Mirror, Mirror (Short Story)
26th February 2011
In: Short Stories
Kate was the first to notice that the mirror in my bathroom was missing. “Busted your mirror, then?” she’d asked, taking it for granted breakage must be the reason for its absence, then adding “That’s seven years bad luck, then.” She ended a lot of her sentences with “then” which was one of the several things that really irritated me about her. I suppose it was the sheer duration of our friendship — the comfortable habit of it and the fact that I had always been too lazy to make the effort to find new friends — that kept me tolerant. She phones at least twice a week and invites herself round for a coffee. I seldom put her off because she’s my link to the outside world. At that point, I hadn’t stepped outside the door for almost two months.
“I don’t need a mirror — I remember what I look like!” I joked unconvincingly, not answering her question as I judged it wasn’t any of her business. My reasons for taking it down weren’t up for discussion.
I’d been getting ready for bed the night before when I’d caught sight of my reflection and recoiled, the shock so extreme that I’d sat shaking on the edge of the bath, recovering slowly by splashing cold water on my face and neck. It must surely have been a cruel trick of the light — some psychologically self-induced hallucination seen with the peripheral vision — but I flinched so violently because it wasn’t me I saw in the mirror, it was my mother. Her face in profile — the same sagging jawline and crepey skin, the visible cheek rouged naturally by a faint web of broken veins, the deep crease beside her mouth darkened by constant disapproval. It was, I decided, a portent — a glimpse of myself as an old woman. A warning that genetic heritage was slowly turning me into my mother.
I couldn’t sleep but lay trying to think of ways of thwarting what appeared to be inevitable. It was a hideous thought — my own face becoming a constant reminder of someone I so wanted to forget about. Not that she had been a physically ugly woman. My father’s many family photographs proved she had once been quite lovely but, by degrees, her illness had stripped her of beauty — both inner and outer. Her coldness towards me as a child, her brittleness of character, her scornful responses to my efforts to please her — these made me think of her as unattractive so it’s the way I’ll always remember her. During my rebellious teenage years we’d argued fiercely and frequently — the usual power struggles between parent and growing child. My father stayed out of these spats, absenting himself to his greenhouse or shed. I never told him some of the things she said because they were so spiteful, besides, he wouldn’t have believed me. Although she showed him no affection so far as I could see, I know he always loved her, in spite of her frigid nature.
If there was no way of actually stopping it happening — this slow morphing brought on by the aging process — then at least I shouldn’t have to witness it. I decided to dispense with mirrors. After all, blind people manage well enough. I got out of bed and went into the bathroom. Then, standing well to one side so that I wouldn’t see my reflection, I unhooked the mirror and slid it right to the back of the airing cupboard. It had marked the wall above the basin — a distinct oval patch on the paintwork — so I’d have to find something to hang in its place.
Once Kate had gone, I went up into the attic and rummaged for an hour or so. I found a framed picture of an unnamed seaside promenade — possibly a souvenir from some long-ago family holiday. Anyway, it hid the mark on the bathroom wall well enough. But there were other mirrors still to deal with and even the thought was making me anxious. How to do it without seeing myself, or worse, another glimpse of my mother. I’d draped an old curtain over the dressing table mirror but worried that the slippery fabric might suddenly slide off. Eventually, I managed to secure it with string and half a dozen clothes pegs. Not very elegant but no one else was going to see it. The small mirror in the middle of the hallstand was less of a problem and easily obscured by two coats on hangers strategically placed to overlap. As I never wear a coat these days, it was unlikely I’d need to move them. I began to relax a bit, thinking I had everything under control.
But there were things I’d forgotten about — other shiny surfaces that reflected distorted but recognisable images back at me — the stainless steel kettle, the wide chrome bathroom taps, even the spoons in the cutlery drawer. It seemed the house was full of me, haunting myself, and I fancied I could hear my mother laughing and telling me I was soft in the head. The contempt in her voice was so sharp in my memory that I felt tears sting and my chest tighten but an accompanying rush of anger wouldn’t let me cry. I swore continually under my breath — the most foul words I could dredge up — as I wound masking tape round all the taps, wrapped the kettle in an old tea towel and unearthed the picnic basket, replacing all the EPNS with bright yellow plastic knives, forks and spoons.Then there was another voice, my voice, warning me that I was going crazy. I stared at the pill bottle for a long time before I gave in and took a couple of Valium.
