Watch Me Disappear

ignoring me. When Maura awakes, the first thing she does is scold her mother for not waking her sooner so she could get ready. Then she begins rummaging through an enormous bohemian-style bag at her feet. In moments, using a small handheld mirror and unshaken by the motion of the car, she manages to put on a complete face of makeup. Out of the corner of my eye I watch as she blends foundation all over her face, pencils in her eyebrows, draws a dramatic line of charcoal around her eyes, sweeps not one but three colors across her eyelids, brushes mascara over her lashes, sucks in her cheeks to find the perfect placement of a rosy blush, and finishes with a swipe of gloss over her lips. I am surprised by just how much makeup she wears. I knew she owned a lot of makeup—I saw it in her room—but I hadn’t guessed (even seeing her without any makeup) that she wears so much at once. She instantly looks older, her face thinner, her cheekbones more pronounced.
    “Ma, do you have any gum?” she asks, when she’s happy with her look. Mrs. Morgan hands her a piece, and once she’s chomping away on that, she digs through her purse some more until she produces a brush, some hair clips, and a gauzy scarf. She moves around in the seat until she can see herself in the rearview mirror and arranges her hair into a messy pile on top of her head. Then she ties the scarf around her head to hide her greasy roots. She looks effortlessly lovely and fresh. I am so jealous I can barely keep myself from staring at her in disgust. My only small measure of comfort comes from the fact that since she woke, she’s ignored me completely.
    I cannot believe the dress Maura buys. It is a shiny silver thing with a deep-v neck that plunges to her belly button and deep-v back that plunges almost to her butt-crack. The material is so slinky you can see the shape of her belly button, and the hem—I assume this is the flapper connection—has several rows of fringe. She also buys strappy silver shoes that buckle at the ankle. She completes the outfit with gloves that come up above her elbows and a jaunty little hat with a white feather protruding from the side. I watch her posing in the dressing room mirror, pretending to bring a cigarette to her lips. Not satisfied with her appearance, she rummages through her purse and finds a tube of red lipstick. She’s right. The look is not complete without it. I have to give it to her—she looks like a 1920s starlet.
    Every now and then I catch a glimpse of my mother’s expression when she thinks no one is looking. I can tell she is appalled—I mean, the dress requires double-stick tape to remain in place. And then there is the expense; you would think she was buying her wedding dress. Meanwhile, every store we go in, I look for some place to sit down and spend much of the day yawning. At some point after lunch, when Maura moves on to back-to-school clothes, Mrs. Morgan realizes that I haven’t tried anything on yet. Maura’s dress bought and bagged, she turns her attention to me.
    The things she pulls off the racks! Maybe I should be flattered that she thinks I can pull off low-cut, clingy dresses, but honestly there is no way. Eventually, in a store called Upscale Consignment that Maura insists we check out, Mrs. Morgan produces a black sleeveless number that falls shapelessly to a drop-waist, with a ruffled skirt down to mid-calf. She also finds a sequin headband that I can wear flapper style. I feel like a little kid on Halloween as I pull it on. In it, my body is an undefined blob, but at least I can both sit and stand in it without fearing indecent exposure.
    “That’s cute,” Maura says, taking a turn at sitting outside the dressing room. Although it was her idea to check out the store, she got bored with it quickly. “I mean, it fits the theme really well.”
    I am surprised that she bothers to comment. “You think so?” I ask.
    “Mmm. Doesn’t do much for your figure, though.”
    I know she’s right but I don’t like hearing her say it.
    “And all that black washes you out,” she says, chewing on one of her cuticles and not looking at me at all. “Maybe if you had the right makeup. And some highlights in your hair.”
    The initial compliment just turned into the suggestion of a total makeover. I go into the dressing room to change.
    “Wait,” she says. She dips into her purse and comes up with a makeup bag. “Watch.” She instructs me to pout and paints some color onto my lips.