Alive

Chapter 26

Elle

(Friday, May 17)

My hands shake as I hold the liner against my eyelid. And I drag it across, slowly. Carefully. Blink, and then start on the other. Outlining circular brown holes, empty and bland. I finish, slipping the brush back into the bottle. My hand wanders down to my makeup bag, grabbing mascara from it's designated pocket. And then eyeshadow. Gold eyeshadow, like I think it might put life back into my eyes.

Just a few more hours. That's it.

Foundation, blush, and light pink lipstick. My face, more perfect than I've ever seen it. A glimpse at this beauty. The beauty of what could have been. Maybe what should have been. The way I want her to see me when I knock at that dark door.

I step back. Glance over the rest of my naked body. Every part. Then I pull my bra on. Nude, woven together with lace. My panties. Also nude, but silk. And finally, I kneel down. Pick up that plastic bag. Lift the handle to my nose, inhale that faint, masculine scent of Oliver's hands. But I don't let myself cry. Maybe that's half the reason I put makeup on. Maybe the entire reason.

Instead, I slip my hand in, pulling out the dress. A white dress, more beautiful than anything I could ever deserve. It's new. The tag still hangs from the bodice. It couldn't smell like him. But I lift it to my nose anyway, close my eyes, inhaling again and again. This final piece of Oliver left. This last glimpse of everything he's been, everything he is, everything we can never be.

The folds of soft white fabric pool on the floor as I step into it. And I pull it up, over my hips, thread one arm through a sleeve and then the other. They wind together like a wrap over my arms, forming an A-line collar, and I reach around, fidgeting with the zipper. I'm prepared for it to be loose, or tight, or something wrong. But Oliver's got a good eye, I think. Because it cinches together perfectly, making me straighten my posture as I stare down at the front. It's beautiful. Low cut. And the waistline starts just above my navel, flowing into an elegant skirt that ends mid-calf.

I've never worn anything like it. And I take another step back, gaze at my reflection in the mirror. Add another layer of lipstick. Then I slip out, into my bedroom. Reach into that box, still out on my bed. And I pull out two pink slippers. Blunt at the toes, slightly frayed, browned on the bottoms from all the wear. I tie their ribbons together in silence, slip them around my neck. Pull out another pink ribbon from the box. One Mom gave to me, cut off from an older pair.

I don't look, just close my eyes, tie it around my head, pretend it's around the dark curls I used to have. The dark curls Mom always fought with, tamed, and decorated.

The bow is small. Delicate. The way I was taught to make them. Maybe Mom taught me. Maybe I watched one too many ballet tutorials growing up.

Then I grab my keys. My purse. My phone. Oliver's projector. An extension cord. Mom's record player. My laptop. A small water bottle filled with bleach. I empty my messenger bag. Fill it with the items. Slip my white sneakers on. Send two texts.

Celeste:

I love you

Oliver:

No. I can't. Just one text. I can't do it.

I glance around the apartment. White walls and white couch. White everything. Quiet. It's so quiet. Like the hallway in my old house, the first weeks after Mom left.

Then I'm gone.

In my car, driving to the campus. I turn the radio on, switch it to Oliver's station. The one he showed me that night. Obnoxious twangy vocals, predictable guitar chords, the occasional harmonica. And there's a song I recognize. But barely. Mostly I just see Oliver, singing at the top of his lungs, dancing around with me, making faces. He's got a good eye maybe. But terrible music taste.