My vision has narrowed more and more over the past few days. What used to be a full field of view is now just a tiny circle of clarity surrounded by murky darkness. It’s like looking through a toilet paper tube, except the tube keeps getting smaller.
“Okay, Eliana,” I mutter to myself. “You can do this. It’s just mascara. You’ve been doing this since you were fourteen.”
I bring the wand up again—and miss completely. Black goop smears across my cheek.
“… Shit.”
Behind me, my apartment door flies open with a bang that makes me jump and streak more mascara across my face.
“We’re here!” Yasmin announces at full volume, bursting into my tiny studio. “And we, by which I mean ‘I,’ brought reinforcements.”
My mother follows behind her, carrying what looks like a professional makeup kit that’s definitely not hers. “I borrowed it from the salon where I’ve been working,” she explains as she sets it on my kitchen counter. “We figured you might need some help getting ready for tonight…”
I turn to face them, mascara wand still in hand, one eye halfway done and the other completely untouched. Black streaks zoom down my cheek.
Yasmin takes one look at me and bursts out laughing. “Oh, honey. No.”
“I had it under control,” I protest weakly.
“You’re lucky you didn’t put an eye out.” She plucks the mascara from my fingers. “Sit. Now.”
My mother pulls out my desk chair and pats it. “Come on, baby. Let us help.”
I want to argue that I can do this myself, I don’t need assistance, and I’m perfectly capable of getting ready for the most important night of my professional life without turning into a charity case.
But the truth is, I can’t see well enough to do my own makeup anymore. And tonight, of all nights, I need to look perfect.
So I sit.
Yasmin starts wiping away my failed mascara attempt with a makeup remover wipe while my mother opens the borrowed kit and begins laying out brushes and palettes like a surgeon prepping for an operation.
“Tell me again what you’re wearing,” Mom says.
“The burgundy dress. I showed you on FaceTime, remember?”
“The one that makes her look like a sexy vampire,” Yasmin adds helpfully.
I snort. “I do not look like a vampire.”
“Asexyvampire,” Yasmin corrects. “There’s a difference. Regular vampires are creepy. Sexy vampires get to bang Robert Pattinson.”
My mother laughs, which is such a welcome sound after so long without it. She’s been different since that night at the church. Granted, it’s only been a few days, but there’s a lightness in her that I haven’t seen in forever. It’s strange and wonderful and terrifying all at once.
“Close your eyes,” she instructs.
I feel the soft brush of primer on my eyelids, then the gentle press of eyeshadow. She works slowly and carefully, humming under her breath. It’s the same tune she used to hum when I was little and she’d brush my hair before bed—back before the Dereks and the wine and all the years that turned us into strangers. The same song from the day in the rain.
“‘Raindrops and roses and whiskers on kittens…’”
Yasmin, meanwhile, has moved on to my nails. She’s painting them a deep wine color that matches my dress, all the while keeping up a steady stream of commentary about Zeke.
“He’s taking me to this place in Wicker Park next week. Says it has the best duck confit in the city. I told him I don’t even know what confit means, and he spent twenty minutes explaining it to me.Twenty minutes, El. I didn’t know there was that much to know about ducks. I thought it was pretty much ‘quack-quack’ and that’s it.”
“Sounds romantic,” I mumble, doing my best to keep my face still so I don’t mess up Mama.
“It kinda was, actually. He gets this look when he talks about food. Like he’s describing a religious experience.” She pauses, and I can hear the grin in her voice. “Also, the sex is incredible.”
“Yasmin!” My mother’s scandalized laugh fills my tiny apartment.
