Tilda.

I’m studying her profile in a way that would be obvious if she weren’t driving. Maybe it’s obvious anyway, but she’s not the kind to acknowledge, not in that way. Her skin is still perfect. I don’t think they use the expression peaches and cream anymore, but if they did, if I did, this would be it. Her face. She only has these insignificant threads, that barely qualify as wrinkles. I’d be jealous were she not my mother. I’m envious anyway. I inherited Doug’s skin- susceptible to the signs of age and allergy and stress.

She has smaller, higher end sunglasses perched on the end of her nose-a departure from her usual, ten-dollar sort that rests, dusty and oft ignored, on the plastic displays at drug stores. I used to think it was variety that drove this decision, but I’ve learned that it’s also a fear of nice things. This sentiment that nice things will vanish due to some unnamed disability. It’s foolishness, of course, and I’ve said as much, but it’s nearly impossible to scrub the residue left behind by childhood trauma.

I know that behind her trendy sunglasses are eyes the color of morning glories, framed by eyelashes that are nearly invisible, rendered translucent with age. Occasionally Sus will dot the edges of her mystical lashes with black mascara, and the effect is striking, but this is more an occasional situation than a regular occurrence. Her beautiful eyes tear with the slightest provocation, a breeze more profound than an emotional stirring, and tend to invite strangers to reveal their deepest, most personal confidences.  

Sus has started wearing her hair shorter recently. Another decision that was accompanied by a self-deprecating narrative. “Seems smarter to keep the few hairs I have left close to my head,” she said, laughing in that way that’s a laugh, and also, a test. Funny, because she knows it’s unnecessary with me, but again, deeply ingrained habits die hard. Or never. They never die.

I bring my gaze from her profile to her hands on the steering wheel. Sus always has her nails done. Always. They are a mauve shade now, shiny and shaped into something that’s not quite an oval, but also, not a square. Her hands have always looked sturdy to me. Not masculine or particularly strong, but something that feels reliable. They feel comfortable when I slip mine into the cocoon they provide when offered. Yeah. Sturdy.

Her outfit is characteristically Sus. Bohemian. Flowy. Colorful. Somewhat swallowing her smaller frame but in a way that is undeniably chic and flattering.

“You know…” I say.

“Yes,” Sus replies, humor ringing the edges of her singsong voice.

“I watched this movie on the plane,” I continue, “it was called A Room Next Door or The Room Next Door or something like that. Whatever it was called, it was gorgeous. Haunting but really, special. Julianne Moore was in it, and you know I like her, even if she does actually smell. And Tinda Swinton, too. Really, it was just the two of them for most of the movie”

I pause then and wait for Sus to respond, but it seems as though she’s waiting for me to continue.

“Anyway,” I say, a strange annoyance creeping into my tone, “it was about these two women who are friends, or kind of friends, and one asks the other to help with her mission to euthanize herself. Is that the right expression? Do you euthanize yourself? I guess it doesn’t matter. Either way, the whole premise is that this one character, played by Tilda Swinton, gets sick and wants to end it all, but she wants someone near her when she dies.”

“Oh,” says Sus.

“Yeah,” I respond, “I know it sounds pretty garish, and, well, depressing, but it wasn’t. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was heavy, but also, really beautiful. It was actually intensely gorgeous. That famous Spanish director, whatshisname, directed it, and it had all these elements that he’s so famous for, in the best way. The whole movie was just bright colors and stark lighting and clean lines. It was spectacular, really. I mean, I don’t want to give anything away, but there are scenes where it’s just like raw emotion and also, the brightest yellow and the reddest red, and the most cobalt blue, and it’s staggering.”

“Tilda Swinton is really strange, no?” Sus asks this with the kind of casual indifference in her voice that makes it feel like she doesn’t really give a shit about Tilda Swinton, or, the movie.

“Yeah, I mean, I don’t know,” I say. “I think she’s a little odd looking, or more unusual, really, but also she was just superb.”

“I don’t know what I’m talking about,” Sus says, “so don’t listen to me. I’m not sure I can name like one movie she’s been in if you asked me right now. Not even one. So who am I to even judge her performances? I feel like I’m just thinking of her unusual angular face, and that affect.”

“Affect?” I ask, already knowing the response.

“Yes,” Sus says, in a firmer voice, “she has this kind of strange affect about her. This way that she  moves around. Like a sort of creature, I think? I don’t know. I sound awful and I don’t really know what I’m talking about anyway.”

“No,” I say, wanting desperately to reassure her, “I get it. She is strange, but also wonderful.”

“Yes,” Sus replies, “she is, I think but again, I don’t even remember what I’ve seen her in, so maybe ignore me.”

“Never,” I say, my voice stronger than I intend, and we both laugh.

“Anyway,” I say, as the laughter fades from my voice, “sometimes I think about things like that.”

“Tilda Swinton or ignoring me?” Sus asks, and we laugh again.

“Neither,” I say. “I think about what would happen if I got sick. Who would be there. Rick is moving in two years. And everyone else, is everyone else, so I think about who would be there.”

“Your sister would be there for you,” Sus says, a note of something in her voice that I can’t name.

“Yeah,” I say, “I know, but also, she has Ryan and the kids. It’s no big deal, really. Maybe it’s silly for me to even think about, but I can’t help it. Sometimes I do. Think about it.”

“Well,” Sus says, “I’m around for now, and I intend to be around for ages. Forever, really. And there’s nothing I like more than making a promise I have no ability to keep.”

We laugh, again.

“Yeah,” I say, “then I guess there’s nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.”

x

L.