arah lies curled up on her down feather comforter,
her arms hugging her knees, her face buried in her husband William’s
pillow. She is wearing her yellow terry cloth robe, the one she
only wears when William isn’t home, the only thing that Sarah
can remember picking out for herself. She doesn’t know what
time it is or even what day, as each day is the same as the last,
each hour a silent repetition of motion.
Sarah turns her head on William’s pillow, her damp hair
clinging to her face like strands of silk. Lisa, her six year
old daughter, is prancing around the room in Sarah’s black
cocktail dress, the spaghetti straps dangling against her tiny
pink nipples, the hem brushing the floor. Lisa has on Sarah’s
black velvet pumps, and the thin heels click on the polished
hardwood floor as she twirls around and around in front of Sarah’s
full length mirror. Lisa has been playing in Sarah’s makeup,
and her eyes glow Seductive Blue, Hot Tango on her cheeks. Sarah
watches silently from the bed as her daughter shakes her hips,
touches her imaginary hair, blows Crimson Passion kisses at her
reflection.
Sarah remembers as a child playing dress up in her mother’s
clothes. She remembers the softness of her mother’s satin
robe, the snap of her mother’s gold earrings as she clamped
them on her ears, the smell of rose petals and powder. She remembers
her mother laughing when she walked in and saw Sarah playing
her, that high, airless laugh that Sarah hears even now. Sarah
remembers her mother sitting down at her dressing table, readjusting
the floppy white hat on Sarah’s head, telling her that
she was going to have to practice very, very hard. Sarah remembers
looking at her reflection in the mirror, her face chubby and
freckled, her mother’s perfect skin shining behind her.
Sarah has been practicing every day since. She gets all of
the fashion magazines, has had silicone implanted, works out
every day at the gym. She has her hair colored, her legs waxed,
monthly facials and manicures. She goes to bed every night with
Retinol, and wakes up every morning an hour before William to
get ready. The other mothers at Lisa’s school ask Sarah
how she stays so young looking, the fathers stare at her and
smile.
Sarah slowly sits up in her bed. She watches as Lisa picks
up a pair of William’s gym socks and puts it under the
spaghetti straps, smiling at the improvement. Sarah can see herself
behind Lisa in the mirror, her hair already starting to tangle,
tiny lines on her face glaring in the artificial light. Her eyes
go from Lisa’s reflection to her own, and then back to
Lisa’s.
Suddenly Sarah wants to pick up Lisa, scrub her face, take
off the dress and heels and wrap her in her terry cloth robe.
She wants to scatter the eyeshadow across the floor, flush the
rouge, throw the lipstick so far out of the window that it lands
on her perfectly cut lawn. She wants to yodel at the top of her
lungs, turn cartwheels across the floor, dance naked with Lisa
in front of the mirror. She scoots to the edge of the bed, her
bare feet touching the floor, her heart beating loudly in her
ears.
The low hum of William’s Land Cruiser cuts into the afternoon,
interrupting Sarah’s thoughts. Her feet stop on the floor.
Lisa turns to her and flashes red lips and tiny teeth, pink circles
balancing on her cheeks.
Sarah stands up slowly as Lisa runs out of the room and down
the stairs, “Daddy, Daddy” echoing through the house.
Sarah’s robe falls silently to the floor as the front door
opens and she hears the liquid sound of William calling her name.
She picks up the lipstick, sits down on the floor, and carefully
opens the top, Crimson Passion rising out of the tube. She takes
one more look at the mirror, presses the lipstick against the
glass, and draws her name over and over again in big loopy letters.
[END]
© 2005 Paula M Morell - Contributor's
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