Putting Makeup on Dead People

by Jen Violi

  Erin wears a bulky wool sweater and an orange corduroy skirt down to her ankles. Her hair hangs in one long braid, and she hugs me tight as soon as she meets me. “We’re so glad you’re here. I’m sure you miss your family, but I hope you’ll feel really welcome.”

  “Thank you,” I say. And even though I do feel welcome, even though the Harvest Festival might be the most beautiful party I’ve ever been to, even though we all sing around the bonfire and listen to Gabe play guitar, and Charlie stands behind me with arms circled around my waist, I still can’t help but feel sad. And then angry with myself for feeling sad in the midst of so much joy.

  When Charlie drives me back to Brighton Brothers, he says, “What’s up? Was it my dad’s singing? It can be a little dorky.”

  “No, I loved it.”

  “Or the stuffing? I know other people don’t usually have nuts and berries in theirs.”

  At stuffing, I start to cry. “Mom makes really good stuffing,” I say between tears.

  “You want to stop there? It’s still early, and I don’t mind.”

  “No!”

  Charlie pulls in next to the hearse at Brighton Brothers and puts the car in park. He reaches into the backseat and hands me a napkin.

  I wipe the tears from my cheeks, and the napkin smells like french fries—I guess even environmental studies majors sometimes fall prey to fast food.

  “Donna, you’re making yourself miserable. And you’re probably making your mom miserable too. Is this Roger guy really that bad?”

  I blow my nose into the napkin.

  “Don’t you miss your mom? Haven’t you said that to me about a billion times?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why don’t you make up?”

  “I just want things to be how they used to be.”

  “That’s not possible,” he says softly. “Maybe it’s time to move on.”

  “Maybe you don’t know what you’re talking about.” I reach for the handle and open the door. Cold air pours into the car.

  “I’m on your side here.”

  “It doesn’t sound like it.” I get out of the car and slam the door. Once I’m inside, I wait to hear the car pull out. I wait a while. I should go back. I feel angry and sad and embarrassed. Then I hear the car start and the sound of the motor fade. And all I’m left with is sad.

  twenty-two

  On Friday, Charlie doesn’t call. Mom does call and leaves a message that she has stuffing waiting for me. Mostly, I stay in the yellow room and stare at the walls.

  That evening, I can’t sit still any longer. I’m mad at myself. Frustrated that I’ve probably really pissed off Charlie, that I missed Thanksgiving with my family, that Dad isn’t here to make it all better, that Dad isn’t here at all, that he’s not ever coming back. And that even with so many good things happening, I still feel so painfully stuck.

  I have to do something, so I pull out my Chapman books and notebooks. Homework is a good distraction. Right on top are my notes on the project for Dr. Landon, which is due next week. I have no idea how I’m going to get from one page of handwritten notes to turning in a polished final project in seven days. And now I have something new to worry about. Great.

  Then I remember I might know something about getting from one place to another. I have a flash of something that Kirsten said in that class last spring about how rituals can do just that, and I realize I got so mad at Charlie yesterday because he’s right. I have to move on.

  I remember what Aunt Selena said about the veil between the worlds, about letting go. I wonder if it’s still thin, if I can still talk with Dad. And at this moment, I know very clearly what my final project will be.

  The next morning, I wake up to my alarm at six. I slip on my Terra necklace, bundle myself into flannel-lined jeans, a T-shirt and sweatshirt, and my winter coat. I wrap my neck in my purple scarf and slip on my gloves. I take the paper grocery bag I’ve prepared and walk softly down the steps and out the front door. The cold shocks the skin on my face, but it feels good. In the dark sky, stars glow clear and bright. I warm up the Lark and drive a route I know well, winding around to the spot I usually visit once a year with Mom in April.

  I park, grab my bag, and walk up the little hill to the gravestone. A light wind sends a chilly ripple through my coat, and my body feels more charged and alert with each step. My eyes have adjusted to the dark, and it’s not actually that hard to see when I get there. I run my hand over the round edge. Domenic Parisi, beloved husband, father, brother, and friend. Rest in Peace.

