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nonexistent. But I thought she looked much more beautiful.
    I remember thinking, I could see more of her.
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    The very first thing my nana did was take a small round cotton ball and press it to the top of her favorite, her only, perfume bottle. The room filled with the sweet smell. She flipped the bottle over once, quickly, and then she tucked the damp cotton ball into her bra, right between her breasts.
    Then she continued to talk to me while she was blotting her face with what looked like squares of tissue paper, up and down, all over her skin.
    â€œDid you have a good night’s sleep?”
    â€œOf course,” I answered. I lowered my back into the hot water. My legs stretched out and my feet rose up, not quite touching the shiny metal faucet.
    â€œWas it too noisy last night for you?” she asked. “It can be so noisy in the city and you are a country girl.”
    â€œI live in Greenport, Connecticut, Nana, and I slept good,” I answered.
    Because I loved the sounds of the cars beeping, the mournful sirens, the sharp voices that would drift up from Lexington avenue all night long. It was comforting to me. It was Nana and Poppy’s apartment. It felt warm and safe. I felt like I belonged here.
    â€œNow for the most important step,” my grandmother said. I had to poke my head out of the curtain again to see.
    â€œMoisturize,” she said. She rubbed her whole face with cream, till she shone.
    While I watched, I was hoping we would order Chinese food that night, even though we hadn’t had breakfast yet. I would get egg rolls. Wonton soup. Fried rice. Lo mein. Maybe sweet and sour chicken. But I didn’t have to worry. We always got Chinese food when we came to my grandparents’ apartment.
    Nana was in the middle of spreading the liquid foundation that made her look tan. She never missed a spot, and you would never see that line some old ladies get all along their jaw. That line that makes you wonder if they were blind when they were putting on their makeup, or when they asked, “Do I look all right?” that someone was playing a nasty joke on them. Never my grandmother.
    â€œWhat would you like for dinner, my shayna maideleh ?” my nana asked. I remember thinking that she could read my mind.
    Shayna maideleh ? She had probably said it a hundred times before, but it was the first time I really heard it. Now she was putting on her eyes, a liquid black line on the top and on the bottom. Fake eyelashes and then blue shadow.
    â€œWhat does that mean?” I asked her.
    â€œWhat does what mean?” Nana was leaning in toward the mirror, drawing eyebrows, perfect arches where they must have once, long ago, grown all by themselves.
    â€œWhat you called me. Shayna you-know-what.”
    She turned to me, her face was almost completely on. “ Shayna maideleh? It means my pretty girl. Caroline, my beautiful granddaughter. My shayna maideleh . In Yiddish.”
    â€œDid you used to call my mother that?” I asked her.
    â€œOf course I did,” she told me. “All the time.”
    The last thing my nana did, I noticed, was her lips. She took a colored pencil and drew a line just outside where her lips really were, and then filled it in with red lipstick. While I watched she reached over and tore off a single sheet of toilet paper. She pressed it to her lips and then tossed it away.
    â€œI’m going to get dressed now. You take as long as you want. So how about Chinese food for a change?”
    â€œThat’s a funny one, Nana.”
    She shut the door behind her.
    When I was getting out of the tub, drying myself with a big soft towel, I looked down into the wicker trash basket under the sink, and there was my nana’s fragile red kiss.
    Now I wish I had thought to take it out and save it.

13
    Who Will Be Like Me?
    It was called Hermès Calèche, straight from Paris. Nana’s perfume.
    That was the one thing I wanted.
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    My mother