Lipstick Apology

by Jennifer Jabaley

  I grabbed the books, clutched them to my chest, and raced off to my bedroom. As I skimmed through the black-inked pages, I had the strongest feeling of déjà vu. It was a feeling of fear deep in the pit of my stomach I had only experienced once before, on a summer trip to Hershey Park. On that day I was strapped into the hot, black seat of the Storm Runner roller coaster. As the coaster started its wobbly ascent, my legs dangled in the still summer air and my heart quickened to a steady beat. With the slow rickety buildup of suspense, my stomach clenched and my breath shortened until the coaster suddenly reached the peak, tilted slightly forward, then sat motionless for what seemed like an eternity. I teetered eighteen stories high in the air with the seamless blue sky fading into to the miles of green Pennsylvania landscape. My head spun with anticipation and fear. I knew that I couldn’t stay at the top forever, because just like Newton says, all things that go up must come down.

  That’s how I felt on that blustery Saturday night as I flipped each scribbled page of Mom’s diaries. Suspended. Caught between the before and after.

  And just like on that roller-coaster ride so many years ago, I came crashing down.

  Words filled my eyes.

  Terrible words, like: Affair . . . Daniel . . . Guilt . . . Guilt . . . Guilt.

  And just when I thought I wanted to cover my eyes and bury my head, it got worse: Pregnant . . . Not sure . . . I count the days . . . I think it’s Daniel’s . . . I can’t tell Mark . . .

  LIFE IS DEEPLY UNFAIR. It took real talent to make my life even more tragic. But there I was, not just an orphan, but a bastard child. I was so mad at my mother. I was angry at Jolie. I had no idea how to process this new information. I had a hard enough time with death. Now, to discover my mother forever questioned my paternity—it made dead parents seem positively trivial.

  I wanted to call Georgia, but she was on a ship in Hawaii.

  I wanted to call Lindsey, but she was at her grandmother’s house in Westchester.

  I wanted to pick up my phone and speed dial the Big Guy and have a conference call with him and my mother. I’d like to tell them both: This is so not fair.

  Instead, I picked up the lipstick necklace and with all my strength yanked the chain until the clasp gave way and popped open. The lipstick charm flung off the necklace and bounced against the bedroom wall with a ping. I cried hysterically as I grabbed a pair of tweezers off my bathroom counter. I picked up the charm off the floor and with the tweezers I dug and ground until the little round diamond at the base of the tube was flung out of its setting. Then I collapsed into a puddle and cried.

  I woke up in the middle of the night, disoriented, sleeping on the floor. I was eye level with the stack of twelve unused canvases, and I thought about my dad and his ten pairs of sunglasses. I wondered if hording was inherited or a learned habit.

  I turned on the light and walked over to my bookcase. I examined a photograph of my dad. I didn’t have his strong jaw, his golden brown eyes, or his slightly crooked nose.

  I thought back to biology class. We learned that earlobes reveal a lot about genetics. Some people have lobes that dangle, while others have lobes that attach directly to the jawline. I turned on my desk lamp and squinted at the picture, bringing it closer to my face. I still couldn’t make out whether his earlobes dangled like mine. Why had I never paid attention to my dad’s earlobes?! I threw the picture on the ground. My mom’s mega-smile beamed at me from the carpet. How could she smile?! Knowing she was a cheater and a liar!How dare she put on a Carol Brady perfect mother image for sixteen years when deep down she was an evil, evil woman.

  The guilt shot through me instantly. My mom was always so good to me.

  How can you be so mad at someone you love?

  I took the picture of my parents and tore it straight down the middle, separating my parents from their embrace. There, I thought, you don’t deserve to be in his arms. I took my mom’s side of the picture and tore it in half. I tore those pieces in half again, dropping the torn remains of my mother’s face on the carpet like a cloud of confetti. Then I fell on the beige carpet, buried my face in the remains of my photograph, and cried.

  The next morning there was a chipper message on the answering machine. Just wanted to let you know I’m staying the night here in one of the guest rooms. The party was great. Be home tomorrow!

