”
“Mom,” she pulls on my shirt with her good hand. “You can’t go wearing that.”
Glancing down at the workout tank and leggings I’m wearing, I groan. If anyone asks me—yes, I work out. If I’m being honest with myself, these are the clothes I wear now because they don’t show the weight losses or gains I have. The past few years have been a roller coaster of not only emotions but also clothing sizes. These clothes though? They’ve seen much better days. There’s a hole right in the crotch of these leggings, one I’ve been ignoring for far too long.
“Okay, give me a few minutes. Why don’t you go help Eve pack up the stuff, and I’ll change.”
Rosa nods, making for the door, but then she stops, turns around, and tilts her head at me. “Dress in something pretty, Mom.”
She walks toward the kitchen, leaving me alone with my thoughts and feelings. It’s been years since I cared how I looked. Slowly, I move to my room, dragging my feet in more ways than one. I can’t even remember the last time I wore makeup, the last time I fixed my hair. These days I do good to run a brush through it and put on moisturizer.
Closing my door quietly, I take a moment. Going over to the bed, I have a seat and quietly open the bedside table. There, staring back at me, is the woman I used to be. She smiled, she had life in her eyes. She loved to do things with her hair and try new makeup looks. You’d never find her without her nails done and earrings in her three holes on each ear. Not to say I was high maintenance. I did my nails on my own—I loved it and enjoyed it. I always wanted to look good for my husband. When he wouldcome up behind me, put his arms around my waist, and growl in my ear? That was the best. I knew I’d turned him on, and I loved doing it. It was a point of pride, that I looked good when I was on his arm.
Then everything changed.
“Well, Amy, maybe it’s time for everything to change again.” I trace the image of myself in the old picture. I remember her—she had so much fun, so much confidence, and I miss her. She loved to go out, be loud, and laugh so hard her sides hurt. Tears streak below my eyes, and I’m wiping them away before I take a deep breath. Putting the picture back in the drawer, I square my shoulders. With purpose, I walk to my closet, not knowing what the hell I’m going to find, but wondering if maybe it’ll eventually lead me to another life.
Pulling open the door, I find a dress I bought a few years ago. It’s only been worn a handful of times, so it’s kept its shape and the color hasn’t faded in the least. It’s flattering—that I know. I got asked out on a date while wearing it the last time. Mind made up, I head to the bathroom attached to my room.
I have very little makeup, but what I do have, I know how to use. Back in the day, before life got the best of me, I’d wanted to put my artistry into makeup. Almost every day of the week I did a friend’s face and fixed their hair, but truthfully my love was makeup. Contouring and shading were just like what I did with my paints. The canvas was the faces of myself and my friends. Bold, sultry, girl-next-door—whatever they wanted, I could do. There wasn’t a look I couldn’t help them achieve. It was satisfying, and I loved the smile and confidence they had when I was done with them.
As I pick up and hold a bottle of foundation, I test the weight in my hand. It’s heavier than I remember. Rolling it between my palms, I pump a small amount on the back of my hand, grabbing one of the brushes I haven’t used in years to scoop up some of it.That’s where I freeze, holding the brush over the liquid. I wonder if I still have it.
And as I start, mixing a bit of concealer to change the color slightly, part of me realizes it never left.
“Mom, I wish you had curled my hair like yours. I don’t like the braid,” Rosa complains from where she sits in her car seat behind me.
Little miss has a few more pounds to gain, and then she’ll be through with the booster seat. “What? You love braids.” I check my blind spot, hand shaking as I signal I’m turning into the fire station.
It hadn’t been hard to find it. Midnight Cove only has two, and this is the only one with an EMT unit attached to it. There’s an empty spot next to a van, we park, and I give myself another pep talk. Getting out, I make double sure nothing inappropriate is showing before walking around to the passenger-side back door, helping Rosa to get out. When she’s down on the ground, I reach in to get our goodies, feeling good about the decision I’ve made.
“Mom, Eve says we shouldn’t park next to vans. That’s how serial killers get their victims.”
Eve strikes again. Her love of True Crime is rubbing off on my daughter, and while I’m glad she’s suspicious of most people, I also want her to remain innocent for as long as possible. Everyone isn’t a serial killer, and it’s important she knows the difference.
“Oh my God.” I sigh. “You’ve got to stop spending so much time with Eve. She thinks everybody is two wrong turns from getting murdered by a serial killer.”
“You know, she’s probably not wrong.”
