Gilded Glory

A brassy grin beamed up at me, glinting in the fluorescent light overhead. The cherub figurine, palms squished into its cheeks, sat quaintly on the shelf amongst a horde of equally unsettling effigies. I shuddered.

“How about this one?”

I turned to see my sister gesturing to a rather worn mirror, black paint flaking sporadically.

“A little sanding, a little paint, a little Windex, and this baby will be good as new,” she quipped.

“That’s too much work,” I groaned, eyes wandering over the adjacent shelf of knickknacks. This one boasted a frenzy of porcelain, Victorian figures–women with dresses like tiered cakes and men with snowy pompadours. I always wondered about the purpose of such items–as with most pieces found in antique stores–but I supposed one man’s trash is another’s treasure.

“Besides,” I added. “I want a gold mirror.”

“Maggie, everyone wants a gold, ornate mirror nowadays. That’s why they cost an arm and a leg. Look at Anthropologie; I can’t tell you how many influencers I’ve seen post about that one mirror.” She scoffed at the last part, never one to go with the grain. My sister thrived on breaking the mold, never quite understanding my penchant for normality. “We’ve also been to at least five different antique stores, and none of them have had what you’re looking for. You’ve got champagne taste on a beer budget, babe.”

“Violet, this is all I want. This is the last piece to complete my place.” The last two words felt foreign on my tongue. I hadn’t referred to anywhere as “my place” since college. The last five years had been a whirlwind of milestones: matrimonial, residential, promotional, and–most painfully–infidelitous. An image of crimson lace under the passenger seat of my husband’s car flashed through my mind, and that familiar, white-hot rage ignited.

It was over long before it was actually over, Caleb had told me. You just couldn’t face the truth. Such raw and biting words from someone you thought you had known unfurled an obliterating pain within me; I had never felt so betrayed. Or angry.

Though I was mad at Caleb, I also wished his mistress would take a long walk off a short pier.

So one divorce, one year, and one move later I found myself starting over–alone. I had fallen from the grace of suburbia and landed in a weathered farmhouse on the outskirts of town. Character, that was the term the realtor used in her pitch; and although the shutters looked as if they were one gust away from taking flight, my wallet left me little room to turn up my nose at it.

“Maggie!” Violet’s call shattered my spiraling, internal monologue, and I wound through a maze of trinkets in search of her.

“Where are you?”

“Over here! Far right corner!”

I followed her voice further into the shop, to an isolated corner where even the fluorescents didn’t reach.

“And…voilà!” she proclaimed, yanking a dusty sheet from a monstrous shape propped up against the wall. A mirror gazed back at me in gilded glory.

Momentarily lost for words, I stood dumbfounded. “It’s perfect,” I whispered.

“There’s just one tiny problem,” Violet chimed. “There’s no price on it. But I’m sure we can ask.”

At that moment, an elderly man with glasses perched atop his head came scurrying forth from the woodworks. Stickers and pen in hand, he practically blew by us. Boisterously, Violet called out to him. “Excuse me, sir!” 

The man halted, wheeling around in search of the interruption. His beady eyes darted about, nose tilted high in the air like a rat sniffing out its next meal. “Yes?”

“How much is this lovely mirror?” Violet asked.

“Not for sale,” the man barked, a slight accent tainting his voice.

Just as he was about to turn on his heel, Violet spoke up once more. “Name your price,” she bargained, folding her arms across her chest.

“Not. For. Sale,” the man repeated sternly.

“Then why have it out on the floor at all?” Violet inquired; I could sense her temper flaring. “What a shame for you to lose out on customers who were so ready to spend their hard-earned money at your establishment. You know, I think I just might tell all of my antiquing friends to avoid such a misleading business. If not for that then for the rather unfriendly staff.” 

Her hawk-like features bore into the old man who seemed to accept his role in the exchange, for he sighed and offered, “One hundred dollars. You must carry it. My back, it’s no good.”

Violet smirked victoriously. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

***

The cozy glow of lamplight swathed my bedroom in its warm embrace. Hair pulled up and face mask applied, I crawled into bed for a bit of reading. A steaming mug of tea perched on my nightstand.

As I shuffled beneath the covers and flipped open my book, I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye. The mirror loomed nearby, and as I glanced over, all I saw was my own, slug-like appearance gawking back. I shook my head and began to read.

Tink. Tink. Tink.

I paused, listening again for the noise, but all was quiet. Grasping the nearby mug, I took a sip, chamomile slithering down my throat. Just as I was about to put down the mug, the sound returned.

