Face First
Even Maggie herself wasn’t sure any more how old she was. Well into her nineties, if she was a day, approaching the white region, as she thought of it, where objects merged with the space about them. Still taking two walks a day, however, to the shops and back or, on fine days, the park and back. The only change was in her preparations, taking longer and longer, sometimes as long as the outings themselves. At her lowest, she saw them becoming all. Gaunt and unappeasable before the mirror, she would still be making herself up when dusk fell – no time or energy for anything else.
As they deepened, the marks of age – sometimes making her seem like the caricature of a person – what else was there to do? What else but make herself up? Not for her those faces in active dissolution you saw in retirement homes. Face creams, oils, mascara, rouge, lipstick. You could always give yourself a face. If the will was there, always try something on. Too bad if nobody liked it. Make up and be damned. Your face went first.
The cool encouragement of face cream. Such a comfort, both in itself and because it was the base without which you couldn’t do anything. On it she built herself up – made herself for an hour or two. To the experiments with cheeks, lips, eyes there seemed no end. A few times, it was true, she couldn’t recognise what she had done as a plausible version of herself – as a face at all even. She had to cancel it and begin again, heart pounding, for between one face and another you risked yourself. Truly so. In hazard between one clown’s face and another, she had heard herself say. In hazard before the glass, nothingness moving behind it, the darkness there.
Age had a way of breaking through, she would also say. For instance: lipstick or mascara could seem to tremble on flesh that was ceasing to be. She would have two lips, then one, then none. Two eyes, crazily heightened, then none, abysmal sockets only. Eyeless, mouthless, she would cackle at herself. Faceless. Begin again. Trust in the face cream. Patience. Where there’s a will.
On the unbearable blank of dry parchment, therefore, she would do it, she would begin again, essay with terrible rapidity a possible face. And it would work, as often as not, so that she would hurry to dress, all in green usually, she loved green, green knickers even and green tights. A green hat, of course, pulled down just short of the eyes, comically low. Some, talking to her, would cock their heads to get her into focus – as, before the mirror, she sometimes did herself. As if she didn’t quite make sense. Her hats had the look of helmets, her high heels of orthopaedic aids. Or was it the way she moved that made them seem so? The quick, short steps of a toddler, right arm stiff at her side, left bent to take the green bag. The further from home, the quicker her steps, the more she bent forwards as if aspiring to the horizontal, a kind of green lizard looking for grubs or worms in the road before her, dignity coming apart, not coming apart, intrepid against sun and wind, a wind-up doll – wound up by daring, deathless determination – someone who had been a person, was still a person, a woman, grotesque, not grotesque, to the shops and back all in green, ninety-four if she was a day, face first into the clear morning.
Page(s) 22
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