A Danger to Herself and Others(60)
She and her husband don’t take their eyes off me as they leave the room, like how you’re not supposed to look away from an animal about to attack. But at least in their anger, in their blame, they treat me like a real person.
My parents thank the judge, shake our attorney’s hand, and let him lead them from the room. When I don’t immediately move to follow, Lightfoot takes hold of my elbow. She and Stephen escort me into the hallway where my parents are waiting.
Mom turns to the doctor. “Do you know where the restroom is?”
Lightfoot shakes her head. Mom looks disappointed, like she thinks an expert like Lightfoot ought to know the exact location of the bathroom.
Lightfoot asks a security guard, who points down the hall and to the left. Mom takes off in that direction.
“Hannah, why don’t you go with your mother?” Lightfoot suggests. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”
Mom stops abruptly. She turns, and I can tell from the look on her face that escorting her crazy daughter to the bathroom is not what she had in mind. I glance back at Lightfoot. It feels like this is some kind of test, though I’m not sure whom she’s testing: me (out in the world without institute supervision for the first time in months), or my mom (alone with her daughter for the first time since her diagnosis).
forty-one
My mother and I used to walk side by side: down Madison Avenue in Manhattan, on the Boulevard Saint-Germain in Paris, along the beach in Cannes. Today, in the courthouse in Silicon Valley, I walk a step behind.
Mom’s wearing a fitted, cream-colored skirt and a navy-blue blazer with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her legs are smooth and toned, blending seamlessly with her nude Louboutin pumps, the telltale red soles clicking against the linoleum floor. Her highlighted hair is styled neatly, and she’s wearing a pair of oversized black sunglasses like a headband. She’s chic and stylish without looking like she’s trying too hard, though I know she tries very hard. I’ve sat on the bed in my parents’ room while she spent hours deciding what to wear, even for the most casual affair.
She holds open the door to the bathroom for me, then ducks into one of the six stalls. We’re the only ones in the restroom, but I don’t choose the stall next to hers. I don’t actually need to use the bathroom, but I close the door behind me and sit down all the same, papering the seat the way she taught me. (Never touch anything in a public restroom, she’d said when I was small.)
I wait for her to flush and then I do too. There are only two sinks, so I can’t help but stand next to her when I wash my hands. (Wash your hands for as long as it takes to sing “Happy Birthday” twice, she’d taught me. I’m tempted to hum so she’ll know I remember, but I’m worried she’ll take the sound as a symptom.)
She hands me a paper towel and I dry my hands, then she leans forward over the sink to examine her face. I’ve seen her do this a thousand times; she always tucks her hair behind her ears, smoothes her eyebrows, touches up her lipstick. It’s so comfortingly familiar that it takes effort for me to look away (will she think staring is a symptom?) and face my own reflection instead.
I look at my hair first. It’s clean (relatively; my last shower was the day before yesterday) but stringy from months with no conditioner, no blow-dryer, no brush except the comb they let me use immediately after a shower. I think it does look darker than usual, but that could be an optical illusion as I’ve never been as pale as I am now. My lips are dry and flaky. I lick them, but that doesn’t look any better.
I step back a little, trying to see more of myself. The white blouse is wrinkled and slightly too big. The navy skirt sits loosely on my hips.
Mom’s highlighted hair falls just above her shoulders with layers framing her face. Mom washes and blow-dries her hair every day, and I imagine her in a nearby hotel room earlier today, a round brush in one hand and her blow-dryer in the other. Mom always packs her own hair dryer when she travels. She doesn’t like to use the ones the hotels provide. She also brings her own soap, her own shampoo, her own conditioner, and her own body lotion. She says she doesn’t feel clean otherwise. She opens her purse, and I watch as she takes out a tube of lipstick. It’s light pink, the kind of color you wish your lips were naturally. That’s all Mom ever wears. She thinks anything darker looks garish.
“Can I use that?” I ask.
Mom looks from me to the tube in her hands, to her reflection in the mirror, then back at me. She always said we shouldn’t share makeup because it would spread germs. She wouldn’t even let me use her blush brush when I forgot to pack my own on a trip. She had the hotel’s concierge bring me a new one.
“Never mind.” I shake my head, wishing I could un-ask the question. “I don’t need it.”
“No, of course,” Mom says, holding out the lipstick. We both know I do need it. We both know that’s why I asked for it even though she doesn’t like to share. We both know I look terrible. I look nothing like the girl she sent to California back in June.
We also both know that pretty pink lipstick isn’t going to be enough to help.
I bring the tube to my lips and press. My hands are shaking. The color is so light and my lips so wet from when I licked them that it doesn’t make much difference.
“Why don’t you keep it?” Mom says.
I shake my head, handing the tube back. “They won’t let me.” They’d confiscate it as soon as we got back to the institute.