Tink. Tink. Tink.

There was no mistaking it this time. Like fingernails on glass. Goosebumps prickled across my skin and a chill crawled up my spine.

A face.

Not my face.

Staring back at me. Gaunt, hollow cheeks and vacant eyes shrouded by a mass of black hair.

I screamed, leaping from my bed and barreling down the hall to the bathroom, shutting myself inside. Back against the door, I strained to listen over the pounding of blood in my ears. But all was silent.

I waited a few minutes before I finally mustered the courage to poke my head out. Fully expecting a crazed killer to emerge from the shadows, I wielded the only weapon I could procure from the bathroom: a spray bottle of bleach. Though I may not be able to maul an attacker, I hoped I could perhaps blind them enough to escape.

The silence of the empty hallway was ominous, but relieving. Rustic floorboards creaked underfoot, the noise ricocheting in the hollowness. Carefully, I crept back to my bedroom, not quite brave enough to check the rest of the house. If this was my fate, so be it.

I gave the room a onceover, even peeking under the bed. To my satisfaction, no predator lay in wait. Perhaps it had been my overactive imagination, something Caleb had tried to use to initially dispel his affair. You’re crazy, Maggie, really crazy.

“I’m not crazy,” I muttered through gritted teeth, climbing back into bed. But did I really want to admit that what I’d seen in the mirror was real? Somehow the idea of that was scarier than chalking it up to catching a distorted glimpse of myself.

Years prior, Caleb would have stalked through the house, chest puffed and jaw squared as he hunted the intruder. Now, I crawled beneath my covers and pulled them to my chin like a frightened child.

That night, every wooden groan of a settling house set me on high alert; the humdrum chirr of appliances and pipes seemed to echo tenfold. All the while my own crippling loneliness bore down on me.

***

In the light of day, the gilded mirror sat harmlessly. I almost laughed at the thought of myself cowering in the bathroom over nothing. But, as I stood before its grandiose facade, something disconcerting churned in my stomach.

Put it out of your mind, I ordered. Get on with your day.

As I devoured a pitiful breakfast of cereal and an overripe banana, I scrolled through Facebook. Suddenly, a post caught my eye. ACCIDENTAL DROWNING IN MAYFARE LAKE.

I clicked the link and was taken to a news article published earlier in the morning. A name jumped off the page: Isabelle Morrow. The mistress. The woman who knowingly slept with my husband right under my nose. My heart flipped, and I began furiously scanning through the rest of the article. No foul play is suspected, it read in its conclusion. Raven-haired Isabelle smiled at me, and I shivered. 

Some small part of me felt sorry for her, for Caleb. But beneath that goodhearted piece of my soul lay something morally repugnant that saw Isabelle’s death as karma, as justice for my shattered heart and ruined life.

I’d never been one to hold grudges or spew hateful words, until the affair. Something inside of me broke beyond repair, and the rose-colored glasses I once wore cracked, an ugliness seeping into my view of the world. No longer did I see the immediate good in people; I constantly kept my guard up. It was a bitterness that slowly spread through my veins.

As I switched on the TV, I was inundated with more coverage of the drowning. A reporter in an oversized parka emphatically reviewed the details of the accident, followed by the interviewing of several members of the lakeside community who threw out cliche phrases for tragedies. “It’s just such a shame,” a burly man lamented. I rolled my eyes.

Just then, a knock at the front door.

I paused, knowing it wouldn’t be Violet this early in the morning. Pacing to the foyer, the silhouette of a man was visible through the frosted glass. Still gunshy from last night, I cautiously opened the door.

“Caleb?” I asked incredulously.

Eyes rimmed red, hands in his pocket like a sullen child, Caleb sniffed and muttered, “Hi, Maggie.”

Stunned, I stumbled over my words. “W-what are you doing here?” What do you want? I wanted to shout, and imagined shoving him from the front steps and out of my life.

“I didn’t know where else to go, I–” He broke down then, reduced to sobs. “I’m so sorry, Maggie. I’m a terrible human being.”

I remained silent, crossing my arms and letting him grovel further.

“I know I don’t deserve your time, but could I please come in and talk?” Caleb asked. “Please, Maggie.”

The loneliness that had plagued me as of late nudged me. “Fine. Five minutes,” I snapped, wheeling around and heading back into the kitchen. Out of habit, I handed him a cup of coffee as he took a seat at the table, just like before everything went wrong.

