When
Stacy came through the mirror, the nurses heard the crash and ran to my room. I
lay on the carpet surrounded by the shattered glass, Mark staring at me as if
he’d never move again.
They
helped me to my feet, then started talking about medication, explained that I
needed to calm down. They wouldn’t believe I didn’t break the mirror myself.
I
insisted, asked Mark to back me up. But seemed frozen. His eyes fixed on the
floor, at the spot where Stacy appeared…and disappeared.
The
more persistent nurse took me by the arm. I pulled away, trying to make her
listen, though she refused. I grew frantic, the nerves in my stomach spiraling out
of control.
Then
suddenly Mark snapped into life.
“No,”
he’d said sharply.
The
nurse on my arm turned, smiling the smile they reserve for civilians. “Mr.
Gray, I’m sure Stacy will feel better if-”
"No,”
he said more firmly. Then he stepped forward and removed her hand from my arm.
“She’s finished. She’s coming with me.”
The
nurse garbled something.
I
let my shock show on my face.
Mark
would not be moved.
Within
five minutes we were at reception. He demanded they return my already packed
bag because he was signing me out.
A
protesting Doc was called, hefting the aforementioned bag.
Mark
was adamant.
I
couldn’t believe it.
I
was overjoyed.
Doc’s eyebrows threaten to disappear
into his receding hairline. “This is highly irregular, Mr. Gray. Can we please
discuss it–”
“There’s nothing to discuss, sir. My wife
no longer requires your help. You assured me that I had the legal power to
remove her from your premises at any time. I wish to do that now.”
“Yes, well,” Doc splutters, “of course,
you can, but-”
“Then what is the problem?”
Doc launches into a drawn out
explanation full of words like “delusions” and “denial of reality”. I can’t
follow and don’t want to. I’m watching Mark.
He’s barely spoken since Stacy came
through the mirror. His brow is furrowed. He’s not moving. His eyes are fixed
on Doc. If I’m honest, I’m waiting for him to decide that he’s not going to
help me after all. That he doesn’t believe.
I’m not ready to believe he’s on my
side. But so far… so far he’s acting like it.
I have hope.
I grip Mark’s arm with fingers like
talons, while he insists and the nurse reluctantly begins filling out my
discharge papers.
Then Mark’s fingers close over mine and
I look at him. See him new.
The way his sandy hair is thicker now,
but still lush and shiny.
The way his bright blue eyes are framed
by small lines.
The way his lips part and make me want
to kiss them. It’s been so long since
he’s let me kiss them.
His gaze rises from the nurse to me. He
catches me staring and for a moment I’m sixteen again. He isn’t mine. There is
no history except our friendship, and I’m embarrassed.
Then he clears his throat, leans into my
ear and whispers. “I’m sorry.”
He leans back again, searching my face.
I don’t have words for how wonderful it
feels.
I think he may have to carry me to the
car.
An hour later, Mark carries my bag,
pushing the glassy doors open with one shoulder – the main doors out of the
hospital, where guests and sane people leave. Not the private exit from Doc’s office.
Mark pulls me through the door by the
hand, standing in front of it so I can pass.
The sidewalk is littered with leaves and
the air has a bite that immediately turns my cheeks red. The immediate sense of
freedom – as if I’m skipping out on school – makes me giddy. I laugh and turn
to Mark. “Thank you!”
His face remains solemn, reminding me
that we do still have history, still have obstacles. But he nods, offering his
elbow for me to hug as we cross the small parking lot. I curl my hands around
the steel of his arm beneath the layers of jacket and shirt. His muscles
tighten when I press on them.
The tarmac is midnight black, heavy with
rain, though the skies are clear now. We skirt a puddle and walk between two
cars to reach our squatting, grey SUV. I realize I’m shaking.
Mark digs in his jacket pocket for his
keys and presses the button. The lights on our car flash. He lets me go, trots
around to the back to throw my bag behind the seats.
He’s taking me home.
He believes.
The first sob takes me by surprise.
The second takes my breath.
Then he’s back, folding me into those
arms that have been so hard and vacant and distant
for so long.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Stacy. I’m so
sorry…” The words are a mantra in my ear. His voice cracks and he pulls me
closer. He squeezes me so tight my breath is gone again. But it’s so good. It
feels so good.
“Stacy, I-”
“Just take me home. Please.”
Our home – a simple, but spacious
apartment in a family suburb of New York – looks different. Oh, the building
looks the same. The sidewalk still has the elm trees that made me fall in love
with it. And there’s still a stain in the corner of our lobby that I don’t want
to examine too closely. And our mailbox is still virtually empty.
But our home…when I step in the door, it
feels different.
