Hope in a Jar

by Beth Harbison

  “Queen Helene’s Mint Julep Masque?”

  Olivia nodded. “That’s it.”

  “Oh, my God, did you know they still make it?” Allie was clearly thrilled by this revelation. “I bought some at Bed Bath and Beyond the other day. I couldn’t believe they had it.”

  “Chuck it.”

  “What? Are you kidding?”

  “Nope. You’re moving on.”

  “To what?”

  “The good stuff.” Olivia opened the door and flipped on the lights, illuminating her large corner office.

  “But I love that green stuff! It’s pretty good.”

  “Follow me.” She led Allie to an alcove in the office, which had shelves stacked with products to sample.

  Allie’s eyes widened as she walked in. “Oh.”

  “Exactly.”

  “This is incredible,” Allie breathed, looking around like a kid at Disney World for the first time. “If I’m Cinderella today, this is the castle.”

  She still didn’t quite get that she was Cinderella today. After her visit to the salon, Olivia had had her assistant take Allie down to the sample room to pick out some more figure-flattering clothes. Allie had lost a good chunk of weight, but she hadn’t bothered to dress like it. Not everything in the sample room had fit, fashion being what it was, but there was enough good stuff to boost Allie’s self-esteem.

  “Now that you’re old,” Olivia said, tongue in cheek, “those cheap masks will dry out your skin and make you look like Grannie on The Beverly Hillbillies instead of Ellie May.”

  Allie’s face fell. “Really?”

  “Not to worry.” Olivia went to the shelf and took out glycolic acid dermabrasion pads. “This is ten thousand times more effective and not nearly as painful. In fact, it’s not painful at all.” She handed the jar to Allie. “They look like Stridex pads, but they are so much better. Rub one on your face and neck, wait five minutes, and rinse.”

  “And?”

  “And behold a miracle. At least if you do it a couple of times a week, and stay out of the sun, and drink lots of water, and do everything else I tell you to.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Allie unscrewed the top and took out a pad. “Just rub it on?”

  Olivia nodded. “Rub it on.” She went to the shelves and took down some more products. This was much more fun than when she’d done the same thing for her mom, partly because Allie was so much more interested in it.

  But also, Allie was young. Olivia knew this, even though they were the same age and sometimes she felt as if she were a hundred, particularly in a business in which models over the age of twenty-two were regarded as old, crippled football players.

  “Now what?”

  “Now wait.”

  Allie sat back on a secretarial chair Olivia had brought over to the product closet. “So this is your office, huh? Pretty nice digs.”

  Olivia nodded. “It’ll do.”

  “I bet there are hundreds of people working here who would claw you to death if they heard you talking like that.”

  “You’re right.”

  “So why don’t you seem happier about it?”

  “I’m happy,” Olivia said, but the words stuck in her throat. It wasn’t a lie, really. Not a big lie. It was just . . . She sighed and amended, “I’m not unhappy.”

  “But you should be happy,” Allie said. “Everyone should be, but especially someone who seems to have the world in the palm of her hand. What’s missing for you?”

  “Nothing’s missing! When did you become a psychologist?”

  “Actually, Liv, you haven’t changed so much that I can’t read you anymore. There’s something you’re not saying, so you can either spit it out or we can chitchat about your view.”

  Olivia sank down into the chair opposite Allie’s. “You’re right, there’s something missing.”

  “What is it?”

  Olivia met her eyes. “I don’t know. Do you want some wine?”

  Allie looked surprised. “Is there a bar in here, too?”

  “Sort of.” Olivia opened a drawer and took out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne that had a red bow tied around the neck. “The editors of French Elle are always sending this stuff and I’m always squirreling it away for a special occasion. I’d say this qualifies, wouldn’t you?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “I’m going to get ice. Could you open this?” She handed it over to Allie and went to the break room and filled a Tupperware container someone had left behind with ice. She also grabbed two tumblers.