  I set down my bag and find a stick. Into the ground, I start to trace a line. The earth resists, hard and cold, not soft like in the springtime, but I hold the stick steady, and finally, all around me and Dad’s grave, I make the shape of a turtle, one that I think is big enough to hold it all.

  I pull my Terra necklace out so it’s resting on top of my coat, and from my bag, I take out a piece of paper. I’ve filled the paper with a drawing of a turtle shell, and I made a copy. One I’ll save for Dr. Landon’s class, and one I’ll use this morning.

  On each of the little sections of the shell, I’ve written words, what I know about death. And it’s a full shell. I inhale, just a little, fighting against the cold air. “I love you, Daddy,” I whisper. And then, one at a time, I rip off the sections and say each one aloud.

  My father died when I was fourteen.

  I like to think about death, but I don’t like to feel about it.

  I believe there’s a heaven for people to go to.

  Death must hurt.

  With each piece I rip and say and drop, I feel my breath get deeper, my lungs fill more fully.

  I am angry at death.

  People grieve in many different ways.

  Everything and everyone dies.

  Death changes everything.

  Once I’ve spoken them all, I’ve covered Dad’s plot of earth with the little white pieces, like snow or a sheet, or a very thin veil between me and whatever’s left of him there in the ground.

  I know I want to end my ritual with singing, to use my own voice, the one that identifies me as myself. And at this moment, all I can think of is the Ave Maria, which makes me giggle as I start it. I sing and laugh, realizing I can only remember the first four Latin words, so I just keep repeating those, knowing I’m not any better than the lady in church that Dad and I couldn’t stop laughing at. I hope wherever he is, Dad is enjoying this, that he knows I’m okay and I’m letting go, singing and laughing and crying all at once.

  Behind the gravestone, I watch the sun seep into the sky, behind the hundreds of other gravestones that mark other fathers and mothers and beloved people of beloved people, behind the bare and skeletal trees. Behind it all, light is rising. Fuchsia strips pulse over a light blue palette and white brushes of clouds.

  I sing until I can’t sing anymore, until I drop to my knees and sob into the hard earth. And when the tears have stopped flowing, when my head hurts and I’m done, I feel warmth on the top of my head and I raise my face to see the sun creeping, like a great red-orange turtle, up and up and up. When I close my eyes, all of the sky colors are still there. The pounding in my head slows, and layers of fear slip off my heart, which now takes up the pounding, beating in my chest, steady and sure.

  It’s nine o’clock by the time I get home, and I fall into my bed, exhausted. It takes me a while to fall asleep, but once I do, I’m out.

  When I wake up, it’s dark, and I have a message from Charlie on my phone. He wants to make sure I’m okay. I call and ask him to come over. He agrees, and I brush my teeth.

  When Charlie gets to Brighton Brothers, I meet him at the door in my pj’s and a sweatshirt. Back in my room, I ask if he’ll crawl into bed with me. He smiles and nods. Under the covers, we wrap our arms around each other, and his face feels cold against mine. “You’re freezing,” I say.

  “It’s winter out there,” he says, and laughs. “You know, if two hikers are stranded in the cold and someone gets hy
pothermia, to save him, they both have to take all their clothes off and use their natural body heat.”

  I look into his eyes and see a little twinkle there, like the stars this morning. “Are you saying you need to be saved?”

  “I totally have hypothermia.” He nods seriously. “This is a life or death situation.”

  “I guess we don’t have a choice, then.”

  We slip out of our clothes for the first time, and for a second, I think Charlie might really have hypothermia, and I am too distracted by his icy skin to worry about being naked. “Holy crap, you’re cold.”

  “I told you,” he says, wrapping his arms around me. “Save me,” he whispers into my ear. “Hold me close.”

  I realize that no chorus is currently offering me any guidance or rules or protests. The only one in my head is me, and I’m enough.

  The skin on Charlie’s arms and legs and chest warm quickly next to mine, and I feel goose bumps spreading from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. I decide right then that I will do my very best to keep us both alive.

