Mae Ellen Abu-Alya
In the dark, in the black, lies a door. Perhaps, a window. A glimpse over rushing shoulder; a sound over racing heart.
She sits in the comfort of her room, walls surrounding her in bright teal, gauzy curtains letting in translucent light. She sits on her bed. Beneath it, a cat—white, fat, lovely, needy.
To her right, a door. A real one. White paint chipped by time, by her father who grew up in the same room—older than her at the time, but boys are always such tyrants.
In front of her, a window. A true one. Transparent glass allowing glimpses of the backyard. Tayta’s place, specially planned. Each plant, tree, structure chosen with care. Shabby now; years of weather piling on top of pale siding, dark green moss peeling the wood apart at the grain.
She slips off her bed. Boneless. Crouches on all fours, peering in the darkness beneath. The white cat looks blandly back. Pale blue eyes blink in slow recognition.
She hesitates a brief moment only. She crawls on hand and knee into the abandoned hallway. She peers around the corner. She ignores the black rectangle yawning before her and pointedly focuses on a different door. Baba’s door. Always closed. She hears his voice, his laugh; on the phone with his not-yet-wife.
She toys with the idea of joining them. Standing at his elbow, watching whatever he’s doing, talking over him to the woman he loves.
But, a pause. A sigh. That reckless portal beckons close her even as it repulses her. She sees it from the corner of her eye. A nothingness surrounded by something.
Hesitant, she inches forward. Her palms burn as she moves; the whorls of carpet fibers already embedded in her skin.
Before her, the threshold. She stops, she sits on her haunches.
Baba says there’s nothing to be afraid of, not in here. She trusts him, mostly. But his eyes aren’t hers; they don’t see what she sees. Maybe because he’s old he can’t feel that abyss. Can’t see the door for a door.
She lifts herself to her knees. Staring straight ahead—the blackness before her is safe, finite—her hand probes the nearby wall. Seeking fingers find the switch. Flip it. Flood the void with light.
Her pupils grow, constrict; her gaze rests on the towels, neatly folded, she knew were there. Towels in the bathroom she and baba share.
She feels it before she sees it. Her skin prickles. Tightens. Squeezing in on itself, on the verge of tearing.
Glass, opaque, according to baba. Not a window: a mirror. Reflection, reflecting. Herself, nothing more.
She makes it her mantra: glass, opaque. Not a window: a mirror.
Not a door, a mirror.
In the mirror: herself, nothing more.
She pushes herself to her feet. Baba’s soft voice envelopes her, for a moment. A warm blanket. Even so, she clutches the doorframe, fingernails digging into soft wood.
And still, she hasn’t looked at the not-door, not-window: the mirror.
A moment passes. She chides herself. So childish, to fear. This, at least—a baby’s paranoia. She pretends she’s not; she steps into the bathroom, twitching at the towels. A caricature of cleaning, tidying. Her breath schools itself to deepen.
Then she moves, turns her body, takes a step forward. Then another. Her hand glides along the edge of the counter. Her eyes are on the shower now; anything but what’s beside her.
Looking at anything other than the not-window that consumes almost entire wall. From counter to ceiling, it looms above her. Even from the edges of her vision she can see it.
Her playact continues; her nonchalance bursting at the edges, barely contained beneath taut skin. She turns her head. Her body remains, facing away; a promise of escape. In case the not-window is a window, not a mirror. A door.
Her eyes flick up, then down again. The sink, safety.
She sees: herself. A reflection. Light brown hair, light brown skin; scrawny, blue-eyed, terrified. Beneath that skin of hers, muscles clench. A dog in a corner, staring down a monster. She knows her act is fooling no one.
If there is anyone to fool. Which there shouldn’t be, if baba tells her the truth. She is alone, her and the mirror. Her and herself; her reflection, no one else.
So she looks up. Her gaze remains straight. Her face in the mirror set in single-minded determination; brow furrowed, lips ever so slightly pursed.
She looks behind her. She sees: the wall. Blank, boring beige, marred in three points of pure white from repairs after a towel rack fell. Her head turns, looks behind herself to see if reality matches reflection.
Beige, boring, blank; two plastered over holes disrupting the otherwise unflustered surface.
She turns back. Shoulders pressed together, standing tall. She sees herself, her reflection, smile. Maybe baba’s right; it’s just a mirror, not a window, not a door. All she sees is reality, nothing more.
Except, maybe, something isn’t right. Her skin is still covered in goosebumps, so many they’ve shrunken her.
In the not-window, not-door, she sees behind her six white spots. She blinks, and now there’s ten, fourteen, twenty. Her hands clench at her sides. Her eyes wide open. Staring.
Now the wall is white. Swirling, growing, pure. Her shadow, gone. Herself, not herself. A reflection? In the mirror, someone else.
Light brown hair, light brown skin. Her eyes, hidden, face angled to the floor. She can only watch herself move. Contorting, muscles writhing, roiling beneath that too-tight skin of hers. In stark contrast. She sees it all.
Her face—could it still be hers?—can’t be seen. Hidden? Or her eyes not seeing?
Her body, not her body. Her muscles, her skin; if she looks down, would she see the same? She no longer feels herself. Her mind detached, floating somewhere nearby. Her body, not her body. A reflection. Nothing to fear.
Behind her, the wall disappears. Not slowly, all at once: there, then gone. A slight pop as it goes. Feels the rush of air on her back. Rushing in, filling space it couldn’t reach before.
The urge to look back is overwhelming; is reality static? Or is it what she sees? That’s what baba said, after all. That the mirror isn’t a window, just a reflection.
Then she notices: the girl in the mirror-not-window isn’t her. Skin too light, hair too dark. Her face is looking up, now, ever so slightly. A mystery just barely revealed. Her lips are too red, bitten and bleeding. She still can’t see her eyes. All she sees is skin, flesh; pale and drawn.
All at once, her body is hers again. She backs up. Presses herself against the hard line of the wall. The wall, still there, still solid. Her hands feel the smoothness of baba’s rush repairs.
And now she knows: baba lied.
The mirror has never been a mirror; it’s always been a door.
CLAMOR 