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I set up my kit while she leaves, which mostly contains acetone pads and an assortment of polishes. The plan is to donate the stock this afternoon. When I called yesterday, Nikki told me their supply was nonexistent, so I placed an instant delivery order from the nearby department store for a variety of colors.
A little bell above the door dings, and Nikki returns behind a wheelchair. The woman’s mouth is stretched wide and open in a silent laugh. The joy radiating from her heightens my own mood.
“Welcome to the salon,” I greet cheerily. Already, my spirits are lifted. The nerves I carry around daily dissipate in this purposeful moment. She turns her head, her big, round eyes finding my face.
“H-H-H-H-Hi.”
Nikki parks her chair to the left of the door and locks the wheels. “We’ll keep her here to avoid a transfer,” she says quietly. Louder, she announces, “This is Corinne. She loves to have her nails done.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Corinne.”
Corinne’s head of thick, wavy black hair bobs. I interpret the motion as a nod.
“I’ll be back soon.” Nikki departs.
“Can I see your hands?”
She holds a trembling limb up to chest level.
“Looks like you have some old polish here. I’ll clean it off and put on a fresh coat.”
“Thank you,” she says in an exaggerated fashion with a twinge of Southern accent.
I grab three colors of polish similar to the one she’s wearing. At my approach, her gaze remains fixed in the corner of the room with a faraway look in her eyes. Careful not to startle her, I move into her sight line.
“Can I paint your nails now? Is that okay?”
Her head bobs again. “That’s okay.”
“Okay.” I smile and set out on the removal process.
The tension of the day melts away. I chitter to mostly silence. Every so often, Corinne says a word or sentence that gives the impression she’s listening, but her response isn’t required. It hits me then how lonely I’ve been if I can sit here for half an hour and have words spill forth. Mundane things become conversation highlights. After detailing my trip across the country and how Ophelia wouldn’t quit asking to stop for snacks every twenty minutes, Corinne startles me with a complete sentence.
“My son is coming.” Her voice is monotone, but her expression brightens like a firework burst overhead at the mention of her family.
“You have a son. That’s lovely.”
“Is he here?”
“I haven’t seen him. I can check while your polish dries.”
“C-C-C-can you fix my hair?” Her gaze remains motionless on the wall. It warms my heart that she cares so much about her appearance for her son. They must have had a special bond.
“I’m not a hair stylist, but I can try. What would you like me to do?”
A cabinet beside the mirror supplies a comb in its meager contents. I move behind her chair and gently shift her hair from her neck. The strands remain soft and well cared for despite the fact she relies on someone else to manage them. I hope I can provide the same comforting assistance.
“Brush it, please.”
Though the black and gray threaded strands hardly need brushing, I fulfill her request. Halfway through the second pass, Nikki returns.
“Corinne! You look like a total babe.”
“Th-Th-Thank you. Is my son here?”
“Not yet. Why don’t we get a snack while we wait?” As she leans down to unlock a wheel, she murmurs, “He already visited today.”
My heart sinks at her impending disappointment. “Oh, no. Did I do the wrong thing? She was so excited.”
“She’ll forget soon. He visits nearly every morning, and she still asks if he’s coming every afternoon. You did just as you should. Trying to convince them otherwise does more damage. We try to live in their world as much as we can.”
“Noted. It was nice to meet you, Corinne. I hope to see you again!”
She waves her hand in a shaky goodbye.
“Do you have time for another?” Nikki asks as she reaches the door.
I dig out my phone for the time and smile. “Looks like I have an hour and a half. Keep them coming.”
A new feeling ricochets through me, one I haven’t felt in a very long time. A sense of purpose beyond motherhood duties. Don’t get me wrong. I love being Ophelia’s mother more than anything, but it’s safe to say I lost my identity in the process. This feels like a step in the right direction to becoming a better, stronger me.
Not just Ophelia’s mom.
Not just a widow.
Not just a sufferer of anxiety.
Me.
Caiti Harris.
