The Woman in the Mirror

Viola holds up the dress to the sunlight flickering through her bedroom window. It’s yellow, flowy, Edward’s favourite. He’s coming to see her at ten today, she checks the clock, 9:30. Just enough time to get ready. She slips the dress over her head, groaning as she lifts her arms. They ache. She must have slept on them funny.

Viola moves to the drawer in her room, where she keeps her teacups, she can only find two, they’re plastic. She frowns, rummaging deeper, no sign of her china ones. These will have to do.

Viola opens her makeup bag and pulls out her lipstick, red, like a rose. It makes her feel like Marilyn Monroe. She steps up to the mirror on the wall and gasps, dropping the tube. An old woman stares back at her. White hair, thin and wispy, skin sagging loose around her neck. Pale eyes. Viola turns away quickly, heart racing with fear. Viola rummages in her handbag, pulling out a pocket mirror, reliable, compact. She focuses it on just her lips as she applies a generous coat of lippy.

Viola picks up her handbag and settles into the armchair by her little table, facing the door. Edward will be here soon, he promised. He’s on leave from the army. It won’t be long till they’re married. A spring wedding, she’d decided. Edward promised her a house, two-up, two-down and a garden out back for the children. The bag rests on her lap as she waits.

A knock at the door.

A flutter of excitement rises in her chest. She stands. The door opens, a man steps in. Her smile falters. It’s not Edward, he’s older, much older, mid-fifties, maybe.

“Good Morning” His tone is cheerful, but when his eyes land on her dress, she shifts uncomfortably. He frowns, “What are you wearing that for. You’ll catch your death of cold. Come on, we’ll get you in something more comfortable. I bought you some more sweats.” He smiles, it’s soft, warm.

Viola takes a step back, eyes narrowing, there’s something familiar about him. “Who are you?” she demands, grabbing a paperback from the table. She raises it like a weapon. “Are you Edward’s uncle? Where is he?”

The man’s shoulders drop. His face crumples slightly. “I’m… James… I…” He trails off, looking torn. “Edward was… family. Yes.”

Viola lowers the book, but her grip on it is still tight. Her eyes dart around the room, she still doesn’t trust him. “Where is he? He’s still coming, isn’t he? He promised. Ten o’clock.”

James’s gaze flicks down to the teacups on the table, one for her, one for Edward. He swallows hard, eyes locking on hers again. He reaches out a hand to her. “Let’s sit down a minute. Have a chat, yeah?” His voice is soft, tender. She jerks her arm away, suspicion hardening her expression.

“I’m not going anywhere with you!”

She pushes past him, catching a fleeting glimpse of the woman in the mirror again. The ghost in the yellow dress.

Then she’s in the corridor.

She freezes.

This isn’t her house.

The walls are too plain, the lights too bright, handrails line the walls, and there’s a horrid smell of ammonia in the air.

Old women move slowly through the hallways with walking frames. Young girls in nurses’ uniforms walk briskly in and out of rooms.

One of them approaches with a bright, practised smile. “Are you alright, Mrs Ward? Would you like a cup of tea?”

Viola blinks, narrowing her eyes at the girl. “Mrs Ward?” She shakes her head. “No, I’m Miss Kinney, we’re not married yet.”

The young girl smiles sympathetically. “Of course. Why don’t you come sit with Joan? She always enjoys your chats.”

Viola steps back, eyes darting, “I don’t know any Joan. I need to go home, Edward’s coming for me.” She turns, scanning the corridor for anything, a front door, stairs… There. A lift. She hurries to it, jabs the call button. Nothing. A keypad glows red beside it. She frantically starts pushing buttons at random, heart thudding, breath short.

The walls seem to press inward. The ceiling too low. It feels like they’re closing in, suffocating her. She can’t breathe.

James steps into the hallway. He watches her, helpless, guilt heavy on his face. But he doesn’t move to help her.

The nurse steps forward again, her voice soft, like she’s talking to a child. Viola bristles. It’s frustrating, patronising.

“Viola, come sit down my love, it’ll be dinner time soon.”

“Dinner? No. Edward’s coming for me. He promised. Ten o’clock!”

There’s a ding, and the lift doors start to slide open. A nurse steps out, pushing an empty wheelchair. “Good afternoon, Mrs Ward.”

Viola glares at her, pushes past her, seizing her chance to escape. She lunges forward. But stops dead.

The woman is back, the mirrored doors reflecting her like a window into another world. She’s pale, stooped, lips stained red with her favourite shade. Viola’s breath hitches.

“Mrs Ward,” the nurse says gently, shaking her from her thoughts. Viola turns to look at her, as though noticing her for the first time.

“Ward?” She repeats.

The nurse nods, “Let’s get you comfortable, shall we?”

Viola blinks, trembling. She looks down at her hands. They’re wrinkled. Liver-spotted. A weathered gold band rests on her ring finger.

A wedding ring.

A memory flares, uninvited, vivid.

Edward, incredibly handsome in a light grey suit, smiles beneath the church arch, hand in hand with her in her white dress, hair done up, tiara and veil completing her look. She’s beautiful, glowing. It’s the happiest day of her life. He kisses her and she laughs, a sound of pure joy. The bells ring out across the parish.

Outside, the trees are blooming. Sunlight catches the details on her dress. The scent of lilacs fills the air. It’s spring. Just like she wanted.

Then it’s gone.

The nurse gently steers her back down the corridor. Viola doesn’t resist.

In her room, she sits down in the armchair, handbag resting in her lap, eyes fixed on the window.

James lingers in the doorway before stepping in, silently, so as not to startle her.

Viola looks up at him. Her face brightens with something like recognition.

“Hello,” she says, tilting her head. “Do I know you?” She smiles. “You look like my Edward. He’s in the army, you know. We’re getting married soon, in the spring.”

She nods to herself. “He’s coming to see me. Ten o’clock. He promised.”

She turns back to the window. Watching. Waiting.