Mrs. Caxton, my social worker, was the second person to remark on the missing mirror in the bathroom. She always talks to me like I’m a child or someone without a full set of grey cells. Which is why I never call her Gloria, even though she keeps telling me I should. Anyway, in between her asking how I am and me telling her OK and her trying to get me to elaborate on that — have I been out — no — why haven’t I been out — don’t want to — she sighs and checks her notes — I make coffee just for something to do. It’s the same most visits. Every time she tries to insist I should go out and not live like a recluse because it’s bad for me, I change the subject until she gets the message. She perseveres for about half an hour — probably the timeslot she gives me on her schedule — she finishes her coffee, then uses my bathroom before driving off in her puke-green Dinky toy. Anyway, this time she brought up the subject of the mirror. Perhaps “powdering her nose” as she terms it, is quite literal in her case. She asked did I have a mirror anywhere and I told her no. She blinked, brought up short, as though she found this quite unbelieveable. I saw her out and watched through the net curtain as she sat in her car writing up her notes. It took her longer than usual.
The last time Kate came round she had a package under her arm and I somehow knew what it was. She thrust it at me “Here, I saw this in the Oxfam shop and thought of you.”
I unwrapped the mirror gingerly, holding it away from me to avoid seeing any reflection. It was in a shell-pink frame patterned with dolphins. “Thank you — it’s very pretty. I’ll hang it up later.” Thankfully, she seemed satisfied with this. Of course, I didn’t hang it up — it went in the back of the airing cupboard with the other one.
Some days I can almost appreciate the twisted irony — alcoholics hide all their bottles from view, I hide my mirrors when no one’s around but have to make sure there’s at least one on show when anyone visits. Otherwise they tend to get edgy. Strange how others seem to find mirrors reassuring, even “normal” — whatever that means.
The fact I can’t bear to look in a mirror these days has to stay my secret
because I don’t believe anyone else could even begin to understand why that is. But then, no one knew my mother as I did. She may be dead but she’s still here — looking out through my eyes, seeping through my skin, dominating my thoughts. But I’m determined to stop all that. I’m planning an exorcism — a ritual cleansing of body and spirit — to send her to the dark place and set myself free. I found out how to do it and there’s no way she can stop me. It’s all I ever wanted — just the chance to be myself.
“I don’t need a mirror — I remember what I look like!” I joked unconvincingly, not answering her question as I judged it wasn’t any of her business. My reasons for taking it down weren’t up for discussion.
I’d been getting ready for bed the night before when I’d caught sight of my reflection and recoiled, the shock so extreme that I’d sat shaking on the edge of the bath, recovering slowly by splashing cold water on my face and neck. It must surely have been a cruel trick of the light — some psychologically self-induced hallucination seen with the peripheral vision — but I flinched so violently because it wasn’t me I saw in the mirror, it was my mother. Her face in profile — the same sagging jawline and crepey skin, the visible cheek rouged naturally by a faint web of broken veins, the deep crease beside her mouth darkened by constant disapproval. It was, I decided, a portent — a glimpse of myself as an old woman. A warning that genetic heritage was slowly turning me into my mother.
I couldn’t sleep but lay trying to think of ways of thwarting what appeared to be inevitable. It was a hideous thought — my own face becoming a constant reminder of someone I so wanted to forget about. Not that she had been a physically ugly woman. My father’s many family photographs proved she had once been quite lovely but, by degrees, her illness had stripped her of beauty — both inner and outer. Her coldness towards me as a child, her brittleness of character, her scornful responses to my efforts to please her — these made me think of her as unattractive so it’s the way I’ll always remember her. During my rebellious teenage years we’d argued fiercely and frequently — the usual power struggles between parent and growing child. My father stayed out of these spats, absenting himself to his greenhouse or shed. I never told him some of the things she said because they were so spiteful, besides, he wouldn’t have believed me. Although she showed him no affection so far as I could see, I know he always loved her, in spite of her frigid nature.
