A Papered Mirror

“Lovely, did you get that?” I heard her voice tremor like still water on a shaken table. My eyes were lost, scanning the walls with stains of the past. “Hon?” The soothing voice turned clear from the initial drone as I stared into the artistic wrinkles on her face. I had grown used to Mrs. McNulty’s presence in my life as she presented one apartment to another, one house to another, each with her hands spread grandly as if there wasn’t any other final destination I would rather see. The journey was a maze—each place I saw, drowning me further into darkness.

“Sophie, is everything good?” Mrs. McNulty placed her bony hand on my shoulder because we had reached that point in our professional relationship, which was now coming to an inevitable end.

“Yes, I’m fine, and thank you, I think I’m all set.” I cleared my raspy throat as Mrs. McNulty locked the panel with all the green and red switches.

“Well then, here are your keys, love.” Mrs. McNulty dropped the metal chain into my palm with a distinct clatter of metal on metal. “I shall be off then. Congratulations on your new home.”

After the door clicked shut, there was not a sound I could hear as the buzzing of silence filled my ears, and my throat struggled to release a phlegmy cough. The cold metal keys had warmed up in my palm, but the empty walls of the house hadn’t yet. The floor was a foreign land I had to walk on timidly, and the furniture I bought a few days ago was the unacquainted ocean. I stared into space, into the brown leather sofa, and the few scratches on the walls that might have been from moving or whoever had lived in this two-floor, three-bedroom, cramped house. When Mrs. McNulty displayed Maple Home with the same grandeur she had for everything else, she never once spoke of who had lived in this empty house just before, and I never thought to ask. It didn’t matter.

I stepped forward; the floors groaned as if my presence was not welcome. It also stenched faintly of soggy mud and puddles of rain. I could only hear my thoughts now and the faint buzzing silence, which I wished was replaced with the sound of someone else brewing coffee or baking cinnamon rolls, to fill the house with the smell of buttery goods. This was my first home, welcoming me with a brown sofa I barely owned and wailing floorboards. Pushing aside my thoughts for just a split moment, I tromped over to the kitchen grudgingly and tore open a pack of chocolate chip cookies—the crumpling plastic a treat to my ears. The bits of chocolate were stuck stubbornly in my teeth as I continued to munch on the bite-sized cookies. Crumbs were now left on the freshly cleaned counter and floor beneath. At least there was a trace of something inside.

***

Cookie crumbs and the scent of spicy ramen weren’t much, but the empty house felt slightly lived in as I found myself tucked in bed with my chocolate hair draped over the pink and blue floral bedsheet. The smell of rose detergent felt a bit more like home, at least; it was like I found myself back in time between those baby blue walls and seashell blinds drawn shut at night.

Inside the bedside table was a bar of chocolate, pure melancholy, and behind it was something my hand brushed for the first time.

A crumbling leather-bound book.

It must have been something left by Mrs. McNulty, but the worn-out exterior and elastic strap hanging on its last fibre didn’t make much sense for a handbook or guide to Maple Home. I opened it to the same wafting smell of old papers in the basement of my childhood house. The pages filled with the pourings of my mother’s heart; everything—all of her words—she just couldn’t say out loud.

Dear Diary,

The rain is pouring madly outside. The drops are clattering against the window, and I can see the grass move under the sheer weight of water falling from the sky. The commotion nature creates fills my ear with a melody, which is too often full of buzzing silence. I had coffee with Joe this morning, and it was civilized. As it is when you meet someone for the first time. But sparks didn’t fly. Sparks never fly above me like they do for everyone else, or so it seems. Marie is with David, and Franny is with Vincent. Daisy has ten friends, maybe more, and I know all of them, but none of them remember me. As Marie and David barely make ends meet, I thought this house would be my family. Rooted in the ground, a place to settle and never leave. I was so sure it would be comforting, but the blank walls and empty halls feel like they are caving in each time I walk to the kitchen for a cup of tea or to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I travel the world to photograph weddings and destinations and editorials for magazines everyone knows of, all of which brought me to a house that Marie could never have, but to David, Marie is the light in the storm, the diamond in the rough, the queen of his heart—which he says is the only queen that matters. I cringe, but with stinging tears, because plain walls don’t say any of that. At times, I hear whispers in my head, a deep, resonant voice saying all the things David says, and then the voices turn into mine and back into the anonymous man. Maybe I’m the character of Mad Girl’s Love Song. Listen to me ramble on and on about frivolous nonsense. A paper is a dangerous place for your thoughts, concentrated in a fully realized form. I wish there were someone to tell, a way to let the words out without letting them plant firmly anywhere…

***

“The property of Sophie?” I had fallen asleep reading half a diary entry and woke up to leathery bits sprawled on my bed. The inner cover of the diary said my name, and the coincidence sent shock waves down my spine at the photographer who lived in this house before me, sharing the same name and a life so similar to mine. When buying Maple Home, I had completed the fifth book of a series that entered this world like a ray of light—not my words, but the words of the dear Rufus Blight, who thinks a prize is firmly within grasp.

I was up in no time as daylight trickled in and soon found my way to the dainty kitchen nook. The smell of black coffee, which I just made, erupted from the steaming mug, erasing the scent of instant ramen sauce droplets spilled on the kitchen counter the night before. The diary continued to fall apart, but I kept dusting off the remnants, too curious to see what else Sophie had to say about Marie and David or Daisy.

