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.
Thank you though, I said. For the offer.
I’ll still need more time. To do the foundational stuff.
How long?
A few weeks, maybe. If not more. I’d really think about selling some of this stuff. I could take you to that antiques man downtown tomorrow. Buy you a month.
A month, I thought. I have to be back at work Sunday. Three days from now.
I’ll think about it, I said.
I thought he would leave, but he just kept standing there, so I said, What? It was rude. I heard the rudeness and winced at how Mother would have frowned. Tad didn’t notice.
I was just going to grab some dinner, he said. Did you, uh, want to join?
I looked at Tad’s face in the dark. Sandy hair. Eyes like the Pacific on the clearest day. Looking like he belonged on the screen of Grand-Maman’s old box television, her world of daytime soaps. More beautiful than any of my lovers apart from the twins. And can I tell you I saw it all? Saw it all, saw it all. The levity he would make me feel, briefly, over shared tacos at some outside hut. The beers we would sip in the palm tree–filled dark. The coolness bubbling crisply down my throat. The sense of rebellion. The brief escape from my own pain. Maybe I would cry. Actual tears, not Formula runoff. Maybe Tad would comfort me with some Zen philosophy quote. About how we are all drops in the river of time. How that river flows backward and forward. The sex we would likely have later in his apartment in Pacific Beach, on his futon. Surely he had a futon. The smell of Tad would be thick in the air, would be lovely. Beachy and young. How many times had Mother breathed it in greedily? From his neck. From his chest. The dolphin winking at her from his arm with each thrust. Hands gripping her white waist, her red hair. Hands that stroked her perfect face with such wonder at its—
No, I said. Not hungry. Thanks.
And Tad half smiled.
He left, closing the door so quietly it felt like a stroke of my hair.
And now here I am. Alone. Sitting in the dark, hands clutching Mother’s bowl. Staring at the red shoes glowing by the door. Which I won’t put on. Of course not.
* * *
One foot then the other on the dark path along the shore. First the path by the water, then the dirt path along the cliff’s edge. Tonight, it feels like the path I’ve walked all my life. The blackness is like an old friend. Lovely to hear the ocean roar, the grass hum and twitch. I’m whistling to myself as I click along. I’m at the spiked gates before I know it. They open for me again like they knew I was coming.
As I walk up the path to the house, the roses sway gently in the black breeze, seeming to nod their red heads in welcome. I feel such welcome. It’s good I came, I think. They were expecting me. Then I see the front doors are closed. No woman in a silver dress with eyes of smoke waiting there. Smiling at me and my red shoes.
I stare at the closed doors and my heart suddenly sinks. Someone important to Mother. Even if it is just a scheme, I need to meet this person. I knock. Nothing. Knock again. Nothing. I notice there’s a peephole in one of the doors. I try to look through. Black. But I feel an eye looking right back at me. An eye I don’t see so much as sense. And then the door opens.
* * *