  The sound of her voice, so carefree and guiltless, drove a stake through my heart. I turned and ran down the hall to her office. I headed straight for the vanity and started grabbing anything I could find. I threw pots of blush and powder, the fine debris puffing up into the air. I smashed bottles of liquid foundation, staining the carpet different shades of flesh. Finally I took every single tube of lipstick and pelted them out the window, not caring if there were pedestrians below.

  An hour later, I walked to the living room, leaving her studio in disarray. I planted myself on the couch and flipped around the stations on the TV. When Harry Met Sally was playing on a movie channel. I pulled the afghan up to my neck. I watched Harry and Sally fumble through years of friendship and fights. It was hard to believe it wasn’t so long ago when Jolie, Trent, Lindsey, and I watched this movie, laughing and dissecting the wardrobe and hair choices. That was back when my life was just about death and dying, I thought sarcastically. I remembered that day Anthony and I sat in the park and talked about the movie. I had just read the card about Mom’s first date with “D”—Daniel, I now knew. Anthony had cautioned me against searching for answers. It’s almost like he knew there was a secret destined to destroy me. He wanted to spare me.

  I watched the dramatic climax of the movie, when Harry had an epiphany and suddenly realized that he loved Sally. He dashed through the streets of New York on New Year’s Eve to find her so he could profess his true love.

  For some reason, my mind kept returning to that day at the park. And Anthony. And all those times he talked to me about my parents and my grief. Truthfully, lying on the couch in that moment of despair, I wanted nothing more than to cry on his shoulder. I thought about how he was funny and smart. And I never felt nervous or uncomfortable around him. And how on our first chemistry Sunday the attraction was there, but in my delirious, post-traumatic-stress rampage, I pushed it, and him, away. And then we became friends. Friends. And in the constant melodrama of my life, I’m sure it happened slowly, but suddenly, with all the emotions raging in my head, I was bursting with revelation: I didn’t want to just be friends with Anthony. I wanted it to be him that comforted me about my mother’s apology. I wanted it to be him that held me and stroked my hair. I wanted him to help me with this new information. I wanted Anthony to help me find my father.

  I tossed the afghan to the floor. Sure, my life was in shambles. Yes, my mother had lied to me and my father. Jolie had lied to me. It was quite possible my biological father didn’t even know I existed. Things were awful in my life, but maybe, just maybe, if I acted before I lost my nerve, I could make something right. I couldn’t pass up this opportunity to let Anthony know how I truly felt. I quickly smoothed my hair into a ponytail and slid some sheer lip gloss on my lips. I grabbed my jacket and purse and headed out the door. Just like Harry, I would dash through the streets of New York to profess my love.

  Swarms of people hovered in the subway car. I stood pressed between an Indian woman dressed in a sari and a model-thin tall woman dressed in jeans. We swayed back and forth with the movement of the cars. Should I tell Anthony about my mother’s diaries first or jump right to the part about how I felt about him? How would I profess my feelings? I could swipe Harry’s line: When you figure out you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible. But I figured Anthony would probably bust me for plagiarism.

  I got off and silently congratulated myself for remembering his stop without the aid of MapQuest or a phone call. I pulled my scarf tight around my neck. I walked past the deserted park and turned right down Anthony’s street. The rows of brownstones were
decorated with white lights and Christmas wreaths. Three rows of children stood on a stoop and sang Christmas carols to an elderly woman at her door. And that moment of Norman Rockwell holiday perfection gave me a lump in my throat. Maybe the holidays could be right again. Anthony would help me find the joy again.

  A green wreath hung on the front door of Anthony’s brownstone. Faux candles burned white light in the windows, and a string of colored lights spiraled down the front railing. I took a deep breath of the cold air and climbed the front stoop. I was about to knock on the door when through the sheer curtains, I saw two figures walk by. I leaned over to the left, bracing my hand on the flower box, and peered in through the crack of the curtains. It was Anthony, standing next to the fireplace and talking to someone who was sitting on the couch. His dark hair was rumpled and his hands were shoved in his jean pockets. My eyes filled at the sight of him. Yes, Anthony! You’ve been right in front of me all along!