  When she got back, Allie had gotten out the coffee machine.

  “Do you prefer coffee?”

  “No, it’s a little trick I learned in college.” Allie took the ice, put it in the basket of the coffeemaker, and poured the champagne over it slowly. Then she took the carafe out and held it up. “Voilà! Cold champagne! The French would never approve, of course, but I can’t tell much difference.”

  “Perfect.” Olivia poured the champagne into the tumblers and handed one to Allie. “Cheers. Now go wash your face.”

  Allie took a sip of the wine, then dutifully went to the sink and rinsed her face, blotting afterward with paper towels.

  “Now, moisturizer.” Olivia took out her own container of Philosophy’s Hope in a Jar. “This is the best.”

  “The Oprah stuff.”

  “That’s it.” She handed Allie the little white jar with plain black type. “But forget Oprah. It works on everyone. Have you used it before?”

  Allie scoffed. “If they don’t have it at CVS, I haven’t used it.”

  Olivia sighed. “So much educating to do, so little time.”

  They clinked their glasses again and Olivia ushered Allie back to her chair. “Now—makeup. My favorite part.”

  “You know, it’s really ironic that now you’re the makeup expert and I’m the rube.”

  “You’re not a rube.”

  “Oh, yes.” Allie looked around at the embarrassment of wealth Olivia had in the form of costly cosmetics, creams, potions, and supplements. “Yes, I am. I can’t even pronounce half this stuff and it’s not because it’s foreign. It’s all science these days. Money and science.”

  Olivia nodded. “So you can see how they lured me in.”

  Allie gave a shout of laughter. “Oh, my God, you’re right! You were always the science and math girl!”

  It was true, she had been. The more straightforward, the better. Olivia had never wanted to be creative, or to think too much, or delve into her innermost thoughts. That was painful. English composition had been a nightmare. But math and science had always been her friends.

  “I still am,” she said, brushing mineral foundation over Allie’s still perfect skin.

  “It seems to have served you well.” Allie drank from her glass.

  Olivia paused to do the same. The champagne was tickling down her throat, warming her inside. Loosening some of the internal ties that bound her. “This is nice,” she said. “I’m glad you came.”

  “Are you kidding? This is fabulous! But I still don’t know why you suddenly wanted to give me a makeover. This isn’t some sort of hidden-camera thing for the magazine, is it?”

  “Oh, God no. I would never ambush you like that. This is just for fun.” But she had her reasons, all right. Allie needed the confidence to go for what was really important to her: Noah. And Olivia still knew enough about Allie to know that confidence was the thing that was keeping her from going for it.

  So Olivia went on, touching her cheeks with blush, lining her eyes with the perfect complementary colors, shading them to enhance the nice shape that had always been there. It was easy to put makeup on Allie because her face, the canvas, was so good.

  Though Allie never would have believed it.

  Finally, she took out mascara. “Look up.”

  Allie did. “What kind is it?”

  “Lancôme. It’s the only one you can cry in and just wipe it off instead of looking like a raccoon. Look down.”


  Allie did. “Thank God I can cry safely now.”

  “I don’t think you’re going to want to.” Olivia brushed on a few more swipes, then stepped back and said, “Okay, take a look.”

  Allie looked into the mirror and broke into a wide smile. “Damn, Liv, you are good!” She squinted and scrutinized her image, turning from side to side, checking it out. “I can’t believe what you’ve done.” She looked at Olivia. “You have to move in with me!”

  “I’m not going back to D.C.!” Olivia laughed.

  “Then I’m moving in with you.” She looked back into the mirror. “You’ve performed a miracle.”

  “No I didn’t. Everything you’re looking at was already there. I barely had to put any makeup on you at all.”

  Allie rolled her eyes. “That is so untrue.”

  “It’s not untrue at all.” Olivia sat down and poured more champagne into each of their glasses. “Let me tell you a little secret I’ve learned from years of being in this industry: There are no miracles. Sure, you can use stuff that will make your skin look and feel worse, and there’s certainly stuff that can make your skin look and feel better.”

