Corpse Mom Discovers the 10-Step Korean Skincare Routine, by Hema Nataraju
Corpse Mom has discovered the best thing in life after her death. With her new evening ritual-- the 10-step Korean skincare routine, she’s entered a delightful new universe. How lovely it is to be dead, she thinks, to not have to worry about school nights, prepping lunchboxes, answering work emails, or having ‘married-for-donkey’s-years’ sex with her husband.
Something’s been rattling in her chest since yesterday, though--a worry, a seed of anxiety. It’s killing her ritual and her mood.
She puts it aside for later and starts with the first step, the double cleanse. The cleansing balm is creamy at first, it becomes an oil when it touches her skin, and when she emulsifies it with water, it transforms into a milky liquid! She marvels at its shape shifting ability and then she marvels at her marveling. When was the last time she had marveled at something?
The worry rankles in her chest again. It’s louder now. There isn’t much skin on her ribs to muffle its sound. Something happened at yesterday’s graveyard group counseling session. But what?
She washes her face with a gentle foaming cleanser. It has no smell so it doesn’t bring up any memories. Just the way Corpse Mom likes it. Next is the AHA/BHA toner. She sprays a few pumps on to her palm and pat, pat, pats it on her face, around the hollows that used to be her eyes. Her skin is so taut, so clear, like glass, she can see her defined jawline right through her papery skin. No acne scars. Her skin has shed its memories of adult acne and low self-esteem she’s suffered from all her life. She turns her face to the left and then to the right and admires herself in the small mirror piece she found two plots away in the graveyard.
Then she remembers. It was something at the graveyard counseling session. Paul from two plots away missed his kids so much, he tried to escape the graveyard. The higher-ups had zapped him. It was safe to say they would never see Paul again. Shocked OMGs and some crying from the group followed. Everyone could see why Paul did what he did. They have all thought of running back to their families at some point.
Only Corpse Mom remained silent throughout the session.
She can never remember what comes next. A serum, ampoule, essence? Does the collagen mask come before or after moisturizer? She remembers that she used to remember everything when she was alive--her kids’ schedules, doctor appointments, work stuff, her husband’s travel schedule, play dates, grocery refills, everything, but now she cannot even remember her husband’s name or their kids’ faces.
The grave counselor had said trying to escape the graveyard was futile, but why hasn’t she even tried? Was she a terrible mom? Is she a terrible mom?
She sits on her gravestone in the thick moonless darkness. Her little apothecary of bottles with droppers and sprays and dark colored tubs are gathered around her, ready to give her their everything. Her back faces the epitaph--Beloved Mom, Wife, Daughter. Who Gave Everything to Family. Forever in our hearts.
She rubs a few drops of green tea serum between her palms and presses it on to her skin. Her skin laps it up, but she tries, tries, tries not to feel joy, to not focus on glass skin. She closes her eyes and summons every brain cell to help her remember her family’s faces, tries to want to run away, tries to be a good Mom again.
Hema Nataraju is an Indian-American writer, mom, and Korean skincare enthusiast, currently based in Singapore. Her work has most recently appeared in Five South, Booth, Wigleaf, 100-word Story, Ruby Literary, and Nurture Literary, among others. She is a Submissions Editor at Smokelong Quarterly, and she tweets as m_ixedbag.