The door opens right into a little
alcove between the living room and kitchen. Except they aren’t really “rooms”
as much as spaces blocked out by half-walls and furniture.
Mark has been here alone (I hope) for
the past three months. Two of my plants are dead. He’s removed one of my
paintings and replaced it with a poster of his favorite sci-fi movie. And
there’s last night’s fast food trash on the coffee table.
It doesn’t smell clean.
But it does smell like him.
I wander into the living room and end up
standing in the middle of the floor, just looking around. Mark steps up behind
me, but doesn’t touch me. Then he must realize I’m looking at his poster
because he clears his throat.
“I’ll put your picture back up. I just
wasn’t… I didn’t…”
“It’s okay.”
I turn around. He’s right behind me,
still a foot taller than me. Still a foot broader than me. He takes up so much
more space that sometimes I feel like I disappear when he’s around.
He looks down at me, and I realize that
seeing him in Stacy’s life has reminded me of how he looked, how he was when we
were teenagers. Looking at him now is almost a shock – he’s a man now. With a
man’s features. A man’s anger.
A man’s forgiveness?
Then he clears his throat. “Coffee?”
I have to swallow a nervous laugh. What
am I, a visiting neighbor?
“Sure,” I say, because what else can I
say. “But then can we sit and…talk?” I’m pulsing with curiosity about what he’s
telling himself right now. I’d kill to be inside his head in case he’s talking
himself out of believing the truth.
But I know him. Probably better than he
knows himself. He’s still processing. If I push him, if I try to make him see
it my way, he’ll just push back.
So instead of questioning him, I watch
him nod, then walk carefully toward the kitchen, presumably to make a pot of
coffee and bring us both a mug. He’s moving like he’s afraid the floor is going
to fall out from under his feet.
I know that feeling.
It’ll pass.
I walk to the window, look out and down,
onto the street where normal people hurry by in their normal clothes, doing
normal things. It’s a work day. Mark must have taken the afternoon off to come
to my session.
We didn’t know it would end like that.
Or rather, I knew how Stacy’s story
ended in my life. The question is, how will mine end now? We’ve gone off script…at
least, I think we have.
I remember going through the mirror. I
remember my Older Me sobbing and
crying out, but flinching away from me.
There’s a hollow ache in the pit of my
stomach that’s taking the sweetness out of my return home. Because I know what
just happened.
I got to see Stacy. And because Mark saw
himself too – which has never happened, I think – we may have changed her
future.
But she came through. And that means I’m
never going to see her again.
When I went through the glass, my Older
Me disappeared forever. But Stacy was there to take her place. I didn’t have
time to think much about what had happened to Older Me because I was too
preoccupied convincing Stacy she hadn’t gone nuts.
But now…now I’m forced to wonder.
Am I still the same person if I’m the
only self left in the mirror?
A strange sound emanates from the
kitchen, snapping me out of my reverie. I grasp at the distraction because,
frankly, I’m not sure I’ve got the resilience to deal with that loss right now.
But as I turn, the noise changes. Is Mark choking on something?!
I dart across the space, but the kitchen
comes into view three steps later and I jerk to a halt.
Mark stands in the middle of the
carefully tiled floor, his chin high and tense, pulled to the right. But his
eyes are fixed straight ahead. He’s staring at the wall behind the stove. It’s
a mirrored splashback – an indulgence he allowed me as part of the kitchen
renovation after his last big raise.
For a minute I think the shock of
everything has gotten to him.
But then…
“You can see me?” he whispers. Two
breaths later. “How…how are we doing this?”
I’m at his side in a flash, scanning the
mirror, looking for someone, anyone that isn’t me or Mark.
Mark swallows audibly. “I don’t know
what to think. I mean, are you… have you seen…this before?” He exhales loudly and nods, relieved.
My throat begins to pinch because I know
he’s talking to Stacy’s Mark. And I’m so happy for them. So happy for us.
But there’s a weight in my stomach
because I can’t see him. I can’t see anything except a mirror, and me, and my
husband staring into it, looking like the end of the world is approaching.
Fast.
Then I feel a little giddy because even
if I can’t see her, the fact that
Mark can see him means…
“Is she okay? Has she woken up?” I blurt
at my Mark, staring back and forth between him and the mirror, though I’ve
accepted that I won’t be able to see his younger self.
Mark startles, then stares at me as if
he’d forgotten I was there. He turns slowly back to the mirror and clears his
throat. “Uh… is, uh, Stacy okay? Has she woken up yet?”
I wait patiently, gripping Mark’s arm
again, reluctant to let him go. His fingers twine with mine, just like they
used to. I pray it’s more than just his body remembering me.
