Short story by Christopher Iacono
Reflections
Marion opened the closet door and stepped in front of the mirror. I followed her every move and imitated it with exact precision. We put on the jacket of our charcoal pantsuits, buckled the belts around our waists, and replaced our high heels with more comfortable black leather pumps.
We both looked perfect, ready for whatever the day would bring us. She smiled. I smiled. But then she frowned and turned her head to the side. I couldn’t see what she was looking at from the confines of the mirror, so I didn’t know why she felt so sad.
She sighed and left the room. But I stayed. This had never happened before. I was curious to find out what else I could do, so I stretched out my hand. It was outside of the mirror, so I thought, Maybe I don’t have to stay inside the mirror. Maybe I could get my whole body out. So I stepped out of the mirror and onto the beige carpet. I looked up and down. I couldn’t believe it—I was out of the mirror. But why? Did I have some purpose for being out?
From the kitchen below, I heard a drawer slam. Perhaps my purpose was to follow Marion, so I rushed down the stairs. Could she see me? I would soon find out. I reached the living room the same time she walked into it. She didn’t notice me. Indeed, unless she was standing in front of a reflective surface, I was invisible to her. I followed her out the door and to her car parked in the driveway. Her steps in front of the driver side door thrust me into the window. I pushed myself out and stood beside her. Wow! I didn’t have to be her reflection all the time. I actually had a choice. She continued to stare at the window, her mouth agape as she stared at the reflections of thin, wispy clouds and a maple tree underneath it—but not her. I saw that the shock of not seeing her reflection was too great, so I returned to the window and went back to being a good reflection.
When she stepped into the car, I flew out of it and into the passenger seat. She threw her purse on my lap. I couldn’t feel it, but the purse on my lap was still a problem: Because she couldn’t see me, it looked as if the purse was floating a few inches above the seat, so I decided to crawl over the armrest to the backseat. It was a bit difficult, especially since she was driving while I was doing this. While she was turning left in reverse, I put my arm down on the backseat but lost my balance. My whole body rolled onto it. As she straightened out her car, I almost rolled off of it, but once she started driving forward, I managed to sit up straight and enjoy the ride.
Once we arrived at work, Marion spent several hours at her desk, going through spreadsheets and long text documents on her computer screen. I, on the other hand, sat in a chair opposite her for most of the day, staring at the books on her bookshelf. Sometimes I looked at the comings and goings in the parking lot from the third-floor window, just to look at something else for a while. Sometimes when she left the door open, I left the office and spied on her subordinates inside their cubicles. Otherwise, I made a great effort not to accidentally bump into her.
Every half hour or so, she would pick up her office phone and dial a number, only to sigh and hang up a minute later. Then she would glance at her mobile phone to find no new notifications.
Around 11:30, in grammatically correct English, she texted her husband: Let’s go out to lunch.
In not-so-grammatically correct English, he replied, Sorry cant too busy talk to ya later.
Marion stared at the message for a few minutes before turning to the photo of her and her husband on the desk. Seeing his face reminded me of a scene from a while back when Marion, sniffing and wiping her tears in front of the bedroom mirror, asked him in the most delicate voice, "Is there someone else?"
"Have you lost your mind, Marion?" he shouted, invading my side of the mirror. "Do you think it’s fun for me to have to cancel our trip because of work? I swear. You’re getting paranoid. Your mother’s been putting stuff into your head again!"
Marion rarely appeared with her husband in a mirror or any other surface, so I only knew the version of the man whose face had burned with anger.
Marion put down the phone and dialed another number. "Yes, I would like to call in an order to pick up." She ordered two meals to go, grabbed her purse, and picked up her car in the first-floor garage. I grinned—it was so good to get out of the office. But even as the wind blew through her hair, Marion treated this lunchtime drive the same way she treated her work: with a fierce determination, as if nothing would distract her from her goal.
After picking up a large brown paper bag from a Japanese restaurant, she drove a few more miles to an office building. She parked the car in a metered space a few hundred feet away, grabbed the bag and her purse, and sauntered over to the building. The wind continued to blow against her hair, messing it up, but she didn’t seem to mind. She smiled. The bag bounced against the side of her leg in a steady rhythm. Seeing that, one wondered if she was doing it on purpose, to accompany some happy music playing in her head right now.
She climbed some granite steps and went through a revolving door, which I had found myself trapped in for a few seconds. Once she turned to the security desk, I was freed again.
