There was no Studio Tuesday this week, nor will there be a belated one. Public words are not coming to me this week, so instead I’ll share some words already written. This is the only story I finished this year, and rather than keep it to myself until such a time as I’m submitting work again, I’ll share it with you. It was inspired by a fairy tale and is called “The Mirror Tells All”.

I hope you enjoy it, and that you have a wonderful holiday season, wherever you are.

The Mirror Tells All

Listen. Here’s the story you wouldn’t let me tell.

I know, I know. You’re dying. Leave you to it. Let you rest in peace. Don’t worry, you’ll have all the peace you need, in a day or two. That’s what the doctor told me, anyway. Did he tell you that? No? Oh well. I’m sure he’ll get around to it eventually.

I read somewhere the other day that this story is about competition. Daughters growing up, mothers growing old, that sort of thing. I don’t believe it. There was never any of that stuff between us. No, this is a story about love, not competition. Maybe if you’d pried your face away from that mirror… Nah. You didn’t. So that’s where this story begins.

I tried to break that thing once, did you know? I saw you go into the bathroom and I seized the moment. I threw your silver hairbrush at that mirror with all the power in my scrawny little arm. I hurled it so hard! Nothing. Not a scratch. The damned hairbrush bounced off like it’d hit rubber. Boing. Nearly came back to smack me in the eye. I thought about taking a hammer to it, but by then you’d locked up all of dad’s tools in the shed out back, and I couldn’t find the key.

So. The story. There was this woman who couldn’t stop looking at herself in the mirror. (That’s you, that is. Thought I’d better spell it out.) This woman had everything a woman could ever want: a loving husband, more money in the bank than she could ever spend, more clothes in the closet than she could ever wear, a fantastic stone house with a turret — a turret! Who has that these days? She did. She had it all, and then some. I should point out that it wasn’t like this woman had all of this stuff and then still felt unfulfilled. No, it wasn’t like that at all, not as far as anyone could tell. It was just that she couldn’t stop looking at herself in the mirror.

The first time I saw her (that’s you, got that?) staring into the mirror I thought nothing of it. I must have been four or five; school had started and I’d just been let off the bus. That was a great bus, the driver was always cracking jokes and he really liked kids so it was kind of like our own mini-party twice a day. I opened the front door and the house was quiet. I remember the silence because it was so unusual. This woman used to have the radio on all the time, couldn’t get enough of it. It was nice, I liked the house full of sound. And when it wasn’t, I got a little afraid that something bad had happened.

I went up to my room to dump my backpack. God, that was a horrible thing, all purple and gold with glitter. Guess it suited me at the time. So anyway, I put it on my bed and then crept out into the hall. Your bedroom door was open. When I first saw you in front of the mirror I was relieved. Everything was okay, I remember thinking. You were there. It was just that for some reason you didn’t have the radio on. Well, what did I know? I was just a kid. I figured maybe there’d been nothing good playing. Come to think of it, I don’t even know where that mirror came from. I don’t think it was there the day before. Did dad buy it for you? Did you order it out of a catalog? Fingerhut or something? No, that stuff would have been too cheap for you.

When this happened again the next day, I was curious but still didn’t really think much of it. When I realized it was going to happen every day, that’s when I started to worry. I asked dad about it, but he was already sick by then and he wasn’t really up to having that conversation.

I mean honestly, what was it? Did you see a wrinkle? Did you hope to stare it away? Don’t look at me like that. I’m joking. You never had a wrinkle in your life.

So here’s this woman, and for some reason she’s doing this crazy thing. Every day, morning to night, face in that mirror. And there’s this kid who doesn’t understand why suddenly her mom isn’t fixing breakfast, or lunch or supper for that matter, who isn’t putting out clothes for her to wear to school, who isn’t taking her shopping for new clothes when she grows out of the old, who isn’t bitching about a messy room, who isn’t asking about homework, who doesn’t show up to parent-teacher conferences, who isn’t doing a damned thing except standing in her bedroom, in front of a piece of glass on the wall.

You’d think someone would have called Children’s Services, but they didn’t. It was like magic, the way the teachers and even the principal believed me when I said you were busy. They all knew dad was sick, so they didn’t ask about him. He was sick, but it was you I had to make excuses for.

This kid, right, after a couple years of this, she’s kind of learned to accept that things will never go back to the way they were. She understands that she can’t invite friends over because then she’d have to explain to them what her mother is doing, and she doesn’t know what her mother is doing so how can she explain it? She realizes that the other kids’ mothers aren’t like this, so she doesn’t go visit them because she can’t stand the sight of their moms in the kitchen, or coming in from work, briefcase in hand, or calling them into the house to wash up before supper.

This goes on for about five years. I know, it’s hard to believe, but it’s true. The kid is around ten years old when finally, she’s worked up the nerve to do something about it. I mean, she wants her mom back, right? It can’t be like it was before the mirror, but it could be something else, something better than having a mom who does nothing but this one stupid thing. Almost anything would be better than that.

This kid thinks and thinks about her mom, about all the things her mom used to enjoy, about all of the things they did together before the mirror, even though she can hardly remember some of them because she’d been so young. She thought, mom liked shoes, but I don’t know what size she wears. Mom liked steak, but I don’t know how to cook one. Mom liked music, but the old radio was gone. And then she remembered how, before the mirror had appeared on the wall, her mother used to sit at her dressing table in the morning doing her hair.