  Allie touched her cheek. “Clearly.”

  “Yes. But what you’re looking at in the mirror is you. Right? It’s you.”

  “It’s Ideal Me.”

  “Well, that’s what everyone wants, isn’t it? Even these people who go out and have their noses shaved down to pencil erasers, and who get implants, and fillers, and who Botox their faces into immobility, they’re all in search of the miracle that’s going to make them feel like . . .” She searched for the word. “Like themselves.”

  “That’s right!” Allie gasped. “That’s exactly it! I don’t go out looking for products that will make me look young or like some perfect ideal, I just keep buying the fantasy, hoping I’ll end up feeling comfortable in my own skin.”

  “That’s exactly it. So keep your skin at its best, use the things that help and don’t hurt, but accept yourself all along the way.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  Olivia nodded. “I know. All the good stuff takes work.”

  Allie looked at the shelves full of products. “So the What Now senior beauty editor says there is no real Hope in a Jar.”

  “Not other than that.” She gestured at the table in front of the mirror. “The hope has to be in you.”

  They were silent for a moment.

  “That’s really corny,” Allie said at last.

  “I know! But true.”

  “Definitely true.”

  “So let’s talk about what you’re going to do when you get home.”

  “Uh-oh. Are you up to something?”

  “Me?” Olivia put a hand to her chest. “Of course not! But I do have an idea . . .”

  “What?”

  “Go see Noah. Tell him how you feel. Wrestle him away from Vickie’s clutches.”

  “This was an ambush!”

  “You know you want to.”

  Allie didn’t answer.

  “I know you want to, too,” Olivia added.

  “What if he rejects me?”

  “He won’t.”

  “Okay, you think he won’t. So humor me. What if he does?”

  Olivia thought about it. “If he did, which he wouldn’t, you would dust yourself off and move on, knowing you had done your best. Knowing you’d been true to yourself.”

  Allie was silent for a moment. “Eventually I suppose that would feel better than never having tried.”

  “You would,” Olivia said, with feeling. “Honestly. You’re in a rut, Al, you’ve told me so yourself. You’re not satisfied with your life, your job, or your love life. It’s time for a change.”

  Allie lifted an eyebrow. “What are you proposing?”

  “I don’t know. A makeover. Change your look, change your life.” Olivia thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “Yes. That’s it. A person doesn’t need to tackle everything all at once in order to push the dominoes over to start change going.”

  Allie laughed. “When did you get so philosophical?”

  “I don’t know. It’s come on me rather suddenly lately. I’m kind of scaring myself.”

  “Afraid you might have to turn the microscope inward?” Allie laughed.

  Olivia laughed, too, but the truth was, that was exactly what she was afraid of. “Let’s stick to one basket case at a time, okay? What do you say to a little change?”

  Twenty

  Twelfth Grade

  I told two friends and they told two friends

  and so on and so on and so on and so on . . .

  —ad for Fabergé Organics Wheat Germ Oil and Honey Shampoo

  Olivia hated the winters here in Washington.

  Springs were beautiful, with cherry blossoms and azaleas; summers were all blue skies and pool weather; autumns came alive with red leaves and golden sunsets; but winters—that deadly stretch from January to April—were relentlessly gray and damp and bone-chillingly cold. It always seemed to be cloudy and there was a lot of miserable coastal rain but it never seemed to snow.

  Even Norman Rockwell couldn’t have done anything with a Washington, D.C., winter.

  So by the middle of January this year, Olivia was already feeling desperate. For what, she couldn’t say. She never could. Sun, warmth, blue sky, maybe all of that.

  Hope.

  That was the thing. She was without hope.

  Everyone else was talking about college, visiting colleges, getting their applications in and their results back. But Olivia’s mother was short on resources, and there wasn’t a chance that Donald was going to kick in, so Olivia was facing nothing more than Montgomery Community College.