"Hello, I’m Marion Blackwell. I’m here to see my husband, Fred Blackwell."
The security guard nodded and made a call. Marion took out a compact and checked her hair. I was sucked into the small circular space and once again followed her every move, although this time I could only see her face and her right hand. With her fingers, she combed the strands loosened by the wind back into place. She clapped the compact shut and stuffed it back into the purse. I thought I was going to be trapped in there, but I had returned by her side just as the security guard hung up the phone.
"I’m sorry, miss," he said. "According to his secretary, your husband called in sick today."
The smile fell from Marion’s face. "Oh, okay." She lifted the bag onto the desk. "Here, lunch is on me today."
Marion and I returned to the car. She stopped in front of the driver’s side door, and I was once again pulled into the window. She held the door handle but didn’t open it. My mouth quivered. My body tensed up. I felt her pain. She walked away from the car, and I jumped out of the window and onto the sidewalk.
After a few minutes, she entered a park and trudged through a cement path that cut through grass until she reached a small duck pond. She leaned forward to look at the surface of the pond. This time, though, I did not allow myself to be drawn in. I needed to take the risk, even though the shock may have been too much for her to handle.
"Marion," I whispered, as she gaped at the missing reflection. She didn’t respond. I didn’t know if she was ignoring me or couldn’t hear me. "Marion," I said louder, but she didn’t budge.
I stood just inches away from her. "Marion, listen to me. You need to do something. You’re a wonderful woman and don’t deserve such treatment from that man."
But then Marion shook her head. "No, no, no. It’s not true—he’s a good man."
"Marion, please."
"No, just stop, go away!"
My power to stay beside her dwindled, and I glided backwards toward the pond. I tried to grab something to hold onto, but there was nothing. I fell onto my knees.
I reached out to Marion, but she just stood there as my legs slipped into the water and my stomach plopped onto the mud. I tried to claw the grassy dirt but my fingers wouldn’t stick.
I fell onto the surface of the pond. Marion stepped back, shocked by the sudden splash. When the water stopped rippling, everything from my waist down was buried in the grass Marion stood on. After she saw me, she walked away while I receded into the muddy edge of the pond.
Marion opened the closet door and stepped in front of the mirror. I followed her every move and imitated it with exact precision. We put on the jacket of our charcoal pantsuits, buckled the belts around our waists, and replaced our high heels with more comfortable black leather pumps.
We both looked perfect, ready for whatever the day would bring us. She smiled. I smiled. But then she frowned and turned her head to the side. I couldn’t see what she was looking at from the confines of the mirror, so I didn’t know why she felt so sad.
She sighed and left the room. But I stayed. This had never happened before. I was curious to find out what else I could do, so I stretched out my hand. It was outside of the mirror, so I thought, Maybe I don’t have to stay inside the mirror. Maybe I could get my whole body out. So I stepped out of the mirror and onto the beige carpet. I looked up and down. I couldn’t believe it—I was out of the mirror. But why? Did I have some purpose for being out?
From the kitchen below, I heard a drawer slam. Perhaps my purpose was to follow Marion, so I rushed down the stairs. Could she see me? I would soon find out. I reached the living room the same time she walked into it. She didn’t notice me. Indeed, unless she was standing in front of a reflective surface, I was invisible to her. I followed her out the door and to her car parked in the driveway. Her steps in front of the driver side door thrust me into the window. I pushed myself out and stood beside her. Wow! I didn’t have to be her reflection all the time. I actually had a choice. She continued to stare at the window, her mouth agape as she stared at the reflections of thin, wispy clouds and a maple tree underneath it—but not her. I saw that the shock of not seeing her reflection was too great, so I returned to the window and went back to being a good reflection.
When she stepped into the car, I flew out of it and into the passenger seat. She threw her purse on my lap. I couldn’t feel it, but the purse on my lap was still a problem: Because she couldn’t see me, it looked as if the purse was floating a few inches above the seat, so I decided to crawl over the armrest to the backseat. It was a bit difficult, especially since she was driving while I was doing this. While she was turning left in reverse, I put my arm down on the backseat but lost my balance. My whole body rolled onto it. As she straightened out her car, I almost rolled off of it, but once she started driving forward, I managed to sit up straight and enjoy the ride.