He took a sip and thanked me. A pregnant pause filled the air between us, and he cleared his throat. “I’m such a–”

“You are.” I didn’t even give him a chance to finish. Whatever self-deprecating term he was about to throw out was true, and probably among the things I called him during the divorce process.

“First I broke your heart, and then I killed Isabelle,” he said softly.

I froze. “What did you say?”

“It’s my fault she’s dead,” he wept, head in his hands. “We had an argument, and she left to go take a walk and clear her head. The lake was one of her favorite places, but it was dark, and she must have tripped and fallen in, hitting her head on the way down. Meanwhile, I was drinking my troubles away at the bar while she was out there, cold and alone and dying. But all I cared about was numbing the pain of a pointless fight with a stiff drink. God, I’m so selfish.” He continued to cry, and I thought for a moment before I spoke.

“You had no idea something like that would happen, Caleb,” I reasoned. His hand slowly draped over mine, and he leaned into my chest, soaking the front of my ratty pajama shirt with his tears.

It had been at least a year since we were this close, and my heart skipped a beat. He glanced up at me, and for a moment, I saw the boy I first married, the boy before the promotions and before the late nights at the office–before Isabelle.

Suddenly, he brought his lips to mine; we collided, and I didn’t resist. Confusion swirled in my mind, but desire ignited within me. It had been so long.

We stumbled to the stairs, kissing every step of the way, until we reached the bedroom. A tangle of limbs, we collapsed onto tousled sheets. Warm breath tickled my neck as he planted kisses along my collarbone. And, somewhere in the chaos, a word escaped. Not just a word–a name.

“Isabelle,” he whispered.

Every muscle in my body stiffened, and nausea roiled in my gut. How could I have been so stupid?

I pushed him off of me, pure rage pumping through my veins. “I can’t believe you,” I spat. “Get out. Get out now!”

“Maggie, please, I didn’t mean–”

“Get out!” I screeched, shoving him towards the door. “I hate you. I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anyone.” The words were venomous, and I knew they sunk their fangs into him as his face contorted with regret. But I didn’t care. I wanted him gone.

As he left, door slamming behind him, I broke down. Sobs wracked my body as I sat mournfully on the edge of the bed. Through hot, stinging tears, I glanced up and saw my reflection. Swollen eyes, ruddy cheeks.

And then–

His face. Caleb.

It flashed before my own befuddled expression, and I screamed, scrambling backwards on the bed away from the mirror. Knees tucked to my chest, I whispered, over and over like a chant, “It’s not real.”

“It’s not real…”

***

One day cycled into the next. I hadn’t eaten a thing, remaining curled beneath my covers since Caleb’s departure. My skin crawled at the thought of our encounter, and the stress of it all extinguished my appetite.

A wintry chill had settled upon the house during the night, and I shivered. Wrapping the blanket around myself, I scurried downstairs to adjust the thermostat. I could practically see my breath in the air.

“Seventy-one…seventy-two…” I punched the keys with frigid fingers.

The familiar marimba of my phone echoed through the house. “Leave a message,” I grumbled, skulking back upstairs. The tone started again. And again.

Frustrated, I finally snatched it up. 5 Missed Calls. From Caleb’s mother. Perplexed, I answered on the final ring. “Hello?”

“Oh my God, Maggie, we’ve been trying to reach you all morning.” Her voice cracked; I could tell she was crying. Something felt very wrong. “It’s Caleb, he–” She could hardly get the words out. “He slipped this morning. There was ice all over the porch, and he slipped, and–oh my God, I can’t even say it.”

“What? What happened?”

“Maggie, Caleb is dead,” she cried in anguish.

The phone fell from my hand and hit the wood floor with a smack. Faintly, I could hear her wailing. “Maggie? Maggie?”

But I was too preoccupied staring straight ahead. At my own reflection.

In the mirror.

A wave of horror and realization washed over me then. I thought of the dark-haired face in the mirror the other night, the face I now recognized as the one I had wished would take a long walk off a short pier. I thought of Caleb’s sorrowful face after our fight, and how I envisioned shoving him from my steps from the get-go.

It couldn’t be…could it?

I had seen them both so vividly it was frightening. I could rationalize Isabelle’s death as a terrible accident, but Caleb’s nullified that theory.

Not. For. Sale. The man’s voice echoed in my head. He knew the power the mirror held, and chose to hide it away from the world.

My reflection gazed back at me, and then it smiled.