CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Thursday, December 6
My clients’ skin often reveals something about their lives.
When the sixty-something woman opens her door, I notice the clues: Many smile lines; far fewer from frowning. Her pale complexion is dotted with freckles and sunspots, and her blue eyes are bright.
She introduces herself as Shirley Graham, then takes my coat and wrap, which I’ve brought so I can return it to Dr. Shields, and hangs them in her tiny hall closet.
I follow her into her galley kitchen, set down my makeup case, and gently flex and straighten my hand to ease the tightness. It’s 3:55 P.M., and Mrs. Graham is my last appointment of the day. Right after I finish here, I’m going to see Dr. Shields.
I’ve vowed to finally ask her why she needs information about my personal life. It’s such a reasonable question. I don’t know why I haven’t felt able to bring it up before.
Before we start, would you mind if I asked a question? That’s how I’m going to phrase it, I’ve decided.
“Would you like some tea?” Mrs. Graham offers.
“Oh, no, I’m fine, but thanks,” I say.
Mrs. Graham looks disappointed. “It’s no trouble. I always have tea at four.”
Dr. Shields’s office is a half hour away, assuming there’s no subway delay, and I’m due there at five-thirty. I hesitate. “You know what? Tea sounds great.”
While Mrs. Graham pries the lid off a blue tin of Royal Dansk butter cookies and arranges them on a little china plate, I scout out the best lighting in the apartment.
“What’s the big event tonight?” I ask as I step onto the living room’s frayed rug and move aside a gauzy, lace-topped curtain covering the sole window. But the brick wall of a neighboring apartment blots out the sun.
“I’m going to dinner,” she says. “It’s my wedding anniversary—forty-two years.”
“Forty-two years,” I say. “That’s wonderful.”
I walk back to the small counter that separates the kitchen from the living area.
“I’ve never had my makeup done by a professional before, but I have this coupon, so I thought, Why not?” Mrs. Graham pulls the slip of paper off the refrigerator, where it was secured with a magnet shaped like a daisy, and hands it to me.
The coupon expired two months ago, but I pretend not to notice. Hopefully my boss will honor it; if not, I’ll have to eat the cost.
The kettle shrieks and Mrs. Graham pours the steaming water into a china pot, then dips in two bags of Lipton tea.
“How about we work right here while we have tea,” I suggest, gesturing to two high-back stools pulled up to the counter. The space is barely adequate for my supplies, but the overhead light is strong.
“Oh, are you in a rush?” Mrs. Graham asks as she covers the pot with a quilted cozy and sets it down on the counter.
“No, no, we’ve got plenty of time,” I say reflexively.
I regret it when she goes to the refrigerator and takes out a pint of half-and-half, then retrieves a little china pitcher and transfers the cream into it. As she arranges the cups and teapot and cream and sugar on a tray, I steal a glance at the clock on the microwave: 4:12.
“Shall we get started?” I pull back Mrs. Graham’s stool and pat the seat. Then I reach into my case and select a few bottles of oil-based foundation, which will be kinder to Mrs. Graham’s skin. I begin to mix two together on the back of my hand, noticing my burgundy polish has a tiny chip.
Before I can begin to apply it, Mrs. Graham bends over and peers into my case. “Oh, look at all your little pots and potions!” She points to an egg-shaped sponge. “What’s this for?”
“Blending foundation,” I say. My fingers feel itchy with the need to continue. I fight the urge to turn around and glance at the kitchen clock. “Here, let me show you.”
If I select a single shadow for her eyes rather than a trio—maybe an oatmeal hue to bring out the blue—I can finish on time. Her makeup will still look good; it won’t betray the shortcut.
I’m smoothing the last bit of concealer under her eyes when a telephone rings a few inches away from my elbow.
Mrs. Graham eases off her stool. “Excuse me, dear. Let me tell them I’ll call back.”
What can I do but smile and nod?
Maybe I should grab a cab instead of taking the subway. But it’s rush hour; a taxi could actually take longer.
I steal a glance at my phone: It’s 4:28, and I’ve missed a couple of texts. One is from Noah: Sorry I couldn’t meet you last night. How about Saturday?
