Mirror of Truth

Antique stores trigger memories of my grandparents’ kitchen. There was that white cabinet in the corner of the room that held my curiosity but never allowed me entry. Had I been older or less of an introvert I would have asked to see inside rather than just looking at it wistfully. I suddenly felt a sadness at the missed opportunity of my grandfather sharing with me stories of his antiques and how he bought and sold them.

The bells jingled as I pushed my way in the day before Thanksgiving. Would the shop be crowded with customers looking for gifts for their family or empty with everyone doing their last minute pie shopping? I hoped for the latter so I could take my time and poke about every nook and cranny. One day I would learn how to spot a treasure, what its value was and possibly its resale value. Maybe I would have a cabinet in the corner of my kitchen filled with silver bowls and plates found from walking the streets of the city exploring estate sales and flea markets.

Bzzz

Although on silent I still heard that buzz from my cell phone. Stopping in my tracks I put my hand to my purse then decided not to see who was calling. I let it go to voicemail as a basket of old postcards caught my attention.

Bzzz

The sound startled me as I had become absorbed in the faded writing on the backs of the postcards. A glimpse into the window of people’s lives over fifty years ago, their messages a snapshot of travel, missing a loved one, staying in touch. Before the written paragraph was replaced by 280 characters blasted out for the world to see, these mementos of the past held meaning that I hoped would survive.

I felt a flash of irritation at the phone’s interruption. This time I took it out of my bag to see what the emergency was, and, as expected, it was my sister calling me repeatedly.

Bzzz

Three times a charm? Not this time. I pushed the phone deep into my bag under the mess that had accumulated and needed attention desperately.

Too aggravated to continue the musings of the postcards, I meandered around and stopped at a display of mirrors. Picking up a silver handheld beauty I looked closely at the intricate design around the edges and handle. 

“You’re a bad person.”

I looked around shocked. Who would say that? Was someone talking to me? As I had hoped, the shop was almost empty as the turkey held priority over the oldies but goodies. No one was close by, no one seemed to be engaged in conversation anywhere at all. I must have imagined that.

Picking up the next mirror I noted the price tag reading $99. Was that a fair price? I had no idea. 

“You are the only one she has.”

That was definitely a voice, loud and clear. I looked around, no one was to be held accountable for the strange occurrence. I stood still, like a statue, like an antique. I was over fifty years old after all, I fit right in. Just place me between the rolltop desk and the Raggedy Ann dolls. “Middle Aged Woman, est. 1960s.” My price tag? No clue.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

I had chills. Something out of the ordinary was happening here. I looked around, panicked. Just me and the shop owner at the moment, she in the front by the register and me in the back in mirror hell.

I picked up the first mirror that I had looked at, slowly, slowly turning it over bringing it up inch by inch to meet my gaze. 

“Yes, you,” my reflection spoke to me.

“Me? What did I do?” I asked childishly as if being scolded by my mother for sneaking a cookie before dinner.

“Your sister calls you and calls you and you can’t answer? You can’t say hello, how are you, happy Thanksgiving?”

“I do answer,” I weakly attempted to stick up for myself, my voice small and not even believable to my own ears.

“You. Do. Not.” The mirror called me out boldly.

“I’m busy. I work a lot of hours.” I came to my own defense. I had to, no one else was there, no one else would even believe this.

“So? You work a lot of hours. You have time to aimlessly stroll an antique shop looking at items you only wish you understood.”

“Wow. You’re mean.”

“I’m you.”

“I’m not mean. I’m really nice. Ask anyone, the people I work with, my friends, neighbors. Everyone always says I’m so nice.”

“Do they know you have a sister that you ignore? A sick sister no less. A poor unfortunate girl who has no family other than you, literally not a single relative in the world who calls her.”

“Stop it.”

“Oh, have I hit a nerve?”

“I will call her.”

“You say that to pacify yourself for the moment, to ease the guilt. But you won’t do it. You will push it out of your mind the minute you walk out that door with your expensive purchases to decorate your beautiful new home. Tell me, has your sister been to your house lately?”

“She doesn’t drive.”

“Buses don’t go to your neighborhood? Ubers? Ever hear of those?”

“You’re right. I will call her today.”

“Now.”

“Now? I’m in public. I can’t call her now.”

“You can and you know it.”

Digging deep into my purse I located my phone which rang as I pulled it out, literally vibrating in my hand, my sister’s number flashing on the screen.

Bzzz

I looked at my reflection. My reflection looked at me. 

One more ring and it goes to voicemail I thought silently counting the intrusive buzzings. 

“I’m waiting. You know what to do.” Snarky reflection. How dare she make me feel like this? Trapped in my own guilt for being healthy with a family of my own. It wasn’t my fault she was the sick one. Two daughters, one sick and one well. It was the luck of the draw who received which life.

I quickly tapped my screen, saving her from the pit of voicemails to sit with the others ignored.

“Hello?” 

“Tracey! I’m so glad to speak to you! Happy Thanksgiving!” And so it began, the monologue about herself, the other patients on her floor, her roommate. In depth analysis of her latest paranoid thoughts, who was talking about her, who was giving her evil looks. I did my best to listen, to advise her, give her the much needed support. I don’t think my words mattered, I realized suddenly. Just the fact that I picked up the phone the day before Thanksgiving was enough. 

As we ended the conversation I overheard her saying “That was my sister. She sends her regards.” The crowd of happy voices in the background made me realize my oversight. I should have sent my regards, that was thoughtless. I would next time, I promised myself. I stood quietly in the back of the antique shop thinking about our conversation. She had sounded ok, even happy. I knew there would be a nice meal planned for the patients, the staff tried their best to make it festive. How many visitors would show up for the holiday? Probably not many, the guilt creeping back in thinking about my own home filled with the kids and their friends, the food and drink. The merriment. I didn’t deserve the good life. My price tag? Zero. I suddenly felt worthless.

I looked down at the table of mirrors and picked up the silver beauty. “You’re right. I am a bad person.” I felt like crying, a lifetime of repressed emotion threatened to bubble over like an ignored pot of boiling water.

“You made her happy today. She enjoyed the conversation.”

“But you don’t understand. She will call again. Probably even tonight. She’ll leave me a message saying how great it was to speak with me. Then she’ll call again after that to make sure I got that message. Then tomorrow it starts all over again.”

“So, speak to her every so often. Maybe every other day, every third day. Even once a week. It doesn’t have to be every minute. But it shouldn’t be never. The longer you put it off the worse it gets for both of you.”

“You’re right.” 

“I know I’m right.”

“You’re terrible. So mean and snarky. How do you live with yourself?”

“You tell me. I’m you after all.”

“I’m putting you down now. You can aggravate the next customer that has the misfortune of picking you up.”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“What? You think I’m going to buy you?” I checked the price tag. $150. That’s a lot for a bossy guilt-inducing mirror. “I can’t afford you.”

“You can’t afford not to buy me. You need me, I’m a blessing. Think about how happy your sister is right now, thanks to me.”

I grabbed the mirror by the handle and walked up to the register, placing it down rougher than I would have liked, thankful it didn’t shatter or worse yet, complain. “I’ll take this.” I tried to summon up a smile for the cashier who didn’t deserve the wrath of my moodiness. “And these.” I added the entire basket of postcards not caring how much they were just looking forward to the escape of my own life into theirs.

“Shall I wrap it for you?”

“Yes, please, wrap it tightly. We don’t want anything to happen to that treasure.” I smiled sweetly, ignoring the look of my reflection as the bubble wrap started its laps around her face. She would have to be quiet at least until we got out of the store. Blessing indeed. I did feel better though, to be honest. I pictured the smile on my sister’s face as we spoke. Maybe I would arrange a day pass so she could join us at the Thanksgiving table. I could call an Uber. I wondered if she knew what was inside that cabinet at our grandparents’ house. I will ask her the next time she calls.