  Allie was going to Rutgers, as her father had.

  “It’s close,” Allie had assured Olivia. “I’ll be back all the time. And maybe you can even get a scholarship or a grant or something and go there, too!”

  But Olivia’s ambition wasn’t to follow Allie to New Jersey any more than it was to stay here and go to junior college.

  Olivia’s ambitions, though she had only a slippery grasp on them at this point, were to pack a backpack, get a Eurail Pass, and travel around Europe for a few months, taking pictures.

  She’d found she was pretty good at photography, actually. By the time her guidance counselor had figured out that she needed to take another elective instead of another math, photography had been one of the only faintly appealing classes left, so Olivia had signed up only to find that she liked it.

  Now she loved the idea of recording slices of life with her camera and maybe selling them to magazines or newspapers. Someday maybe she could even do her own book of photos or a show at one of the galleries downtown.

  Someday maybe she could even do her own book of photos or a show at one of the galleries downtown.

  Meanwhile, it was the perfect excuse to, as Donald disdainfully put it, “bum around Europe.”

  However, once Donald had proclaimed that to be a stupid idea, Olivia’s mother had mindlessly agreed, so Olivia was stuck here, going to MC until . . . what?

  Until she got a job and earned enough money to make her own choices, she supposed.

  This was what she was thinking about every night, including January 20. She’d had dinner with Donald and her mother, done her homework, and gone upstairs to call Allie as usual.

  Around nine o’clock she heard her mother and Donald bickering downstairs. She couldn’t tell what it was about, but she didn’t care. This seemed to happen all the time lately. And as usual, around nine-thirty, her mother came up the stairs and walked down the creaking hallway to her bedroom.

  Around ten, Olivia had finally given up trying to keep her wandering mind on a book, so she turned out the lights and lay in the dark, hoping for sleep to come.

  It took ages. She felt like she tossed and turned and looked at the clock every five minutes. Now and then she drifted off but then she’d wake again, agitated.

 
Finally, shortly after one-thirty A.M., she decided to go downstairs and make a cup of hot chocolate or hot milk or maybe some chamomile tea. Anything that might help relax her.

  She went out into the chilly hallway and made her way down the stairs in the dark so the light didn’t wake her mother and Donald. When she got to the bottom of the steps, the house lights and streetlights coming through the window provided enough light for her to get to the kitchen, where she turned on the light. Flicker, the bird, stirred in his cage but didn’t squawk, thank God.

  She took a mug out of the cabinet, filled it with water, and put it in the micro wave and waited for it to heat.

  At first she didn’t take any notice of the reflection in the micro wave door because the light was on, but when the timer went off and the oven went dark, she could see, with crystal clarity, that Donald was standing in the kitchen behind her.

  It was hard to say what instinct guided her to pretend she didn’t notice him, but that’s what she did, rifling through the cabinet, looking for a tea bag, opening it with great deliberation, then dunking it in the water.

  When she finally couldn’t think of anything else to do that would require her to keep her back to him, she turned around and pretended to be surprised.

  “Oh! Donald! I didn’t know you were there.”

  “I’ve been watching you.” His words were slightly slurred.

  That was no surprise. He’d been drinking a lot in the past year. When they’d first moved in, he didn’t drink at all, but now Olivia was positive he was an alcoholic.

  But he rarely reached the point of slurring.

  “Sorry if I bothered you,” she said, trying to keep her voice normal. “I’m just going up to bed now.” She moved forward, keeping her eyes on the tea, dreading the moment when she’d have to pass him in order to get through the door and bolt upstairs.

  Sure enough, as soon as she got within an arm’s reach, he grabbed her arm, shaking the hot tea onto her and himself.

  Olivia recoiled, both from his touch and the scalding liquid.

  “Let go!” She wrenched her arm free, but he was fast, and grabbed her again.