  On Sunday morning, I wake up early again, but this time I’m not alone. I listen to Charlie breathing next to me, and I smile. I watch Charlie’s face and want to touch it, but I don’t want to wake him.

  I also want to go back to sleep, but I know I can’t. I know that I started something yesterday and that I’m not quite done. I think about Mom and the pained look on her face when I left Gwen and B’s shower, and the sadness in her voice last week. I think about the stuffing she saved for me, and imagine the exact Tupperware container with the blue lid she’s probably put it in. I think about her face when she’s looking at Roger and when he’s looking at her. How she thought she had her life all planned out until it fell apart, and how hard she’s working to start over. She does yoga every week; she’s letting go of things and learning things, like me.

  I don’t want to be the person who causes people pain, and I know I have been doing just that. I don’t want Mom to feel like she’s lost me when I’m still right here. I want to be like my dad, who everyone couldn’t wait to be around because he was easy to be with. And, I remember, because he made the effort. Dad used to take us over to Uncle Lou’s on Thursday nights for Aunt Irene’s homemade shepherd’s pie, and over to Aunt Sylvia’s for a packaged-cookie-and-instant-coffee breakfast on Sunday mornings after church. They were all so glad to see him. And that’s how I want to be.

  I close my eyes and go to the Dead Zone to be with Dad. And to be with myself, a version that lives up to the best parts of him. A version I can live with. In that peaceful spot inside my chest, I relax and I breathe. Everything gets real quiet, and I imagine everyone glad to see me. It occurs to me that the Dead Zone is as much about being with life as being with death. Sitting up straighter, I remember Nora Mahoney saying, “You only go around the block once.” I rework it in my mind so she adds, “So do it right.” That helps. I decide everyone should have a little Nora on their shoulder, smoking menthols and hacking out imperatives.

  This morning, when it’s so early that not much else is going on, I know what doing it right means. I write Charlie a note, slip into sweatpants, and drive out to Yellow Springs to Tranquility Yoga Studio.

  When I walk in, I smell incense and see light streaming in through a big bay window. White paper cranes dangle from the ceiling throughout the room. Looking around at the five other people stretching out and chatting, I realize I’m thinking Mom might be here. Then I remember that she’s probably getting ready for church right now. I wonder if Roger goes to church or not, and if it’s a problem. But I know I don’t have to be in charge of that. Instead, I listen to the soft guitar music drifting out of the speakers on the wall.

  When Roger sees me, he smiles big. He’s surprised, which seems like something Roger isn’t very often. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he says.

  “Me too.”

  “This will be a gentle class. I think you’ll really like it. Make yourself at home.” He gestures to yoga mats rolled up against the wall. “I’m going to get us started.”

  As I unroll a mossy green mat for myself, I’m struck by how graciously he welcomed me into his space after how snotty I’ve been to him. I feel humble and small. I find a spot in the back corner. Only about ten people are here now, so my fleeting thought of slipping out quietly and subtly doesn’t seem so feasible.

  Once class begins, I remember some of the postures—downward dog and bridge pose. A couple of times we did yoga in gym class at Woodmont, but I never relaxed into it. It seemed like something too personal to be doing with all those people I couldn’t wait to get away from, so I kept my guard up. Now I’m letting myself really try each position, feeling the strain in my hips and my shoulders and knees. Roger speaks clearly and with simple confidence, tending to each student as necessary, gently helping to straighten or ease a posture. I forget about him dating my mother and see that he’s a good teacher. And also a decent person.

  Forty-five minutes later, we all lie in savasana, which, as it turns out, is also known as corpse pose. Roger comes around the room and covers each of us with a blanket. I think of how Dad used to do this for Mom when she fell asleep in the living room watching TV. And about all the years Mom has lived without someone to cover her. Tears drip down the sides of my face in quiet streams.

  After a few minutes, Roger invites us to sit up when we’re ready. He says, “Namaste,” with hands pressed together at his heart center. As other students roll up their mats and begin quiet movement, I sit up and wipe my face. Roger sits down in a perfect lotus in front of me.