Her mother had liked to do her hair. Now, this little girl had since grown out of purple ponies and glitter, and in fact she was as much of a tomboy by then as a girl could be. She didn’t know anything about how to do hair — she put her own in a ponytail in the morning and then forgot about it. That was doing hair. Then she remembered this old doll she used to have, and how its hair had been braided, and the braids had been laced through with ribbons. Not just any ribbon either. This ribbon had been embroidered with colorful, detailed scenes of animals frolicking, flowers blooming — all sorts of wonderful, tiny things had been sewn into that ribbon. When her mother had given her the doll she’d said, “This is very old. It’s been in our family for a long time, and it was my doll when I was a girl, just like you. It’s your turn to take care of her now, just like I’ve done for all these years.”

The girl remembered this because, at the time, she thought that doll was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. And now she thought, that is what I’ll do. I’ll get my mother a beautiful ribbon to weave through her hair. It’ll give her something to do in front of that mirror.

Problem was, the girl had no money. So one day, after school, instead of getting on the bus as she’d done every day, she walked the two miles or so into town. She’d never been into town, but that didn’t stop her. She needed a ribbon, and that was the only place she’d find one.

Yeah, you didn’t know I did that, did you. Well, you wouldn’t.

She knew the way; every kid knew the way. It’s all the girls talked about in class – how their mothers had taken them to the boutiques, to the mall, to wherever it is mothers take their daughters to buy them pretty baubles and bras and whatever else it is that mothers buy. Well, after a lot of walking and searching for just the right shop, the girl found it. It was three floors of sparkling handbags, row upon row of shoes, a lingerie section in which she could have got lost for days. It was utterly and completely filled with stuff — the kind of stuff you loved, once upon a time.

The girl found the perfect ribbon, embroidered and with the extra bonus of having beads sewn into the seams. And without a second thought, she stole that ribbon, put it in her pocket and walked out.

That night she brought the ribbon to her mother. The room was dark, but for one small lamp lit on the nightstand. Dad’s side of the bed was made up tight, but yours was a mess. I remember that. It made me sad. So this girl brings her mother the ribbon, stands in front of her mother with the thing in her hand and says, “Mother, I brought you something.”

Did you look down? No. Did you respond in any way? No. You just stood there, like a damned statue, saying nothing.

Fine, I thought. I left the ribbon on your dressing table and left the room. Do you know how that felt? Do you? You may as well have ripped my heart out and fed it to the wolves. I almost hated you then.

Don’t wince. What do you expect? Geez. You can’t be that far gone.

Don’t worry, I didn’t hate you. That’s funny, me telling you not to worry. As if you would.

It took the girl about three years to get over that one. She felt pretty dumb for having tried in the first place, but eventually — you know how resilient kids are — she decided to try again.

By this time (you won’t have known this either), she’d got a job. It wasn’t much of a job, and it wasn’t a legal job, but a kid has to have some cash on hand, you know? You won’t remember Mr. Spinner. He was the janitor at the middle school. He used to tell these great stories to any kid who would listen. This girl was pretty starved for attention and interaction, so she listened. And maybe he listened to all the things she didn’t say, because one day he offered her a job helping him mop and buff the floors after all the other kids had gone home.

I saved up every penny I earned for a whole year. I realized my mistake, see, with the ribbon. It was too cheap for your tastes. I knew this time I had to do better. So when the girl — yeah, that’s still me, in case you’d forgotten — had saved up enough money, she went into town again.

Quit squirming. I know there’s no action in this story. What do you expect? Not much can happen when the main character is just standing there.

The girl thought she was on the right track with the hair thing, even though the first time she’d got it wrong. And maybe she was feeling a little guilty for having thrown her mother’s good hairbrush at the mirror. That hairbrush was like something out of the court of a French king. Unbelievably ornate, with bristles tough as the day they were plucked from the boar. So very you. What I wanted was to find a matching comb. That, I thought, would bring you out of your stupor. Because sometimes, if I stayed up late enough at night, I’d catch you brushing your hair.

The girl found a comb, a perfect, silver comb that maybe wasn’t as ornate as the hairbrush, but was still eye-catching and breathtaking. Under the light, it gleamed. She didn’t even know they made stuff like that. It cost her every cent she had, but she didn’t care. Her mother would have to be blind to ignore this gift, she was certain.

This time she didn’t take silence as an answer. She held the comb out to her mother, and nothing happened. She waved it in front of her mother’s face, and nothing happened. She started shouting, “Mom, look! I brought you this comb! Look at it, take it, will you?” and nothing happened. Her mom just stood there with that dead look on her face, staring into the mirror.

The girl wanted to cry, she wanted to sit down on the floor right then and there and wail her heart out. Do you remember what she did instead? No? She moved around behind her mother, and started combing her mother’s hair. That’s what she did. Gently, so as not to pull on the tangles, she combed out every strand until they lay, soft and shining, against her mother’s back. Then she put the comb on the dressing table with the brush and left the room.

Getting bored, are you? I bet. All right well, I’m nearly done. I’ll pick up the pace a little, if that will help.

Fast-forward; the girl is now sixteen. Sweet sixteen, and her mother is still there, in front of that mirror. