Returning Marie

Now before I say anything else, I just need to establish that I am not mad.

I have every reason to be mad, but I’m not. I’m not mad. I’ve never been less mad than I am right now even though I have every reason to be madder than I’ve ever been in my life.

To the best of my recollection, you were not working here when I came in on Sunday. I’m sure I would remember somebody with as many piercings as you, especially with you being such a young lady and all. I’m sure I would have made some sort of comment about how you don’t have a wedding ring on your finger, and that’s probably due to all those cartoons you’ve chosen to imprint upon yourself.

No, no, when I came in here on Sunday, there was a rather old man working behind the counter. I told him I was looking for a rug, because my mother-in-law is coming to town, and whenever she comes over, she expects me to put out all the gifts she’s gotten me over the years. Eighteen years of marriage, and she expects to see everything she’s ever bought as though my home is some sort of Daphne Rubite museum.

That’s her name. Daphne Rubite. She tells me it’s Latin, but who knows? The woman lies about everything. Why should her name be any different?

Anyway, she got me a rug for Christmas last year, and it was so hideous, that I kept it outside in the shed, but when I sent my husband, Griff, to go fetch it so we could display the awful thing, he said it appeared somebody had broken into the shed and stolen it. Do you believe that? Somebody actually wanted that disgusting rug so much they committed a crime in order to have it. Not that there’s much in that shed worth anything, but even the bags of dirt would have been a better choice. My word.

I came in here on Sunday because I was looking for a rug that appeared similar to the ugly rug that was stolen, but despite this (allegedly) being an antique store, you do not sell rugs here. I believe I filed a formal complaint in that little suggestion box you have at the front, but I haven’t heard any response yet. We can circle back to that later.

When I expressed my disappointment to the old man working here at the counter, he offered to give me a discount on what he described as “a rather interesting mirror.” He went into the back of the store and came back with the item. I found it to be a bit too ornate for my taste. It was imitation gold, and the glass had several scratches on it. I told the old man that a discount would not suffice for a damaged object, but that I would accept it as a gift from the store since I found it so unprofessional of him not to offer unattractive rugs.

He took a moment, looked at the mirror, and then agreed to give it to me gratis.

The old man did not put up much of a fight, and I suppose I should have taken that as a sign that something was amiss.

When I got the mirror home, I had absolutely no desire to ever look at it again. The only reason I took it was because I never turn down a deal, and there is no better deal than free. I decided to deposit it in my daughter’s room. Reva is fifteen, and as such, she believes she has impeccable taste when, in fact, she has no taste whatsoever.

She was quite stunned when I showed her the mirror. It’s unusual for me to give her gifts, even on her birthday, when I usually donate money to a charity in her name. She took to the mirror immediately, and Griff did his best to hang it in her room without putting holes in every wall. Finally, he managed to erect it by her closet, and then we all went about our day in preparation for the arrival of Queen Daphne.

Almost immediately, things began to go wrong. I noticed that suddenly all the photographs around the house had been altered. I had no idea how it was happening, but the heads of everyone in the photos were gone. Simply gone. I thought it might be some sort of prank, but neither my husband nor my daughter are all that funny.

When I mentioned the occurrence at dinner that night, Reva confessed to me that she believed her mirror was haunted. Not just haunted, mind you, but haunted by the ghost of Marie Antoinette.

I would have chalked the whole thing up to a teenager’s imagination, but my daughter is the least imaginative person you’ve ever met in your life. Deciding to investigate myself, I marched straight up to her room and planted myself in front of that mirror. Sure enough, after only a moment or two, there she was.

Reine de France, herself.

She had her head, but there was a minor scar around her neck, and she was holding the most adorable little dog. My French is spotty since I haven’t spoken it since college when I spent a semester abroad in Paris smoking cigarettes and ordering hamburgers at French cafes. I managed to work out that the mirror given to me was once owned by Marie’s great-great granddaughter, and she had taken up residence in it since she found Heaven to be rather dull. She was the one who changed all the photos, and she said she planned on committing even more mischief for as long as she was in my house unless I donated her to a museum where she belonged.

Well, if that stuck-up monarch thought I was going to relinquish my own property simply to avoid a little poltergeist-ing, she was sadly mistaken. I told Marie that she was now a guest in my home and would act accordingly, or I would see to it that her mirror was placed in the shed where some petty thieves might abscond with it the same way they had with the revolting rug my mother-in-law had purchased for me.

I was so invested in intimidating a dead Frenchwoman that I didn’t even hear the front door open. Daphne had entered our house (without knocking, shocker) and came right upstairs to greet Reva, because her granddaughter is the only person she actually cares to see. She arrived just in time to hear me relay to Marie the story of the stolen rug, and she was none too pleased. I turned to see her standing in the doorway holding the most vile candelabra I’ve ever laid my eyes on.

“Well,” she huffed, “Would you care to throw this in the shed as well?”

Truth be told, that’s exactly what I wanted to do with it.

* * * * * * *

Over the next few days, I couldn’t tell you who irritated me more--my mother-in-law or the ghost of Marie Antoinette. While Daphne did her standard passive aggressive commentary on everything from my fashion choices (“A woman your age wearing skirts? How brave!”) to how I raise my child (“Would one birthday gift a year really be that bad?”), Marie preferred to be a bit more whimsical in her torment.

The house was constantly filled with smoke for no reason at all. It wasn’t until I located the source of the smoke that I realized our oven was on high and there was a cake burning inside of it. It might be true that she never actually uttered the phrase about letting servants have their pastry, but that’s no reason to waste perfectly good food. I have no idea how she even put the cakes together in the first place since we normally order take-out and keep absolutely nothing in our pantries--another tidbit Daphne likes to use against me when she visits.

“No sugar,” she’ll squawk, “What kind of a household has no sugar?”

A skinny household. That’s what I feel like saying, but I never do.

If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought the two of them were conspiring against me in my own home. Daphne blamed Marie when all my skincare products were suddenly smeared all over the bathroom walls, but I can’t believe anyone that rich would willfully waste La Mer.

Marie was definitely responsible for what was going on with Reva, however. My daughter suddenly began acting out. She was shouting about bourgeoisie and escargot and something about a pot de chambre. It took me a day or so, but then I understood that Marie was trying to possess the girl in order to have an even more effective way of terrorizing everyone in the household. Griff was no help at all during all of this, by the way. He loves the History Channel, so, for him, this was all wildly entertaining.

It wasn’t until Reva began taking five baths a day and demanding that I feed her bon bon’s that I decided enough was enough. My plan was to take the mirror out to the shed and smash it into a thousand pieces, but I remember seeing an old horror film where destroying the haunted item caused the specter to permanently embed itself in the home. The last thing I needed was my daughter walking around like royalty until leaving for whatever community college we’d be sending her off to.

I waited until earlier today when Daphne and Reva were sitting on the couch with a cheese plate watching Les Miserables, and then I tore up to Reva’s room and grabbed the mirror. I had to be careful coming down the stairs with it, but luckily for me, they were engrossed in the scene where the revolutionaries were being slaughtered.

“Brilliant,” I heard Marie exclaim in French, “I just love a good comedy!”

Somehow, all by myself, I managed to get this ghastly mirror into my car and drive it all the way back here. Now, I would like to return it. I would like an apology. I would like three free items from this store--all of which I will be choosing. I would also like an assurance that the old man who gave me the mirror is fired.

Hmm?

What do you mean you don’t have any old man working here?

He was very distinct-looking. He had bifocals, salt and pepper hair, and his left ear was a bit lower than his right. Surely, you must know him?

The owner?

All right, fine, so he’s the owner. I still want him fired.

What’s that?

When?

Ten years ago?

And how?

A car accident?

My, my, my.

Well.

That’s what I get for not asking for a receipt.