Cleo

‘Cleo’ is a story about mine and my nana’s bond that transcends the realm of the living.

When I walked into the salon, the first thing I noticed was that it had been upgraded. I am very forgetful, and can’t remember the colors of the walls, but I know they must’ve been a light color, because the sun’s rays beamed through the big windows and bounced off of them and opened up the space. There was a young man in front of me. I thought maybe he was having a self-care day too, and I thought “good for him”. When the young man stepped to the side, I a teenage girl was sitting at the slightly cluttered desk, reading a paperback book with a red cover. I wish I checked the name of it, but the woman next to her who I assumed was her mother said “Hi, how may I help you?” before I thought to inspect the book further. I told her I wanted UV gel polish. I’d called earlier, because I wanted to make sure they had that type of polish here. It’s supposed to be the most natural looking, while at the same time hardening your nails so they don’t break. I’d researched it online, and that’s what I wanted.

After I got my temperature checked, I sat down in the black swivel chair mounted to the floor at the nail booth next to the front desk where the assumed-daughter was sitting and reading. Through the plexi-glass between us, the woman, who I assumed was Vivian, but felt too shy to ask, asked if I was the one who had called earlier. I said yes. She reiterated to me what I wanted, a natural look, but strong. She said she would use ‘polygel’ instead, and I got excited because I’d seen people use that on YouTube.  She asked what shape I wanted as she began to buff my nails. I loved the shape of hers, they were a soft almond, painted white with blue butterflies. I said I wanted my nails like hers, but that I didn’t think they were long enough. I am clumsy sometimes and bang my nails against hard surfaces, which is why I wanted a strengthening polish. She told me that she would file them into a rounded oval shape, and next time, when they were all longer, I could graduate to almond, like her. She seemed warm and motherly, and I trusted her judgement. I nodded in corroboration.

Next she asked me what color I wanted. I think she saw my face get frantic, because I hadn’t had time to pick out a color yet. She reached for the ring of maybe one hundred fake nails glued to white plastic sticks, all painted different colors. I began to look through, fumbling a bit since I was only using one hand. Vivian was busy shaping the other. I settled on three potential colors: a warm baby pink, a soft creamy mauve, and a pinkish nude. I tried to choose between the three, realizing that they were all virtually the same color to someone who wasn’t looking closely.  I went with the creamy mauve. I smiled, thinking of how my Nana would’ve approved of any of the three. Another seed she’d planted. Another one of her flowers that I was proud to have bloomed inside me.

I wouldn’t have always picked a soft pink. Growing up, I went to a tini tiny Seventh Day Adventist private school, where from the age of three until fourteen I adhered to a strict uniform policy. Navy blue skirt or pants (newly privileged to be worn by girls as well as boys, thanks to my mom causing a ruckus about me wanting to do flips at recess in peace), white button up, navy blue bow tie for girls, navy socks and shoes (no black!), no jewelry, no colorful headbands, no nail polish. By twelve I was jones-ing for a form of visible self-expression. I’d built up a massive nail polish collection, filled with every color you could think of, my first form of rebellion against the institution. I’d pick a color to rock after school on Fridays and rub them off with acetone before getting in the car to drive to school on Monday mornings. At first. By 13 I was openly non-conforming and wore the brightest colored socks, hair accessories, and nail colors I could find, and started a mini revolution amongst the girls in my class. My greatest act of political resistance to this day.

But at twelve, my favorite time was summer, because I could look as loud and as bold as I wanted to for 3 months straight. I recall one summer day when my older brother and I were visiting my Nana for a weekend. In a year, I would go visit my nana less, wanting to give most of my free time to my friends. But for now, her modest town house forty-five minutes away in the suburbs was enough for me. She might’ve made us her award winning spaghetti, or ordered us a thin crust pizza from up the street. She said I would go with her to run some errands and have a girls’ day, just her and her ‘Miss Prissy’ as she would call me. I’m sure we went to the post office. My nana was skeptical and distrusting, and preferred mail not be directly sent to her home. After she passed, my mom said while she was cleaning the house out she found my grandma’s application for the CIA. She always told us to have a few different ways to drive home, so we laughed about it, about how unsurprised we were. She wasn’t a secret agent, she was a teacher, and a very good one. When I was two, everyday my mom would drop my brother and I off at my nana’s old house that was much closer to us. It’s hard for me to remember what that house looked like, as I was so young when she moved, but I know we walked up a lot of stairs and everyday we’d eat breakfast in the kitchen, which was towards the back of the house, past the living room and dining room. After breakfast we’d make our way back through the house to the front den, where we’d have our lessons before nana made us some homemade oatmeal raisin cookies. I don’t know how the lessons went exactly, but I know I was to sit up straight with my legs crossed at my ankles, sat at a 45 degree angle, with my notebook turned 45 degrees the opposite way. And I know that I was bored all two years of pre-k (you have to be five to go to kindergarten in New Jersey), because I’d already learned, from my nana, the alphabet and how to count, as well as how to write my name, address, how to add, and button my pants.