Once we arrived at work, Marion spent several hours at her desk, going through spreadsheets and long text documents on her computer screen. I, on the other hand, sat in a chair opposite her for most of the day, staring at the books on her bookshelf. Sometimes I looked at the comings and goings in the parking lot from the third-floor window, just to look at something else for a while. Sometimes when she left the door open, I left the office and spied on her subordinates inside their cubicles. Otherwise, I made a great effort not to accidentally bump into her.
Every half hour or so, she would pick up her office phone and dial a number, only to sigh and hang up a minute later. Then she would glance at her mobile phone to find no new notifications.
Around 11:30, in grammatically correct English, she texted her husband: Let’s go out to lunch.
In not-so-grammatically correct English, he replied, Sorry cant too busy talk to ya later.
Marion stared at the message for a few minutes before turning to the photo of her and her husband on the desk. Seeing his face reminded me of a scene from a while back when Marion, sniffing and wiping her tears in front of the bedroom mirror, asked him in the most delicate voice, "Is there someone else?"
"Have you lost your mind, Marion?" he shouted, invading my side of the mirror. "Do you think it’s fun for me to have to cancel our trip because of work? I swear. You’re getting paranoid. Your mother’s been putting stuff into your head again!"
Marion rarely appeared with her husband in a mirror or any other surface, so I only knew the version of the man whose face had burned with anger.
Marion put down the phone and dialed another number. "Yes, I would like to call in an order to pick up." She ordered two meals to go, grabbed her purse, and picked up her car in the first-floor garage. I grinned—it was so good to get out of the office. But even as the wind blew through her hair, Marion treated this lunchtime drive the same way she treated her work: with a fierce determination, as if nothing would distract her from her goal.
After picking up a large brown paper bag from a Japanese restaurant, she drove a few more miles to an office building. She parked the car in a metered space a few hundred feet away, grabbed the bag and her purse, and sauntered over to the building. The wind continued to blow against her hair, messing it up, but she didn’t seem to mind. She smiled. The bag bounced against the side of her leg in a steady rhythm. Seeing that, one wondered if she was doing it on purpose, to accompany some happy music playing in her head right now.
She climbed some granite steps and went through a revolving door, which I had found myself trapped in for a few seconds. Once she turned to the security desk, I was freed again.
"Hello, I’m Marion Blackwell. I’m here to see my husband, Fred Blackwell."
The security guard nodded and made a call. Marion took out a compact and checked her hair. I was sucked into the small circular space and once again followed her every move, although this time I could only see her face and her right hand. With her fingers, she combed the strands loosened by the wind back into place. She clapped the compact shut and stuffed it back into the purse. I thought I was going to be trapped in there, but I had returned by her side just as the security guard hung up the phone.
"I’m sorry, miss," he said. "According to his secretary, your husband called in sick today."
The smile fell from Marion’s face. "Oh, okay." She lifted the bag onto the desk. "Here, lunch is on me today."
Marion and I returned to the car. She stopped in front of the driver’s side door, and I was once again pulled into the window. She held the door handle but didn’t open it. My mouth quivered. My body tensed up. I felt her pain. She walked away from the car, and I jumped out of the window and onto the sidewalk.
After a few minutes, she entered a park and trudged through a cement path that cut through grass until she reached a small duck pond. She leaned forward to look at the surface of the pond. This time, though, I did not allow myself to be drawn in. I needed to take the risk, even though the shock may have been too much for her to handle.
"Marion," I whispered, as she gaped at the missing reflection. She didn’t respond. I didn’t know if she was ignoring me or couldn’t hear me. "Marion," I said louder, but she didn’t budge.
I stood just inches away from her. "Marion, listen to me. You need to do something. You’re a wonderful woman and don’t deserve such treatment from that man."
But then Marion shook her head. "No, no, no. It’s not true—he’s a good man."
"Marion, please."
"No, just stop, go away!"
My power to stay beside her dwindled, and I glided backwards toward the pond. I tried to grab something to hold onto, but there was nothing. I fell onto my knees.
I reached out to Marion, but she just stood there as my legs slipped into the water and my stomach plopped onto the mud. I tried to claw the grassy dirt but my fingers wouldn’t stick.
I fell onto the surface of the pond. Marion stepped back, shocked by the sudden splash. When the water stopped rippling, everything from my waist down was buried in the grass Marion stood on. After she saw me, she walked away while I receded into the muddy edge of the pond.
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Christopher Iacono lives with his wife and son in Massachusetts. You can learn more about him at cuckoobirds.org.
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