Tempus (4 page)

As we backed out, he turned on the radio and started singing along with it, tapping on the steering wheel with his fingers.  I tapped my fingers on my knees, pretending to listen to the song, but watching him out of the corner of my eye.  Nope, not nearly as handsome as he used to be, not nearly as handsome as he
thought
he was, not half as handsome as the boy in the mirror. 
So there!

I already had myself unbuckled by the time we pulled into my driveway.  As soon as he put the monster in park, I was flying out the door, throwing a half-hearted ‘Thanks’ back over my shoulder.  I almost ran to the back door, jamming the key into the old lock and twisting it all in one move.  As I swung the door open, I heard Steve call out.

“Are you
really
okay?  I can stay a little while if you need me to.  I can call your dad…”

I cut him off.  “Nope, I’ll be fine.  .  I just need a bath and a nap.”

He started to walk toward me, concern on his face, “Are you sure, you look like…”

“I look like I need a bathroom!”  I gave him a
duh
look.

“Oh, umm.  Sorry.”  He said sheepishly.  “I’ll unload, then take off.  Sorry.”

“It’s okay.  Bye.  Thanks. 
Bye
.”  I slammed the door and locked it.

By the time I made it to the top floor, I almost
did
feel sick.  I hurried to my bathroom and started running water in the claw-foot tub.  That thing was so heavy I just knew one day the tub, the water, and I were going to go crashing down straight to the bottom floor. 
No
, straight to the ground
below
the bottom floor.

While I waited for it to fill, I looked at myself in the flat mirror on the door.  My brown hair hung in general disarray over and around my shoulders.  My clothes were nasty.  I had dirty smudges on my face where I had scratched my nose, wiped my forehead, and brushed my hair out of my eyes with my filthy hands.  In short, I was repulsive.  This was definitely
two
-
bath
dirt, so I hopped in the partially filled tub.  More like
slid
into it, slowly, because of the whole
falling through the floor
fear.

I decided to drain and scrub at the same time since it only took about forty five seconds to turn my bath water into a murky swamp.  I soaped, I scrubbed, I shampooed, I rinsed, and I repeated.  While I let the conditioner soak into my hair, I tried to pick the dirt from under my fingernails.  I had never noticed before just how ugly my nails were.  They were short and stained from constantly using finish restorers or scrubbing dirty things.  I got whatever I could from under them, rinsed my hair, and got out.

After drying my hair, and myself, I went to my chiffarobe to find some clothes.  I didn’t own that many clothes, mostly jeans and tee shirts, but I did have a couple of things I thought were cute.  I found my pretty lace camisole, my sleeveless white eyelet top, and a pair of faded cut-offs that I liked because they somehow made my legs look longer.  I brushed my hair up into a ponytail, secured it in place, and went back to the flat mirror in the bathroom.

“Not too bad,” I said to myself, but not exactly what I wanted to see.  I grabbed my little makeup bag off the shelf near the sink and took out the mascara.  My eyes were my best feature, big, dark brown, with little flecks of gold.  I swiped the brush fast along my top lashes, and then gave myself an alluring look in the flat mirror. 
That’s
the look I wanted, natural, only better.  Then I realized what I was doing.

“Ohmigod, I’m insane!”

I went back to my room and sat down hard on my bed.  “What am I doing?  What am I
freaking
doing?  I have lost my mind.  I knew it.  I knew I would lose my mind one day.”  The fact that I was saying all this, out loud, to
myself
, only confirmed my suspicions.  I wished I could talk to Julie.  I
couldn’t
talk to Julie.  Not about
this
.  Not
ever
.

Might as well get it over with.  Might as well go down there and see what happens.  Probably imagined it all anyway.  Probably breathed in too many cleaner fumes.  Probably have a brain tumor.  My inner monologue continued all the way down the stairs, all the way to the back porch.  All the way to still covered mirror.

There it was, just standing there innocently on my back porch.  I reached over and tugged the tarp, which came off with a whispering sound and floated into a heap at my feet.  Yep, there it was.  “Mirror, mirror on the porch, which of us is the biggest dork?”  It was the best I could do; I had never been a poet.

I walked closer.  I felt like I was sizing up an opponent.  I walked around it, looking it up and down, almost expecting it to do something.  It didn’t, of course.  It just stood there, waiting for me to finish.  I finally asked it “What
are
you?” but it didn’t answer. 

I laughed at my foolishness.  It wasn’t so bad if I just allowed myself to pretend I was crazy, or in a movie. 
Yeah
, that’s what I would do.  I would pretend I was in a movie and I would interrogate the mirror.  I would be the ghost hunter and the mirror held someone captive in the glass.  It was my job to set him free, or something like that.

“If you’re in there, and you can hear me, knock three times on the glass!”  I peered at the mirror and listened intently. 
Nothing
.

Hmmm.

I knew what I should do, but I wasn’t ready to touch it yet.  I noticed how dirty it was and thought I should clean it up a little.  Maybe that would make the mirror happy, and it would release its prisoner out of gratitude.  I giggled a little at that thought.  It was like being little again, and playing make-believe.  Using your imagination occasionally couldn’t be a bad thing.

I went inside, found some cleaners, cloths, and a couple of pieces of newspaper, and then returned to face the mirror.  I started on the wood, top to bottom, careful not to touch it with bare skin.  The dirt and grime in the carved details took some work, and some patience, but I eventually got it all.  When I finished with the wood, I started on the glass.  I sprayed, I wiped, I polished, starting at the top and working my way down, as careful not to touch it with my fingers as I had been with the wood.  The mirror had a few dark spots, but was in good condition overall.  I stepped back to admire my work.

