Wiping the Death Off

A story on family, a funeral, and lipstick

The first time my grandmother wore lipstick was a week after her death. The smell of vanilla candles floated through the red velvet carpeted room, where I avoided looking at the front of the room where my grandmother’s casket was placed.

“Why did they put lipstick on her?” my mother asked to no one in particular.

I’m sure she wore petroleum jelly to fight against chapped lips but never makeup. My mother started wiping the lipstick off my grandmother’s lips. I pulled on her sleeve, afraid she would get in trouble.

“Stop pulling on me. I gave the makeup person a picture of her. She doesn’t look like herself.”

I didn’t know how to help my mom, so I wandered to the dessert table being set up. I scanned the room but didn’t recognize anyone. Someone needed to help my mom. What if she removed every ounce of makeup from grandma’s tissue paper thin skin?

Was the makeup person here right now? How did a person become a makeup artist to dead people? Why did they pick that shade of red for an 82-year-old woman?

My aunt Patty startled me as I stared at the clock on the wall, counting the minutes to the end. “Oh Nicky, you look so nice. Where is your mother?”

I pointed towards the open casket.

“Oh yes, there she is. By the way, I have your mom’s Avon order. Your mom picked out some goodies for you for your birthday,” she told me, handing me a plastic bag that smelled of lily of the valley. I took the bag, wondering what I should do with it during a wake.

“Your mom ordered her favorite perfume. I added a few makeup samples for you. Do you want to go into the bathroom and we can try it out?” she asked me. “It’s your birthday next week. I think your mom will be fine with it.” She knew my mom didn’t approve of makeup until I was 13.

I looked over at my mom as she stood over her mother’s face, trying to wipe the death off.

“That’s fine,” I answered, not knowing what else to do.

After 20 minutes fiddling with makeup samples in the funeral home bathroom, I could hear my name being yelled.

“Nicky, what are you doing in there?” my mom was yelling outside the bathroom, her voice wobbly yet loud.

“We’d better get you back out there. I hear your mom,” my aunt said as she tossed the makeup evidence away.

As we walked out of the guest bathroom, I saw my mom standing alone in the corner. For a second, I saw her as a little girl lost at the grocery store looking for her mother. Tears rolled down her flushed rosy checks.

“What have you done, Nicky?” Mom asked.

“Aunt Patty had some makeup samples and offered to help me. Does it look okay, Mama?”

“No, Nic it does not. I told you a thousand times before. No makeup until you’re 13.”

“Sis, she turns 13 next week. Cut her some slack. I just thought it would be nice. Come on, let’s get some fresh air,” Aunt Patty said, hoping to defuse the situation.

I watched as my mother slumped down into a chair. She hadn’t slept for the past week, trying to make everything perfect for Grandma’s memorial.

“My mother is gone. And now my little girl is too,” my mother said.

As I walked over to my mother, I grabbed a tissue from one of dozens of tissue boxes scattered throughout the room. I wiped off the rose-pink lipstick from my lips, the matching blush from my checks, and the powder blue eye shadow from my eyes.

“Mama, I’ll always be your little girl. Grandma is watching over us. She is our angel,” I told my mother, feeling our roles reversed. I kneeled to her level in the chair. I wrapped my arms around her as she bawled into my shoulder, getting her red lipstick all over the white satin blouse my grandma gave me last Christmas.

@2021 Ellie Jacobson