His head turns toward me, but he doesn’t
meet my eyes. “He says she’s awake, but Mom won’t let him in to see her.” Then
his eyes cut to mine. “Just like…”
“You,” I finish for him in a breath.
He nods. He looks at our hands. I feel
his grip tighten.
A tiny chuckle leaves his throat and he shakes
his head. When he speaks it’s into the mirror. Toward his younger self, still
living his past. I ache for him. But
I’m overjoyed.
“I…I can’t… I can’t quite believe this
is happening. But it seems like I don’t have any choice-” He cuts off as if interrupted.
“I know. I thought it was…I thought she was crazy.” His voice goes hoarse.
“But, it looks like I was wrong.”
“Is he still at the hospital? Are they
telling him what’s going on?”
Mark glances at me, then back to the
mirror. “You can hear her?” A hesitant smile breaks on his face a moment later.
“Yes, well, that’s true.”
I roll my eyes. I know that expression
on Mark’s face. “You guys can make fun of me later. Look, you have to let him
know-”
“He can hear you,” Mark says quietly.
Then his eyes meet mine for a brief second, and in them I see the truth. He
believes. My heart soars.
I squeeze his hand and swallow the tears
trying to press to the surface. “Okay, okay fine. Look…” I turn to the mirror
and talk to the surface. It’s disconcerting when I can’t see anyone on the
other side. “You can’t give up on her, Mark,” I say quietly. “Mom’s going to
make it hard, and Stacy’s going to be… in a dark place for a while. You have to
understand…for a while it will be too much for her. On top of everything else-”
Mark gasps. “Oh, no! I-I forgot!” He turns to look at me, then back to the
mirror, his mouth a round oval of horror.
“What is it?” I glance at the mirror and
back, wishing I could see and hear his younger self. Understand if he’d said
something.
Mark lets go of my hand, and I grab for
him, but he’s too quick. He steps up to the counter, leans toward the mirror,
as if he’d step into it if he could.
“When you talk to the doctor, don’t tell
him anything!” Mark barks into the mirror. He waits a second, then shakes his
head. “I didn’t know…about you. I mean, about her. Or…whatever, look, the point
is, we know something’s going on here, right? So, make sure when you talk to
the doctor you only mention the fight with Finn. Don’t say anything about her mental health, for goodness sake.”
I realize I’m frowning, staring at
Mark’s back hunched over before me, and his earnest face in the mirror.
“Mark, what-?”
“He’s going to ask to speak with you
when you try to get in to see her. He’ll do it without her mom, and he’ll tell
you it’s only for her file. That he won’t share anything with anyone who knows
her. He’ll ask about her mental state – ask you whether she’s ever done
anything strange. He’ll ask you what the letter was about-”
I gasp, because Stacy put a lot more
into that letter than I ever did. And if I follow what Mark’s saying…
“-and he’ll tell you he only needs to
know to make sure she gets all the
treatment she needs. But he’s really trying to justify a psyche consult because
he thinks she tried to commit suicide.”
“What?!” I snap.
Mark glances at me, but doesn’t move.
He’s intent on the mirror. “Just tell him you don’t know what the secret is,
but you suspect it’s about the cheating. And make sure you play dumb about the
mirror or anything weird that she does or says. Just focus on how people treat
her. Tell him…tell him you admire how she holds up under all that negative
attention. And how you think she’s much stronger than anyone gives her credit
for.”
A cold piece inside me melts.
Mark shakes his head. “Look, if this
turns out to be a dream, or whatever, you can just go back and tell him you
were too scared to tell the truth. But…but I think this is real and that
means…that means she can’t get into
the psyche system. That’s where it all goes wrong. That’s where…that’s…I
shouldn’t have listened to them…” Mark trails off, sagging a little against the
counter.
Then he turns to look at me and his face
blurs in the tears pinching my throat.
“I’m sorry, Stacy,” he says, a desperate
edge in his voice. “I’m so sorry-”
“You didn’t know.” I try to say it calmly,
but my voice cracks. “But I wish-”
I don’t finish because he’s crossed the
space between us to pull me into his chest. He’s squeezing me so hard I can’t
breathe. But it feels so good, I never want it to stop.
“I get it now,” he whispers in my ear. I
let my arms circle his waist and hold him back. “I won’t let him hurt her,” he
says, so softly I wouldn’t have heard it if his lips hadn’t been a hairsbreadth
from my ear.
But no matter how impossible this day has
been, he’s offering what I always wanted.
The sobs break in my throat and they
hurt. But even while Mark’s whispering comfort to me, he’s talking to his self
in the mirror over my shoulder. So I know this is the last time I’ll have to
cry for her. I know she’s going to be okay.
I haven’t failed after all.
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