  Anthony took his hands out of his pockets and made a gesture as if to call the person on the couch over to him. A muffled voice spoke. I leaned closer to the window. I heard laughter. Suddenly, from the far right of the room, a figure came into view. Long, dark hair. Hourglass figure. A long, slender hand with red-polished nails coming forward to touch Anthony’s face. Adrienne.

  My hand slipped from the window box into the damp soil and crushed the pinecones. Oh my God. Adrienne leaned over and Anthony hugged her. Oh my God. His arms were around her tight blue sweater. He rested his chin on her shoulder. Her hair cascaded around his face. I flung my hand out of the black dirt, bolted down the steps, and ran as fast as I could down the street. My lungs burned as I drew in breaths of bitter air. I made it all the way to the park, then collapsed onto an empty bench. And my poor naive heart shattered into a million little pieces and trickled to the ground like the falling snow.

  Why? Why is this happening? All the months of redirecting my energy to a new location, a new look, a new social status all to find myself back where I started: alone. With no parents. No boyfriend. No happiness.

  I looked around at the people walking by. A woman chatted on her cell phone. Yeah, I can be in Midtown by eight p.m. . . . she said. I spun my head around to take in my setting. Oh my God. I was in Brooklyn? What had I done? Twenty-four hours ago I found out my whole life had been a lie and I ran off to Anthony??!! What was wrong with me? Anthony could fix my chemistry labs, but this—my parents’ death, the apology, the discovery—this was irreparable. The weight of that revelation washed over me and I buried my head in my hands and cried.

  I will never know, I thought. I will never know my true father.

  Darkness enveloped me and the snowy air turned frigid as I sat there, shivering, utterly alone.

  chapter thirty two

  I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG I sat on that park bench that night like a statue, but the chill got so deep into my bones I was forcibly shaking before I finally looked at my cell phone and saw fourteen missed calls from Jolie. I answered her next call. When I told her that I was in Brooklyn and needed a ride home, she asked no questions other than if I was okay. She said to stay warm and she’d be there in a heartbeat.

  An indigo blue BMW pulled up to the curb. The driver’s door opened and Jolie stepped out looking beautiful but frantic.

  “Whose car is that?” I asked, expecting her to be in Trent’s car. My legs had fallen asleep and pins and needles shot up from my feet as I stood.

  Jolie offered me her hand for support. “It’s Jacob’s car.”

  “Jacob?”

  “Reeves. Dr. Reeves.” She opened the passenger door lock with a click of the key chain.

  I sat in the warm car and shut the door.

  Jolie walked around and got in the driver’s side. She smiled. “He was making me dinner.” Her smile faded. “Us dinner. He was making us dinner, but you didn’t answer your cell. I called like fifty times. I was so worried.”

  “Sorry,” I said flatly, looking out the window.

  We were both quiet as Jolie put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb. We were across the Brooklyn Bridge and into the throes of Manhattan traffic when Jolie finally spoke. She didn’t face me but kept her eye on the car in front of us. “You read them, didn’t you?”

  I sat there, numb.

  “I came home and found my studio in shambles, the torn picture on your carpet, and now this,” she said, extending her hand back behind her shoulder, as if to say, picking you up in Brooklyn.

  I let her tally up my erratic behavior without defense.

  She parked the car across the street from our apartment, turned, and looked at me, her lip quivering. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, barely audible.

  I looked at the huge towering building and thought about how we had parked in that exact spot three months ago. I wondered if on that day, Jolie had already read the diaries. If she had already planned to hide them. If she had calculated her deception.

  I squeezed my hands into fists and exploded. “How could you DO THIS to me?!” I shrieked. I felt my chest cave in. I started to hyperventilate. “HOW COULD YOU LIE TO ME ALL THIS TIME?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know! God, what did I do?” She laid her forehead on the steering wheel and cried.

  My chest was heaving up and down, my lungs burning, my eyes swelling, my heart breaking over and over again.

