“Grandma says it’s time to stop feeling ugly. You’re not Kathy Keizer anymore. You’re Kathleen Collins. She told me to make you feel pretty now, okay?”
Brady reached his hand down to help her up. She still felt a little dizzy, but Brady gently took her hand to steady her as she stood. Then, he helped her over to the mirror. The two of them looked into her beautiful vanity with the custom lighting like a Hollywood starlet’s. He slipped her beautiful silk robe over her shoulders to cover the cigarette burns.
“Grandma says you’re not a dog, Mom. Listen to Grandma,” Brady said.
Brady reached behind his mother and took off the diamond necklace. Mrs. Collins looked at her long neck. The skin used to be so tight when she was Kathy Keizer. But now Mrs. Collins had a wrinkly neck. It started to itch, so she scratched it. But the scratching did nothing. It just made her skin more itchy. So, she got another idea. She picked up the concealer and started to fill in the ugly red dimples the diamonds left in her skin.
“That’s it, Mom. It’s time to erase Kathy Keizer,” Brady said.
Mrs. Collins could still see the ugly red, so she put on more concealer. When every inch of her neck was covered, she moved to her face. She needed to look presentable for Christmas. What would people think? She was Kathleen Collins now. She couldn’t let anyone see Kathy Keizer.
God, you’re ugly, Kathy Keizer.
She put bright-red lipstick over her lips, but it didn’t look right. She didn’t look like Kathleen Collins. She looked like stupid little Kathy Keizer, the first time she put on makeup and looked like a streetwalker. Like a hooker. Like a clown. A clown’s face.
“Grandma wants you to feel beautiful,” Brady said.
Mrs. Collins slathered the concealer over her skin. Layer after layer. Like butter on bread. But it still wasn’t enough. She rummaged through her makeup drawer. She took out liquid bronzer and poured it into a pool in her palms. God, her palms. The scars on her palms. They didn’t belong on Kathleen Collins’ elegant hands. These were Kathy Keizer’s hands.
God, you’re ugly, Kathy Keizer.
She spread the liquid bronzer all over her hands. All over the scars. All over the memories. But it still wasn’t thick enough. She could still see the little girl in the window outside of the warm kitchen. She grabbed more. Eye shadow. Eyeliner. Every shade of lipstick. She rubbed it all over her body. But there wasn’t enough. She could still see the scars. Mrs. Collins poured and smashed every ounce of makeup she had onto her skin, but she could still see Kathy Keizer. She moved around in a blind panic, looking for more makeup.
But all she had left was paint.
Mrs. Collins grabbed the construction crew’s paint cans and cracked them open with her son’s knife.
“That’s it, Mom,” he said.
She moved to the mirror, lathering the paint on her face. A nice grey primer. A thick white paint. She poured the paint over her hair. Over her body. She couldn’t stop the itch under her neck. She couldn’t feel beautiful no matter how much paint she poured over her skin.
That’s because you’re ugly on the inside, Kathy Keizer.
The voice was back. She didn’t think she could win this time. And maybe the voice was right. Of course, she thought. The voice is right. My insides are all scarred and ugly. That’s where Kathy Keizer is hiding. That’s where the paint belongs.
“Mom,” Brady said calmly.
“Yes, Brady?” she asked.
“Do you remember how you thought that somewhere out there, there was a parent who abused their children who wasn’t abused themselves?”
“Yes?”
“You said if someone could tell you that, you would die a happy woman.”
“Yes,” she said, the tears washing the paint down her cheeks.
“Well, I know for a fact there is,” he said softly.
A great relief washed over her. Mrs. Collins smiled and stirred the paint with Brady’s knife like soup over a campfire. Then, she brought the paint can to her lips. She thought she might be asleep. This must be a dream because how else could she explain her son’s glowing eyes. Black as coal left in a child’s stocking.
“So, Mom, would you like to know who the first parent was who abused their kids who wasn’t abused themselves?”
“Yes, Brady. Please tell me.”
Brady perched in front of her on the marble countertop. When his voice changed, her blood went as cold as that old backyard. Because