I stood transfixed in the doorway of my Mother’s bathroom, hugging the corner of the threshold between ugliness and beauty. I did not want to intrude, nor offend her by my presence. I only want to the touch the beauty that I believed was my Mother.
The decor was pink and white – fairy tale fluff, replete with golden creatures paying homage to their mistress. To my right were peacocks entwined in perverse embrace along a tub partition. A lion’s mouth roared forth its steaming water for my Mother’s bath. At the sink, fish danced on their head. She sat perched on her white fake fur stool, gazing into the large mirror before her, illuminated by giant orbs of light encasing it. In this space, my Mother transformed herself into a radiant Queen. She was transfixed by the face in the mirror staring back. So was I.
It was here that she could shut out the reality of her life, mundane in its laundry, its school lunches, and Church functions. It was here that she could shut out the ugliness that was her daughter. This was my Mother’s domain where she reigned supreme. It was the one place where she could give herself freely to the one she held most dear – Herself.
From the doorway, I watched my Mother frown. I tensed, believing she had seen me, but she hadn’t (I was not worth noticing). Instead, she moved her face closer to the mirror to examine the blank canvas of her face.
She reached out and ran her perfectly manicured nails across the myriad of lipsticks lined up on her counter. Click, click, click, click came the sound from her nails. Her hand came to rest on one of the tubes; She plucked it from its place, and twisted it to reveal its color. She frowned again. It would not do. Click, click, click, click, went the nails again until she found a color to her liking. As I stood there, mesmerized by the sound of those beautiful nails, I instinctively dug my own nails, bitten to the quick and still healing, deep into my palms and shuddered. The shudder came from the memory of my Mother’s nails digging into my shoulder or slapping my face. I quickly shivered the memory way. This was, after all, my Queen, my Mother, whom I had been commanded by God (and pleaded with by my father) to love and adore.
With great care, she applied the color to her lips. Slowly, she caressed the upper, then lower lips with the tip. Once this was done, she took a tissue and blotted the color, and paused again to admire herself in the mirror. This was a sacred ritual, which she performed on those nights when she and my father would go out — and away — from me.
She applied the rest of her makeup in the same exacting manner; eyelashes, shadow, foundation, pencil. I stood in mute awe, watching this transformation. Such beauty, such perfection, cried my child mind, my child heart. My Mother was indeed a Queen. If only I could burn her image into my mind, absorb her essence into my soul, and then I too could be beautiful, and worthy of her love. Instead, I was what I was: short, pudgy, musty, grubby, imperfect, child, daughter.
When my mother completed the ritual, she sat back and again gazed into the mirror. Her eyes caressed the results, as a woman might caress her lover.
At that moment (in my innocence), I imagined that my Mother, the beautiful Queen, would turn around and point to me with her perfect nails, and call for me with her perfectly colored lips, to come forward from my hiding spot and bestow upon me all that was good and beautiful, which she possessed. This would not happen. Whereas my Mother was the beautiful Queen, I was merely the toad princess. My existence was a reminder to my Mother of the imperfection in her life; of the bitterness and ugliness of her own childhood; of whatever demons she could not exorcise or eradicate by the ritual transformation of her face.
My Mother’s head turned, the contentment on her face gone. I shrank back, away from the door, but it was too late. I was an interloper into her heaven, and I had been noticed. Her lips parted. But instead of spreading into a smile to welcome me, they hissed, “What are you doing here?”
I shifted my weight in the doorway, jamming my fingernails deeper into my palms, and tried to explain my presence. At this tender young age, I did not possess the vocabulary sufficient to convey my feelings, or to placate her over my intrusion. As I stammered, searching my mind for the magic words that would earn me forgiveness from my Queen, I looked up and met her eyes. I saw hatred, rage, and disgust – hatred for me; rage that I would impose my imperfect self into her perfection; and disgust at my very existence. No more words came. I hung my head and waited. “Get out!” she spat.
I turned and walked away, my eyes brimming with tears from the overflow of conflicting emotions I could not understand or put a name to. My small frame sagged from the weighty confirmation of my unspoken fears. Her eyes, that tone of voice, conveyed it all. I was unlovable, ugly, imperfect, unworthy. I had been driven away by my Mother/Queen, the one whom I adored. I found my room, quietly closed the door, and cried.
©nuance/mjjs
nuance 