  After a long time, Jolie turned toward me and softly whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  We walked into the apartment in silence. I collapsed onto the couch, still in my coat, and pulled the blanket over me. “All this time,” I said. “You knew all this time and didn’t tell me.”

  “I didn’t know what to do,” she said. “I could barely keep it together and you . . .” She looked over at me. “You were comatose on the couch shoving donuts in your mouth. I didn’t think you could deal with this too. It wasn’t just me; my psychologist thought you weren’t ready to know. Maybe you didn’t want to know.”

  “You talk to a shrink about me?”

  “Of course I talk to a shrink about you!” Jolie exclaimed. “This is not exactly easy territory for me, Emily. I’m doing the best I can.” Jolie took off her coat and gloves, then took one of the kitchen chairs over toward the cabinets. She climbed onto the chair and opened a top cabinet. She rifled around, then pulled down a spiral-bound notebook. She carefully tucked the notebook under her arm and hopped to the ground. She came back to the table and opened the book. The lined page was covered with Jolie’s scratchy handwriting.

  She scanned her notes. “Dr. Stiltson had this really interesting take on secrets. She said secrets are like stars. They blaze inside the heart and ultimately could be explosive. But there are two types of secrets. Small secrets, like small stars, will burn out. With time and space they lose their importance and simply vanish. No harm done. But big secrets, like massive stars, with time and constant fear grow stronger, creating a gravitational pull that eventually . . .” Jolie squinted closer to her paper. “When they get so big, they become a black hole.”

  “Okay, wait,” I said. “Are you reading notes? You took notes at the shrink’s?”

  Jolie looked down at her page, then back at me, and suddenly with great release, we started to laugh. “Cut me some slack,” Jolie said. “I was never very good at school.”

  The tears were spilling down our cheeks as we cackled. Laughter through tears, those are the kind of movies my mom loved, I remembered telling Anthony.

  Jolie became serious again. “Dr. Stiltson really made a lot of sense. It helped me and I thought that maybe it would help you—understand—why your mother did what she did. Your mother was a good person,” she said, her voice shaky. “She made a mistake. One mistake. And that secret haunted her like a black hole for the rest of her life. But she tortured herself and remained quiet because that’s what she thought was best for you. And for your father. If anything, I think her silence shows how much she really loved you. She let that secret burn slowly in her heart for years. I mean, I
get it now. I get why your mom went so overboard taking care of you and your dad so selflessly, because in her heart she was always trying to forgive herself.”

  The knot in my stomach tightened.

  “We’ll never know what was going through your mom’s mind when that plane was going down and why she suddenly felt the need to beg for forgiveness. We have to accept that we will never understand why she did that. But Emily, we can understand how sorry she was and how that one mistake doesn’t change the fact that your mother was a good and loving person.”

  Jolie closed her notebook and placed it on the coffee table. She looked at me, her green eyes watery and sad. “If you want to be mad at me, okay, be mad at me. But please don’t be mad at your mother.”

  My lip quivered. “What do I do now? How can I go on knowing that my biological father might just be roaming around and all I have is a first name?”

  “She never confirmed her suspicion,” Jolie said. “She never knew for sure.”

  I looked out the window into the night sky. The snow was still sprinkling down, blanketing the city in a new, fresh landscape.

  “That’s why I kept the letters,” Jolie finally said, following my gaze. “There’s a return address.”

  LATER, IN BED, I stared out the window at the stars in the sky. Stars and secrets and mistakes, I thought. One mistake. My mom made one mistake. Jolie kept insisting that one mistake shouldn’t change my view of Mom, but as I stared out at the Big Dipper, my mind kept spinning. How did that one mistake change who I was, both biologically and emotionally? Did it change nothing, or did it change everything?

  chapter thirty-three

  ON CHRISTMAS EVE DAY, the snow was still falling and the entire city was consumed with the idea of a white Christmas.

  “Are you ready?” Jolie asked, chugging from her Starbucks cup.

  “I think so.” I zipped up my coat and wrapped a scarf around my mouth. It was cold out, I thought, but maybe it would also be nice to be partially hidden.