Dear Diary,

I keep crying myself to sleep at night. But no one is there to tell the tale. I cry and cry, and then I wake up in the morning with a cheery smile for a day of work. I met Marie in college, and we both dreamed of becoming the ‘best photographers’, creating unique images for magazines and expanding stories where words would fall short. Marie was never really a friend. I never believed she was. Her golden brown waist-length curls and piercing green eyes captured anyone in sight. That flawless skin would never be mine. We were friends for a while, but people never stay. I was a temporary friend in her life, and soon, she shifted back to everyone else who would party all night and to David, who was always by her side. He really is there all the time. I became the best photographer, I achieved our dream tenfold, but it still feels like I got the short end of the stick. Daisy was a friend, too, but people never last. Daisy spent every day with me, modeled for me when I still needed to practice using a camera, and spontaneously called me for dinner from time to time. When my exhibition came by, Daisy never did. I asked her to support me, but she just couldn’t find an hour on a Friday evening to show up. And so, I took a break from her, but once I came around, she wasn’t waiting at all. She had ten friends, but she was my only one. Marie was never there, and Daisy didn’t last. Listen to me ramble on about Marie and David, and Daisy. I knew Franny at school, and while we were both the shy ones in high school, college brought out a different colour from Franny. She started to go out, to meet people. She met Vincent, and then I was just a girl she knew from school. School was my hell, and I thought college would get better. College was just more civilized, that’s all, and then the real world just circles back to high school, but so much worse. The success comes, but the sorrows come tenfold.

Sophie

The biscuit crumbs from the bottom of the mug filled my mouth. I placed the mug, grimacing, and reached for another digestive biscuit—a box I naughtily left on the kitchen nook to reach for after every meal and with every hot drink. Sophie’s diary was truly written for her mind alone. All those buried feelings, displayed in a jumble across the pages, filled my insides with a sense of loneliness both times I read an entry. Did Daisy know how she made Sophie feel? Did Marie think she was better than Sophie? People never stay. But a house can, and so Sophie bought this house, and so did I. A faint ring came down the hall as if the doorbell was half pressed; someone reluctant must be standing outside the mahogany wood. I half-heartedly got up to open the door to a stranger that I had yet to know.

Behind the door, I came face to face with an elderly lady wearing a floral dress made of the same print as old curtains, her cloud-like hair billowing across her shoulders.

“Hello there, I just wanted to pop on by and welcome you. I live right next door. I’m Ellie.” Her voice wavered just like Mrs. McNulty’s, but her tone was much more comforting.

“Right, it’s very nice to meet you. I’m Sophie,” I said with a forced smile.

“Huh, what a coincidence, the previous owner was also a Sophie. She barely lived here, though.”

“Oh, that is a coincidence.” I pretended to learn this fact for the first time. “Do you know where she went?” I couldn’t help but pry for anything about Sophie, anything else about her.

“Oh, I don’t know. I came home one day and I saw a moving truck take all of her stuff away. Sophie kept to herself, you see. Never smiled much and stayed locked inside on her computer most of the time. I’m not sure she cared much about anything other than work. She was a sweet one, though. Well, it was nice to meet you, Sophie. I do hope you enjoy living here.”

“Thank you. It’s a lovely neighbourhood, I’m sure I’ll love it.”

“Take care, love.” Ellie steadily descended the front steps of the porch.

I closed the door, the click barely audible. Sophie’s writing was in agony; each word she wrote about Marie and Daisy felt like a stab wound in the back. A blister popping. But to Ellie, all Sophie did was keep to herself; idle in front of a computer all day.

Maybe I kept to myself too.

The sun was fully ablaze, and I found myself halfway through the diary filled with loopy letters and ink smudges all across the margins. Time began to space out, and moments from Sophie’s life were read in gaps, but they weren’t so hard to fill. It was always the same people over and over again.

Dear Diary,

I made 30 under 30! I’m officially one of the ‘best’ at what I do. The unceasing smile on my face feels so nice for a change. I also can’t stop jumping around my house. Now my ears are full of the thumping sounds of wooden floorboards and my own voice squealing in delight. My pizza is coming soon, and I will watch a movie to celebrate this day. I’m still all alone, but my face is out there on that list for the world to see. I bet, or sincerely hope, Marie is sitting with David when she sees me be the ‘best’. We both set out to do that, but she is so many miles behind, she would probably never reach my side. I hope Daisy sees this and it scars her to the core. She might have ten friends, but I would have been worth all those ten. At least I hope. I’m happy for now. Today is for happy because that doesn’t come too often in this silent home.

Sophie

Sophie did find some happy, but the melancholy couldn’t be shaken off me no matter how hard I tried. Is this what it’ll always feel like? I shuddered as my fingers traced the blue ink on tea-stained paper. I flung the diary onto the coffee table and stared at the ceiling, wondering where Sophie was and if I could find her. The crack in my ankle persisted, and I rolled my foot back and forth under the soft fleece blanket.

The June weather was still chilly, but at least the sun shone in all its glory. I twirled a strand of hair in my hand, heated up instant mac and cheese, and watched Sabrina and Funny Girl, to take me back to a time that wasn't my time—my reality. By dusk, in bed, Sophie’s diary invited me into all its private internal affairs. I wondered if Sophie might come back to retrieve the possessions she left in this house. Her diary, maybe something more. I thought of all the ways I could meet Sophie, until the next page shot through my thoughts like a pistol. On the pristine paper lay the same cursive font in ink so fresh, it could have been written moments ago.

Dear Sophie,

I’ve spent so much time thinking. Thinking of what Marie has that I don’t. Of the ways Daisy thought I wasn’t worthy. I also got so much from everything I did, but all that ever came from that was another night alone in my home with a smile that couldn’t be shared. I remember my last night in despair. A freak accident that involved a slip and a simple break. So I left without so much as a goodbye or a mark left on anyone who truly knew me. I was always the one who just kept to herself, but you and I both know that isn’t the case. The world feels like it's plagued, but with everything bottled up, our insides begin to turn ill as well. Try not to let that happen.

Sophie