  “That happens often,” Roger says. “A reaction to the different postures. A release.”

  I nod and feel a tight spot in my neck. I cup it with my hand and breathe into the pain. “From trying something new.”

  “Or letting go of something old.”

  I raise my eyebrow at him. “Don’t get all philosophical on me, Roger.”

  He smiles.

  “I love my dad,” I say.

  “I know you do.” Roger stands.

  I say, “And I love Mom too.”

  He nods.

  “I’m sorry.” I hope he knows I mean it. “I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting.”

  He holds out a hand and helps me to my feet. “Thank you.”

  I put my palms together and hold them at my heart. I smile and bow my head to him. “Namaste,” I whisper.

  When I raise my head, Roger looks into my eyes. He moves his hands to his own heart and bows back to me.

  Roger invites me to go to Mom’s house with him to meet her after church for breakfast, but I decide I don’t want Charlie to wake up alone. Roger agrees to tell Mom I’ll be over soon. Back at Brighton Brothers, I find Charlie just waking up. “Where’d you go?” he says, rubbing his eyes.

  “I cried on a yoga mat.”

  “I drooled on your pillow.” He wipes the side of his mouth. “Does that make us even?”

  I laugh. “I think so.”

  He smiles and sits up. His hair is huge, like it belongs on some mad scientist.

  “Your hair is ridiculous,” I say. “And I love you.” I’m surprised how easily those words come out.

  “My hair is ridiculous.” Charlie smiles even wider and says, just as easily, “And I love you too.”

  I tell Charlie I hate to kick him out, but I’ve got business to attend to. He gets dressed, and I walk him out, successfully avoiding any awkward encounters with the Brighton family, who appear to be out for their Sunday morning breakfast.

  I take a quick shower and change clothes. I head downstairs, car keys in hand, when I see Mom walking through the front door. I’m struck how it’s the middle of winter and how Mom looks just like springtime. She’s got on a new pink wool coat and has a blush in her cheeks, and her curly hair hangs loose and beautiful. She’s standing there, right by the door, where we stood together four years ago, dressed in black and surrounded by darkness. And I’m standing here, from a higher
vantage point, seeing clearly that everything has changed.

  “I was coming to see you.” I walk down the steps and stand across from her.

  “Roger told me. I couldn’t wait. And I have something to tell you.”

  “What is it?”

  “I asked your brother to invite Selena to the wedding.”

  “Really? Wow, Mom, that’s wow.”

  “And she’s coming. She didn’t tell you?”

  “I haven’t talked with her in a few weeks.”

  “Oh.”

  I hear the clock ticking from the hallway upstairs, and the floorboards creak as I rock back on my heels and lower my feet to the ground. I see my Mom, and she sees me.

  “Mom, I’m so sorry,” I say, starting to cry for the second time today. “I’m so sorry.”

  She pulls me to her and hugs me hard, and she smells like flowers and hair spray, like Mom. “It’s okay, my baby. Everything’s okay. We are going to be okay. Both of us.”

  Domenic Parisi, 51

  Cause of Death: Multisystem failure due to intestinal cancer

  Surviving Immediate Family:

  Wife: Martha

  Children: Brendan, Donna, Linnie

  Sibling: Louis, Sylvia, Selena

  Makeup: Pale Rose lipstick, basic foundation

  Clothing: Navy blue suit, white shirt, pink paisley tie

  Coffin: Stainless steel, white satin lining

  Special Guests in Attendance: Terry Roma, famed 1970s Dayton, Ohio, lounge singer, and his escort Cathy (blouse on inside-out, lipstick on teeth)

  Funeral Incidents of Note:

  One fight over “filthy curse words” in funeral parlor between Lou and Irene Parisi

  One great-aunt wailing and passing out: Josie Santora

  Dumbest thing someone said trying to be comforting: “He’s much happier in heaven, dear. God did this for a reason.”—Gilda Grant, neighbor and founder/president of the Kettering Knitters

  twenty-three