Janice Alper
August 1985
My brother called. He never called, so I knew it was serious. “Mom’s not doing well, you’d better come.”
I hastily packed a small suitcase, left my four kids, my husband, my job, and flew from California to New York. When I walked into her house in Brooklyn, Mom, who had terminal breast cancer, sat slumped in a club chair in what used to be my bedroom. She wore an oversized plaid shirt; a newspaper lay open on her lap over a light blanket that covered her pajama bottoms. Her faded olive skin resembled dead leaves on the ground in autumn. I thought if I touched her, she’d crackle from the slightest pressure.
“Janice, what are you doing here?” she said in a weak raspy voice, unlike the harsh, assertive tones I was used to.
“I have some free time, so I thought I’d spend a few days here with you,” I lied.
Mom was used to my stories and fabrications. As with many mothers and daughters, we had a stormy relationship when I was growing up. A truce had come when I was thirty-five and for the last ten years, we enjoyed each other’s company and appreciated an honest, adult connection. Yet, still, there were some things that could not be said. Her bright intelligent hazel eyes gleamed with amusement and I knew she was onto my game and would play along.
We were both happy I was there.
The next morning as we sipped instant coffee Mom said, “I want to get my hair done. Will you take me?”
“Sure.” As if I had a choice.
My mother shuffled into her bedroom, hugging herself to keep warm, despite the hot humid summer air. I dressed, retrieved my car key, and waited for her in the living room. Fifteen minutes later Mom emerged as if she were marching in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
She stood tall and straight dressed in a ruffled pink blouse and peasant skirt. Her sallow cheeks had been brightened with blush. There was a hint of turquoise on her eyelids which heightened the color of her irises. She smiled through ruby red lips. She had reverted to the mother I knew so well.
“You look great,” I said.
“I feel much better with a little color on my face. It perks me up.”
Mom died the following week.
Now, more than forty-five years later, I stare into the mirror at my face, which is my mother’s face. I’ve surpassed her in life by many years. She had died the next week, but I learned a great lesson from that visit. Bright lipstick is a staple in my daily grooming. No matter how I feel, when I paint it onto my lips, somehow my whole face, and even my mood changes. I feel perky, ready to face another day.
Janice Alper, an active octogenarian, spends her time writing personal essays, poems and memoirs. Follow her at www.janicesjottings1.com