“Oh, I’m doing just fine. I’ve got this nice young lady here and we’re having tea,” Mrs. Graham is saying into the receiver.
I quickly type a reply: Sounds great.
The second text is from Dr. Shields.
Could you please phone me before our appointment? Dr. Shields has written.
“Okay, sweetheart, I promise I’ll call you back as soon as we’re done,” Mrs. Graham says. But her tone contains no indication that she’s trying to wrap up the conversation.
The room is overly warm, and I can feel perspiration dampen my armpits. I fan myself with my open hand, thinking, Wrap it up!
“Yes, I visited earlier today,” Mrs. Graham says. I wonder if I should just call Dr. Shields now. Or at least send her a quick text explaining I’m with a client.
Before I can make a decision, Mrs. Graham finally hangs up and returns to her stool.
“That was my daughter,” she says. “She lives in Ohio. Cleveland. It’s such a nice area; they moved two years ago because of her husband’s job. My son—he’s my firstborn—lives in New Jersey.”
“How nice,” I say, picking up a copper eyeliner.
Mrs. Graham reaches for her tea, blowing on it before she takes a sip, and I clench the eyeliner a little tighter in my hand.
“Try the cookies,” she says, hunching her shoulders conspiratorially. “The ones with jelly in the middle are the best.”
“I really need to finish your makeup,” I say, my tone sharper than I intended. “I have a meeting right after this, and I can’t be late.”
Mrs. Graham’s expression dims and she sets down her teacup. “I’m sorry, dear. I don’t want to hold you up.”
I wonder if Dr. Shields would know how I should have handled the quandary: Be late for an important appointment, or hurt the feelings of a sweet older woman?
I look at the butter cookies, the little pink-and-white china pitcher and matching sugar bowl, the quilted cozy over the freshly made tea. The most any other client has ever offered me before is a glass of water.
Kindness is the right answer; I chose wrong.
I try to regain our merry banter, asking about her grandchildren as I dab a rose-colored cream blush onto her cheeks, but she is subdued now. Despite my efforts, her eyes appear less bright than when I entered her apartment.
When I finish, I tell her she looks great.
“Go check yourself out in the mirror,” I say, and she heads to the bathroom.
I pull out my phone, planning to try to quickly call Dr. Shields, and see she has sent me another text: I hope you receive this before you come here. I need you to pick up a package on your way to my office. It’s under my name.
All she has provided is an address in Midtown. I have no idea if it’s a store, an office, or a bank. It’ll only add ten minutes to my journey, but I don’t have them to spare.
No problem, I text.
“You did such a nice job,” Mrs. Graham calls.
I begin to take our teacups to the sink, but she comes back into the room and waves her hand at me. “Oh, I’ll take care of all that. You have to get to your meeting.”
I still feel guilty that I was impatient with her, but she has a husband and a son and a daughter, I remind myself as I pack up my things, tossing my brushes and cases into my kit rather than taking the time to organize them.
Mrs. Graham’s phone rings again.
“Feel free to get that,” I say. “I’m all finished here.”
“Oh, no, I’ll see you out, dear.”
She opens the closet door and hands me my jacket.
“Have fun tonight!” I say as I slip it on. “Happy Anniversary.”
Before she can reply, a man’s voice fills the room, coming from the old-fashioned answering machine next to her phone.
“Hey, Mom. Where are you? I was just calling to say Fiona and I are heading out now. We should be there in about an hour . . .”
Something in his tone makes me take a closer look at Mrs. Graham. She is staring down, though, as if she is trying to evade my eyes.
Her son’s voice grows rougher. “I hope you’re doing okay.”
The closet door is still ajar. My gaze is pulled inside, even though I already know what will be missing. Her son’s tone told me what I’ve misjudged.
Mrs. Graham isn’t going to dinner with her husband tonight.
I visited earlier today, she’d told her daughter.
I suddenly know where she went. I can see her kneeling to set down a bouquet of flowers, lost in the memories of the almost forty-two years they had together.
On one side of the closet hang three coats—a raincoat, a light jacket, and a heavier wool one. They’re all women’s coats.
The other half of the closet is bare.