Page 33 of Good Days Bad Days
“You look lovely,” I reassure Betty, crossing to the sink. Steam rises from the faucet, the hot water turned on full blast. I imagine her thin, fragile skin assaulted by the heated stream pouring out of the spout and move quickly to turn the temperature down.
“Here, let me help,” I say, rubbing the soap against the washcloth until suds appear. Betty closes her eyes and tilts her face to me. It’s the same face from those photographs, but now it looks like the image has been distorted, melted, or altered with a filter. Wrinkles, yes, at her eyes, around her mouth, across her forehead, and at her neck. I trace them all with the cloth, wiping off the black liner, blue shadow, orange-tinted base, and electric pink blush until her skin is fresh and pink.
“There—all clean.” I pass her a dry towel, and she drapes it over her face.
“Peekaboo,” she says, yanking it off like we’re playing a game, her urgent need to get to work on time forgotten. Her age-bleached eyes are a silvery blue, nearly as gray as her black-and-white headshot. They twinkle with mischief, and I remember when I was little, we’d go to the blueberry patch in Woodstock, just over the border in Illinois. My mom used to make preserves to sell at the shop, and I’d help her pick whatever fruit was in season.
Blueberries were my favorite, the bushes low enough to the ground for me to reach. I loved the plunk, plunk, plunk of the juicy blue globes as they hit the bottom of the bucket my mom tied around my waist. When she filled her own bucket, she’d take aim, and I’d hold perfectly still while she tossed a few perfectly ripe berries into my collection. We were a team. We’d laugh when she’d miss or when she’d catch me gobbling down a secret snack.
“What happened to you?” I whisper to myself as Betty once again applies the towel to her face and pulls it off playfully. She must hear me because she stops her little game and raises her nearly invisible eyebrows.
“What do you mean? Is there something wrong with me?” She touches her face, her neck, leans over to check the mirror again, gasping. “My makeup. It’s gone ...”
“Oh, shhh. It’s OK. I can do it for you.” I beckon her to the green chair by the window. As I gather the scattered beauty supplies from her nightstand, I remember the headshot. “I have something for you.”
I place the print in front of her, hoping for another distraction, moving the smaller, plastic visitor’s chair into position so I can reapply her makeup. Betty picks up the image and stares at it, the photo paper trembling in her creased fingers.
“Who is this?” she asks.
“It’s you,” I say, arranging the tubes of makeup on the tray.
“Me?” She checks the picture again. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. It’s you. Betty Laramie.”
“Oh, yes. Yes,” she says like a thought is coming back to her. “I’m supposed to sign them, I think.” Then, looking confused, she lets the picture fall into her lap. “I think I’ll do it later.”
Bare faced and anxious, she seems overwhelmed at her fictional work demands. A ripple of compassion rolls through my conscience. I set the headshot aside and pick up the liquid concealer.
“Hey, Betty? Let’s not worry about that now. We’ve got more important things to think about. Still want me to fix your makeup?” She looks up at me with trust I’ve never received from my mother.
“Oh, yes. Please. I can’t show up like this. Less liner this time,” she says as if I’m her makeup artist. She closes her eyes while I apply the concealer and pat it into an even coat under her eyes. Her breath is steady and calming as I apply a light-colored foundation with a fresh sponge wedge, placing dots of makeup across her crepey skin and blending them into a uniform base.
I work silently, my mom’s record player still running in the background. Asking questions now wouldn’t do any good. Besides, this is different than any of my other fact-finding missions. I thought this kind of synchronicity with my mother was beyond my reach. But isn’t this how it’s supposed to be? A mother sharing with her daughter, and the daughter caring for her mother? The service she is allowing me toprovide fills some of the battery inside of me that’s been out of energy for so long.
My mother can’t love me, but it’s possible Betty can.
“Did you want one? A headshot, I mean?” Betty asks out of nowhere when I finish lining her right eye.
“I ... I’d love one,” I start the second line of black eye makeup, surprised that she’s returned to the previous topic of conversation without my interference.
“I’ll make sure my producer gets you one before you leave.”
Producer?I hesitate as I reach for the blush compact. It’s a job title I’m familiar with in my profession. She must have been on-air talent. I wasn’t going to push for more, but if she’s initiating, I’d be a fool to pass on the opportunity.
“What kind of a producer?” I ask, acting casual, fluffing a dusting of pink on her high, defined cheekbones.
“Stop messing around with silly questions,” she scolds, opening her eyes. “We can talk shop later at Ike’s.”
“Ike? Is that your boss?” I apply mascara to her translucent lashes.
“Is that a joke?” Betty asks, blinking rapidly, the lines between her brows deepening. “You know Ike’s Diner. Jeez Louise. Call is in five minutes. Pass the red lipstick, please, hon.” I snag the silver tube and place it in her waiting palm, taking note of the information.
She applies the color with three deft swipes, her muscle memory more precise than her mind. She presses her lips together to distribute the creamy red tint and smiles at her reflection. She looks confident and beautiful.
Why didn’t I grow up with this version of my mother?
Tears tingle at the corners of my eyes and I snap up a tissue, turning my face to dry them without giving myself away to Betty.
