Mirror, Mirror
by Violet St. Clair
We sat there locked in my mother's bedroom; me and my reflection. What. Had. I. Done? My head throbbed and the pins (all those pins) we had used to keep my hair in place were scattered everywhere. Long strands of hair and pins; torn out, dragged out. Fretful pins that had kept nothing together. My dress had burned throughout the entire ceremony. I had flushed red from the neck up. The blushing bride, convulsively swallowing; trying to keep the fear down, trying to keep the anguish down. Trying to keep the nausea down. A queasy marriage. Now, as the dress fell off my shoulders, I could see the damage was everywhere. I was like the lobster, slowly dying in mottled red. Outwardly, I just looked dishevelled, morning after messy. But my eyes… They were with my thoughts. What had I done?
My mother came in, quietly. Busy with her hands, flickering with her eyes.
"So. It's all over. The worst is over." Her voice like a broom. The pins and hair strands all disappeared with two swipes of her anxious hands. Alles in Ordnung.
"I'm so scared, Mom." She had begun to work my arms out of the sleeves.
"We just need to get you out of this thing. It's done. It's what you said you wanted (it's what he said I wanted). You're…you're just nervous, that's all. It happens to all of us." She bunched up the dress in her arms and sat behind me on the edge of her bed. We looked at each other through the looking glass; our eyes unstable. Mute. The past and the present. My hand went to my belly;
the future. (Please, not a girl). I was going to do things so differently. I was going to show everyone. I was going to be so…better. And now, our eyes filled with twin ruin, we stared at each other; forlorn. Accusing.
She piled the dress on the floor by the door. Brisk. Bunched up and punched into a defeated huddle. "I'll get rid of this." Picking up the brush, she began a thorough untangling of the knots.
"Den Teufel nicht an die Wand malen. We shouldn't paint the devil on the wall. It could be worse, ja. He has a job. A car. You've known each other a long time. It'll be alright. And when the baby comes, I can help. I didn't have any help with you. Oma was across an ocean. So. It could be worse."
The brush smoothed out the snarls. The steady flow of it like a heartbeat; down, down, (calm) down. My hand rubbed across my belly, again. Mom spread some chamomile lotion on my back and arms. "I knew that dress was a bad idea," she muttered. "And that whole family. All in black, staring at you. Crazy. Such a family."
The swallowing came back. My gaze shifted from the crumpled dress back to my reflection. I looked into her eyes, staring into my eyes, my throat tightening and constricting repeatedly, visibly. I should never have come back. I had almost made it. Another city. Another province. I was going to do things so… differently.
"Hey, what's going on in there?" The doorknob rattled. Mom picked up the brush. "Go away. We're all dead tired. She needs some sleep. You can stay in the den for tonight."
"Hey, what? I don't even get to sleep with my bride?"
"You've slept with her enough! The den is just fine for now." Silence. I could feel him simmering on the other side.
A door closed, down the hallway, just short of a slam. A shivering thought wormed its way through me. That will cost me, later. Every slight had to be repaid. I had met Paul just after we had vanished from my father's life, taking nothing and praying every step of the way, my palms marked by crescent shaped nails like little smiles. A childhood habit that was with me still. Poor coping skills, the doctor had once diagnosed. I opened my hands. The marks were there, fresh from my wedding day. Convulsive self-damage. Nothing to be done, Mrs.Klein. She must just get on with it. Best to ignore it, I'd say. And so, my inheritance. They were the evidence of botched genes passed down from Oma through Mom and now marking me. Oma had married and had rubbed raw and ripped out eyelashes and eyebrows until the day Opa died. Mom had chewed her bottom lip to grotesqueness until the night we fled. And now another injured link in the family lineage. Best to ignore it, I'd say. "You're such a little coward," Paul had smirked. I tightened my fists deep into my lap. (Please not a girl). I had fled west, but I had come back; frightened, defeated. Pregnant. And when Paul had come over that first time, I had cried and cried.
"You, my little runaway, have caused a lot of trouble." His smile had splintered wide. "But it's over now. I know you're sorry. I'll just have to keep a closer eye on you. Can't have you
ruining everything." His voice had masqueraded soft, but his embrace had been skeletal. Eyes like dog bites now followed my days.
I dropped my head and rubbed my forehead (stop looking at me! ). I was finished. There was no resurrection in her eyes. I rubbed my palms together, my marks of shame. Sorry? Paul was right; it was over now.
Mom came over with a pair of her pajamas. "You sleep in my room tonight. Use the lock. I'll go into yours. It's all over. We need to think about die kleine, now." She took a bottle from the side drawer. "If you have trouble sleeping, take one of my pills. Things will look better tomorrow. You'll see. Sleep as long as you want."
My eyes rested on the small vial of sleeping pills. She must just get on with it. The door snapped shut. I poured the pills into my cupped hand. They covered the marks, my sad little smiles. "As long as you want," I whispered; the silence uncertain; vibrant. Forever?
Violet St. Clair |