If there was no way of actually stopping it happening — this slow morphing brought on by the aging process — then at least I shouldn’t have to witness it. I decided to dispense with mirrors. After all, blind people manage well enough. I got out of bed and went into the bathroom. Then, standing well to one side so that I wouldn’t see my reflection, I unhooked the mirror and slid it right to the back of the airing cupboard. It had marked the wall above the basin — a distinct oval patch on the paintwork — so I’d have to find something to hang in its place.
Once Kate had gone, I went up into the attic and rummaged for an hour or so. I found a framed picture of an unnamed seaside promenade — possibly a souvenir from some long-ago family holiday. Anyway, it hid the mark on the bathroom wall well enough. But there were other mirrors still to deal with and even the thought was making me anxious. How to do it without seeing myself, or worse, another glimpse of my mother. I’d draped an old curtain over the dressing table mirror but worried that the slippery fabric might suddenly slide off. Eventually, I managed to secure it with string and half a dozen clothes pegs. Not very elegant but no one else was going to see it. The small mirror in the middle of the hallstand was less of a problem and easily obscured by two coats on hangers strategically placed to overlap. As I never wear a coat these days, it was unlikely I’d need to move them. I began to relax a bit, thinking I had everything under control.
But there were things I’d forgotten about — other shiny surfaces that reflected distorted but recognisable images back at me — the stainless steel kettle, the wide chrome bathroom taps, even the spoons in the cutlery drawer. It seemed the house was full of me, haunting myself, and I fancied I could hear my mother laughing and telling me I was soft in the head. The contempt in her voice was so sharp in my memory that I felt tears sting and my chest tighten but an accompanying rush of anger wouldn’t let me cry. I swore continually under my breath — the most foul words I could dredge up — as I wound masking tape round all the taps, wrapped the kettle in an old tea towel and unearthed the picnic basket, replacing all the EPNS with bright yellow plastic knives, forks and spoons.Then there was another voice, my voice, warning me that I was going crazy. I stared at the pill bottle for a long time before I gave in and took a couple of Valium.
Mrs. Caxton, my social worker, was the second person to remark on the missing mirror in the bathroom. She always talks to me like I’m a child or someone without a full set of grey cells. Which is why I never call her Gloria, even though she keeps telling me I should. Anyway, in between her asking how I am and me telling her OK and her trying to get me to elaborate on that — have I been out — no — why haven’t I been out — don’t want to — she sighs and checks her notes — I make coffee just for something to do. It’s the same most visits. Every time she tries to insist I should go out and not live like a recluse because it’s bad for me, I change the subject until she gets the message. She perseveres for about half an hour — probably the timeslot she gives me on her schedule — she finishes her coffee, then uses my bathroom before driving off in her puke-green Dinky toy. Anyway, this time she brought up the subject of the mirror. Perhaps “powdering her nose” as she terms it, is quite literal in her case. She asked did I have a mirror anywhere and I told her no. She blinked, brought up short, as though she found this quite unbelieveable. I saw her out and watched through the net curtain as she sat in her car writing up her notes. It took her longer than usual.
The last time Kate came round she had a package under her arm and I somehow knew what it was. She thrust it at me “Here, I saw this in the Oxfam shop and thought of you.”
I unwrapped the mirror gingerly, holding it away from me to avoid seeing any reflection. It was in a shell-pink frame patterned with dolphins. “Thank you — it’s very pretty. I’ll hang it up later.” Thankfully, she seemed satisfied with this. Of course, I didn’t hang it up — it went in the back of the airing cupboard with the other one.
Some days I can almost appreciate the twisted irony — alcoholics hide all their bottles from view, I hide my mirrors when no one’s around but have to make sure there’s at least one on show when anyone visits. Otherwise they tend to get edgy. Strange how others seem to find mirrors reassuring, even “normal” — whatever that means.
The fact I can’t bear to look in a mirror these days has to stay my secret
because I don’t believe anyone else could even begin to understand why that is. But then, no one knew my mother as I did. She may be dead but she’s still here — looking out through my eyes, seeping through my skin, dominating my thoughts. But I’m determined to stop all that. I’m planning an exorcism — a ritual cleansing of body and spirit — to send her to the dark place and set myself free. I found out how to do it and there’s no way she can stop me. It’s all I ever wanted — just the chance to be myself.