Tilting her head back, my mother peers into the bathroom mirror and puts on her lipstick in three deft moves – quick strokes left and right for the bow and a sweep across the bottom lip to finish. She tears off a single square of toilet paper and folds it in half to blot her lips, then drops the square in the toilet. The vivid pink lip prints float on the water, mouthing a perfect “Oh!”
The ritual for an evening out begins with clouds of steam floating out of the bathroom, mingled with the fragrance of Lanvin dusting powder. She pats it on with a big powder puff, the kind with a satin ribbon to slide your hand under. Wrapped in a towel, her skin pink from the needles of a hot shower, she pads into the bedroom to put on her under things, then it’s back to the bathroom in her slip to fix her face and her hair.
“What time are you coming home?” I ask, watching her face in the bathroom mirror. I want my parents tucked away safely on the couch when I go to bed. When they go out at night, I get all jittery.
She looks at me with eyes at half-mast. “After you’re asleep.”
It’s more fun for us kids when my parents stay home and other people come over. Then Ted and Tina and I get up early the next morning to nibble on leftover cocktail peanuts and Chex mix, and scavenge smudged cocktail glasses for whiskey- soaked cherries and martini olives.
Tonight we’re on our own in suburbia. My parents are palming us off on a babysitter to go into the city for dinner and a play. Only 25 miles away, Chicago seems as far away and unfathomable as Oz.
Will they make it back before morning? There’s no accounting for their whereabouts once they’re dressed up.
I watch as pancake make-up, rouge, and mascara turn my mother into a glamorous version of herself. She works on her hair last, pulling out the pin curls that hold her beauty parlor set, fluffing and combing, then spraying Aqua Net in a wide sweeping arc until we both choke on the fumes.
Afterwards she slips into her black dress with the scoop neck and the zipper in the back. It’s hard to reach so my mother turns her back to me and says, “Make yourself useful. Zip me up.” I fumble with the zipper, pulling on it with clumsy fingers until it comes to a stop at the nape of her neck. When she turns around, there’s a white film of dusting powder just below her collarbone that she brushes away impatiently.
By the time my mother clips on her earrings and grabs her little black clutch purse, my stomach is sinking and I feel my throat start to tighten. In half the time and seemingly none of the effort my father appears, looking handsome in a dark suit and striped tie. He is wearing the black wingtips he pays me a quarter to polish for him on Saturday mornings.
Mrs. Gray, the babysitter, is already here. She has frizzled beige hair and a face freckled with age spots, the lenses of her glasses as thick as Mr. McGoo’s. She always smells like eucalyptus cough drops.
Once she settles into an armchair in front of the television with her purse stashed at her feet, I know any chance of my parents deciding to stay home is long past. I feel a lump in my throat.
“Listen to Mrs. Gray,” my father tells me. “And try to keep Ted and Tina from fighting.”
Then they are gone, with a jangle of bracelets and the rustle of a taffeta slip, mingled scents of aftershave and hair spray lingering in their wake.
As soon as the front door closes behind them, I run to the picture window in the living room and slip behind the curtains to look out. I see them talking and laughing as they walk to the car. They don’t look like my parents – they don’t look like anybody’s parents.
The car doors slam shut and I watch the big yellow station wagon back out of the driveway with the dignity of a chariot, gravel crunching under the tires as it rolls into the street.
As the car disappears around the corner, I can hear Ted and Tina building a fort under the dining room table. When Mrs. Gray flicks on the television, I hear strains of the theme from The Lawrence Welk Show.
The lump in my throat starts to ache.
Published by Pure Slush Books, Lifespan Vol. 2— Growing Up • Flash Fiction