On this summer day when we probably ate spaghetti or pizza before probably going to the post office, my nana said we’d go the nail ‘parlor’. I was super excited, thinking of the lighting blue I’d pick out. I was not excited, and rather upset when she decided we should get matching colors. This upset me because I knew there was no way she’d get lightening blue! My nana always went for a soft pink, just as she always went for a mauve lipstick.

At the time, I couldn’t believe she would take away my right to choose, my precious source of rebellion. But as I watched Vivian apply the warm creamy mauve, I thought of how it wasn’t so bad. Maybe she wanted me to see what my nails could look like, who I could be, if my identity wasn’t based simply off of opposition. Or maybe she just liked soft pink and wanted to match with her granddaughter. I thought about how I could never know, and that was okay because right now Vivian was applying a light coat of a what both my nana and I would now consider a beautiful color. As I kept switching my hands in and out of the UV light, as instructed by Vivian, I continued to think of my nana, about the end.

Towards the end she started to fade. At 17, this was painful for me, because my nana, Cleo, was a woman who could light up any room. She could defrost the chicken I forgot to take out of the fridge with the warmth of her love if she wanted to. Now, on the summer Sunday my mom had asked me to drive up for a couple hours, she sat dull and slouching in her nursing home bed, obviously weak but excited to see me. I couldn’t help but recall all the lessons on the importance of posture. Her fading light was hard for me to look into, but what was even harder to digest was what came out of her mouth. She beamed “Hi Sheila, how are you my dear?” I looked to my mom, frightened and confused, who looked back at me with comforting eyes before saying “No mommy, you meant Kamillah.” My nana looked at me intently for a second before recovering, saying “Oh right, of course. How are you my dear?” I could tell she wasn’t sure, but she was too proud of a woman to accept that her memory was going. It didn’t matter, she kept calling me Sheila for the rest of the afternoon. My mom explained that Sheila was some family cousin I’d never met.

At the time, I couldn’t bare it, being called someone else’s name instead of one of mine, like ‘Miss Prissy”.  It used to feel so vast, her love. Her signature goodbye was “Be safe, now. I love you all” and I believed it every time she said it. Now, running out of strength, her love felt limp and too far away to reach me. How could it? How could she, love me now, when she didn’t even know my name? It felt like the life force that kept her going was made up of that love and now that she was dwindling, it was disappearing, and the air in the room turned thin and stale.

I was afraid then, in the nursing home, standing with someone I loved and being called a name that was not mine. I was afraid that I might forget her name one day too. That when she drifted away so would all the memories. The distance those hours created between us was too far for me to travel back through that day. I sat in a chair across the room, trying to be as pleasant as possible, until I was freed when my mother said it was time to go. She would pass soon. I never saw her after that day, and it wouldn’t be until years later that I made my way back to her.

Love is omnipresent and ever returning. When I was ready to feel it, it showed up to wrap me in her warmth all over again, in the way of these seeds that continue to bloom in me. I felt it at 18, when I had the sudden motivation to include making my bed into my morning routine, a task I had dreaded all those weekends at nana’s house. “Nana I don’t feel like it!” “That’s ok, we’ll do it anyway.” I felt it last year, when I caught myself humming a tune as I put the groceries in my kitchen away, something I used to poke fun at her for. “Nana, what song are you humming now?” “I don’t know dear, but it’s a good one.” I felt it this past winter, when I announced to my mom that I absolutely needed to stop wearing big t-shirts to bed and get some proper pajama sets. When she had to go to the nursing home, she felt defeated and scared, and made my mom promise to at least take her to Burlington so she could get some new pajamas for her stay. I felt it when gyms closed and I decided to take up yoga. She went to classes at the senior citizen’s center religiously every Tuesday and Thursday, and would pass out fliers for special events and bingo while she was there. I felt it last week when I reapplied my lip gloss, under my mask. “Nana hurry up, we’re late!” “Just one minute dear, I’m looking for my lip stick.” “Lipstick? You aren’t even getting out of the car!” And I felt it today, as I thanked Vivian one last time before walking the two blocks back to my car on Broad and Franklin, staring at my nails the whole time. “Beautiful choice.” I don’t know if that was me talking, or her. I decided it was the both of us, as it always would be.