One look at myself in the mirror and I realized something—I touch my face a lot when I work.  Well, I wasn’t about to touch that mirror until I washed my face!  A dash to the kitchen and a clean cloth took care of
that
problem, and then right back to the mirror.  I looked carefully at my reflection.  Not perfect, but not bad.  Moment of truth time.

I faced the mirror squarely and looked over the trim, remembering exactly where I had placed my hands.  I noticed a few butterflies, not in the yard, but in my stomach.  Not many things made me nervous, so I was not exactly sure how to handle it.  I took a deep breath to calm down, as they tell you to do in the movies.  I placed my hands on the mirror, but closed my eyes.

My eyes did
not
want to open.  It was partly because I was afraid I would see something, and partly because I was afraid I wouldn’t.  I was too scared of either one, so I let go.

Time is the longest distance between two places.

—Tennessee Williams

I kept my eyes closed for a few more moments.  I imagined the blue-eyed boy on the other side.  Was he there?  Did he see me?  If I’d only had the courage to open my eyes, would I have seen him?

My fear turned into something else in those few seconds—I
had
to know if it was real.  I might not see him at all.  If I didn’t, that wouldn’t confirm anything except that I didn’t see him
this
time.  But if I saw him, if he was there, if he looked at me, if I knew that he could
see
me…

I didn’t know what that would mean, but I knew it would mean
something
.  I took another deep breath and extended both my arms.  Opening my hands, I leaned forward, and grasped the mirror firmly.  I stared at it without blinking for as long as I could, and there, looking straight into my eyes — was me.

I waited. 

I don’t know why I waited, but I did.  I had never had to wait for a glimpse,
ever
.  I had also never seen anyone see me back, I reminded myself, and so I stood there, and waited.  I closed my eyes, and then opened them, and still there was only me.  I put my face near the glass; close enough to fog it when I breathed.  Nothing happened.  Nothing at all.

A wave of some emotion washed over me.  I’m not even sure what it was.  It was like sadness, almost, but not
entirely
.  It was also like disappointment, but that wasn’t quite it either.  It even felt something like failure, just a little.  Whatever it was, it wasn’t relief, it wasn’t happiness, and it wasn’t the way I normally felt.  Even when I saw something I
desperately
wanted to see more of but couldn’t, it didn’t bother me much.  That was all just a part of it, a part I’d learned to live with a long time ago.  This time I felt like—like there was
supposed
to be more, and I was doing something wrong.

Once again, I didn’t know what to do.  I
should
just go upstairs, read a book, and take advantage of my day off.  I should call Julie and ask her what she was doing.  If I got her started, she could talk all day and that would definitely take my mind off this fiasco a little bit.  Was it a fiasco?  Not much, it was more of an annoyance, but it
felt
fiasco-ish.  I
should
just turn around, walk away, and forget it all.

I started to look at my watch and check the time when I realized I had forgotten to put it back on after my bath.  It didn’t matter much at this point, I guess.  By now, I was beginning to believe it was entirely possible I had imagined it all.  Maybe not all of it, but the part of it that had made me act like a psycho.  The part where I thought
he
had looked at me.  Perhaps the beautiful boy was nothing more than a regular, run-of-the-mill glimpse.  I had seen other boys that were attractive, after all, boys who were probably eighty years old by now, if they were still living.  The thought made me a little sad, but it calmed me down, and I needed that.

I thought of the handsome man and the beautiful woman in the perfume bottle.  That’s the way I kind of thought of glimpses—as moments stuck
inside
the objects.  I had never thought of them as existing any other way, even as a child.

When I was very young, I didn’t know other people couldn’t see them.  I sometimes said things about what I saw.  Mom always seemed interested, but Dad just chalked it up to a vivid imagination, even tried to ‘play along’ sometimes, which confused me.  It confused me because I knew he had no idea what
he
was talking about, and parents are supposed to be smart and know
everything
.  I was talking about ‘real’ things, and he was making things up.  It eventually turned into
me
playing along with
him
, instead of the other way around.

I was about five or six when I discovered that some objects could give me glimpses almost every time I touched them.  Mom had given me a Kenton Hansom Cab from the 1940’s, and I would wheel it around the floor saying ‘Where to, Madam?’  The little girl I would see was normally wearing a blue-striped pinafore sundress, her blonde hair in pigtails.  I would mimic her while I was playing.  Once I ran over my own fingers and shouted ‘Horsefeathers!’  Mom asked me where I had heard that.  I told her that’s what Mary said when she hurt herself.  Dad decided Mary was my ‘imaginary’ friend—but I knew better.

I knew she wasn’t imaginary, but I also knew I couldn’t play with her, or talk to her.  I was sad because part of me felt like Mary
was
my friend.  I got to hear her sing, or talk about school, or talk to her parents about everyday things.  Every glimpse was just a little different, but she was always playing with the toy. 

It was new then.  The horse was white as snow, the cab as black as ink, and the wheels bright yellow.  She loved it, and so did I.  By the time it came to me, it was damaged, the paint faded and chipped, but I loved it just the same, and I loved Mary.

I wondered for a moment if Mary was out there somewhere, still living.  I wouldn’t know how to find her if she was.  I wondered, too, if Dad had any idea where the little cab came from.  I briefly thought how neat it would be to be able to find Mary, and show her the little Hansom Cab.  Would she even remember it?

I was sitting on the porch swing now, pushing myself back and forth with one foot.  I didn’t even remember sitting down.  I looked over at the mirror, silent and stoic.  I also became aware of a beautiful, haunting melody carried by the slight breeze.  Piano, coming from Mrs. Watson’s parlor, no doubt. 

She played like that whenever she was sad, whenever she was missing
Mr
. Watson.  I wondered how long she had been playing — it was the perfect backdrop for my sudden feeling of melancholy.  The poignant tune was both comforting, and heartbreaking.  I listened until she stopped and waited to see if she would play another, but there was only silence.