Rouge(31)

We know so much about you, the twins said. And that shudder I felt. Deep in the pit of me. What do you know?

All a scam, surely.

Sylvia’s long gone. Left in a huff after I told her I’d think about her offer. From the door, I told her again. I told her thank you, and she waved back at me like she was batting away a fly. Tad’s just left too, after a day of handymanning around the apartment. This is so satisfying, I heard him whisper to the walls, running his hands over them lightly.

Today, I did some things myself. Didn’t I?

No. There’s still just the open box sitting there in the middle of the room. Anjelica’s sleeping in a sea of dolls, eyes opening and closing. All day I ignored the endless ringing of my phone. First, Chaz wondering if I’d made a decision about selling the house, if he could bring in a real estate agent later today or tomorrow? Then my boss, Persephone from Damsels, checking in. She was looking forward to seeing me for my Sunday-afternoon shift, to hearing how I was doing, too, of course. We’re all here for you, she lied. Then the funeral director called. Mother’s ashes were ready to be picked up. Whenever I was ready.

I did an extended version of my morning skin routine to make up for the fact that I had somehow, unbelievably, missed my evening routine the night before. The morning ritual is all about protection. Each morning we must arm ourselves, Marva says, against the many free radicals and pollutants that assail the air, leaving their unsightly oxidizing marks on our epidermis, that most porous of membranes between our souls and the world. After Sylvia left, I went into Mother’s bathroom and triple cleansed, then doused myself with a copious amount of snail slime. I then used my NuuFace followed by my MasknGLO. Then ten skins of a green tea, algae, and rice essence for much-needed hydration and luminosity. Then an antioxidant serum specifically targeted toward my free radicals, followed by the Lumière Pigment Lightening Correxion Concentrate because an even skin tone is next to godliness. Then the Alchemie Liquid Lift followed by the Brightening Caviar for Radiance, followed (of course) by the Diamond-Infused Revitalizing Eye Formula. I misted diligently between skins with the rosewater and birch milk Moon Juice to create what Marva calls a moisture mille-feuille. I then anointed myself with the Marine Collagen Regenerating Day Soufflé using her patented seventeen-dot technique. The Day Soufflé not only brightens, firms, and plumps, but seals in the hydrating Moon Juice skins, preventing any transepidermal water loss. I patted it in with the recommended upward, counterclockwise strokes. Like an overcoat for the skin, Marva says of the Day Soufflé, and I have always loved this idea. And then of course the most crucial step, an overcoat for the overcoat: Glowscreen, physical and chemical. I applied both in Mother’s unlit bathroom, staring at the dark outline of my reflection, repeating the seventeen-dot technique, which works so well for the Day Soufflé. Why don’t you turn on the fucking light at least, Mother might have said if she’d caught me. So you can see what you’re doing to yourself? I’d turn to find her standing there in the doorway. Morning cigarette in hand, flawless face watching me as if to say, This is my daughter? This is mine?

I can see fine, Mother, I’d say.

And Mother would look at the jar clutched tightly in my hand. I’m not so sure about that. She’d walk up to me then. Place her hands on either side of my overcoated face, drenched and sticky with skins. Her cigarette smoke coiled around both of our heads like a gray fog. You know you don’t need any of this shit. You do know that, right? I’ve told you. Her voice was soft and hard at the same time, like it was gently shaking me. It made a dark shame unfurl. Anger rose like a wave. Were we not, after all, surrounded by her own sea of skin products? Her many jars and vials? Was she not the pot calling the kettle black? But I just stared past her at my own reflection. You’ve told me.

She was leaving the bathroom when I called out. What about you, Mother?

Me? she said, like the word was a dark joke. I’m another story.

Later, I’d find a jar of the Day Soufflé on her bathroom counter, of course.



* * *




By the time I finished my morning routine, it was early evening. I sat on Mother’s red couch and watched Marva until my eyes watered. Her Come to Bed with Me series, where she sits in a silk teddy talking about skincare ingredients like lovers. I watched “Acids Part One,” and then “Acids Part Two.” I watched “What I’m Doing about My Hyperpigmentation,” where Marva solemnly points to various “dark” spots on her forehead and cheeks that I can’t see, that just look like more expanses of white cream. Staying on top of it is key, she says. A multipronged approach is always best. I watched “My Tretinoin Journey.” “After One Year.” “After Two Years.” “After Five.” I watched a hand vigorously rubbing cream into a cheek. Finger pads dotting oil over eyelids fluttery with hope. Marva sniffing rapturously from an open vial of marula oil. Then a voice was calling my name. Again and again. Belle. Belle?

I looked up from my screen. Tad. Standing in the darkened living room in his biker jacket. Holding a hammer in his fist like Thor. Behind him the sky was black. Done for the day, he said.

Great, I heard myself say. Thank you.

He looked down at the open box full of dolls on which the cat was sleeping. Tomorrow I can get some more people in. Help you pack.

I can manage, I said.

For a while he just stood there looking at the box. Then he glanced at me, café au lait bowl full of prosecco gripped tightly in my hand.