Red Lips

      My mother wore bright red lipstick, the sky was foggy, but the sun was still out. I was on my way to see my pediatrician across town. As my mother drove, I watched her lips move while she used her tongue to remove the excess lipstick from her teeth. On this particular visit, she needed me to do her a favor. Before walking into the office, she turned around and told me that my throat was sore and my ears hurt. I felt fine, but I had listened to my mother. The office waiting room was stale. The air was scratchy and it hurt when I inhaled The sound of the monotone voice over the news scared me. All I gave attention to was the bright red lipstick that took away from the bags under her eyes, that shaped the outer lines of her upper and bottom lip. Even as the doctor called my mother and I to the back for examination, all I could do was stare into her bright red lips.

     The doctor informed my mother that I needed to be treated soon and he wrote me a prescription. The air was thick with heavy laughter on the ride home. Smiles were exchanged while "Hits of 2000s" played over the radio. She turned the radio off and told me, "I guess you really were sick. The smell of gasoline creeped into my nose as we pulled into a truck stop. Masculine hands Began to slide into the window while palming loose change, quickly walking away with colorful pills that were meant to aid me. Still I was clueless and thought nothing of it; I stared into the red lipstick and the day continued.

    A stone bowl with an old black spoon would be the home for my medication as it was crunched up into a fine powder. Three old rusted locks kept our door shut. The floor was covered in fresh laminate and the house smelled of glue and toast. I would sit and enjoy a bag of puffs while I stared deep into the bright red lipstick as it made its way over the surface of the counter, while powder made its way up her nose. A dark red was soon to cover the thin layer of bright red lipstick it as my mother's nose started bleeding and I was sent to my room. That is my oldest memory of my mother.

   Long brown hair that mimicked the high tides when the moon was at its fullest. The small curls that began at the cheekbone and straightened back out at the chin. Vivid coats of eye shadow to meet the symmetry of the Bright Red Lipstick. Small teeth that accompanied the smile as she told me.

"Mama has some friends coming over."

At night the house would shake as she danced, and the neighbors would yell. The smell of Cologne filled the air as men filled the shadow that connected the rooms together, the halls. All trying to get their hands on a small stone bowl. A large red shirt with hairy arms that seemed to spill out of the sides pushed me into my room and told me to stay. The ceiling was covered in stars and tiny moons that would glow. The open window allowed moonlight to dance over the action figures that protected me at the foot of my bed. Over the noise of the night, I could hear the door of my house slam shut and the music echo through the hall. I learned to just go to my room to prevent myself from being pushed around by a big red shirt.

     My mother needed something to occupy her days, so she went on dates. The fine powder that would cover her face while she slowly beat her eyes with a brush added to her beauty. She ended the routine with a fat tube of Bright Red Lipstick that made her stand out, but I no longer cared for it as much as I used to. The heat driven days that kept me inside also kept me alone. Mother had found that dates made her feel wanted and she no longer had time to waste at home. The drugs and men kept her too busy. I still did not understand; I just wanted her to be happy.

     Without guidance, the house fell apart and people began notice. The walls were covered in roaches as they ran out of the sink full of filth. The smell of mold and body odor was thick in the laundry room air. The stain of bright red lipstick was smeared on the counter from the night before. It had all came to an end after a few weeks. There was no longer a house, only a car full of clothing and filth. One after noon, a short lady with blonde hair had approached me. She would later be my first case worker in a long series of court dates as a foster child.

     JT, I had a very rough childhood and that's why I why I do drugs and hurt you, but you help me. You are mama's little soldier. Don't tell the case workers our secrets, if they find out then you can't come home.

     I would read notes through the night while my foster parents slept. The only notes I would receive from my mother would be full of excuses. As I would read, my chest would tighten, my kidneys would tear apart and my eyes would water. I could not wait for the next court date because I knew I would get to see her. But one day, she stopped showing up, stopped writing, and stopped trying. Great characteristics of a childless parent. I would continue to go to court alone and sit in rooms so small, my heartbeat echoed off the thin walls and chilled down my spine. Months would pass before I saw her face again. Her teeth had begun to fall out and she had lost a lot of weight. The refusal of a drug test is what lead her to disappear for a long 3 years.

        A few months ago, I chose to go into town to pick up a few needed items from a grocery store. The fog from the stormy night before wrapped around me as I step out of my car. As the sliding doors welcomed me, the fan hummed softly. While shopping I turned down the wrong isles, I heard a name I haven't thought of in 3 years, "JT". I turned to the call of what once was my name and froze. There she stood, slouching and holding herself up by the shopping cart. She insisted that I give her my number and that is when I got a better look at her. The thinning of her hair at the scalp that ran across her red face that was aging earlier than it should. The shoes she wore that off the circulation to her purple feet and the Bright Red Lipstick covered it all. I hated the lipstick and in the first sight of it, I felt ill. The whole store had somehow managed to shrink around me and push me closer to her. I walked away as she tried to hug me, and I watched her walk out of the local shop.

     I spent the rest of my visit shopping for goods. Slowly walking around, noticing the families around me. The little boys who are shopping with their mothers. How the look at her, I can only assume that they want to make her happy.

    She is getting married for the fourth time in October of 2019. The phone rang and an old dusty voice invited me to join the family for the event. I told her I could not make it because I have a narrative essay due a week after and I needed all the time I could get to work on it. She did not argue with me or call again. I feel at ease knowing I did not have to keep repeating myself. I received a message that had been full of photos from her wedding. My family that I grew up around were all smiling, especially my mother. She had finally had what she wanted, happiness. The only difference between now and then is that I finally understand. I understand that she did not care for me like a child; I was always just a younger friend to her. I understand that at the age of 16, she was not ready to be an adult or a parent. I have had a unique life that has led me to where I am now. In college studying to be a teacher and to help children is something she could have never given me. I have not spoken to her as a parent in over 3 years, but I finally understand.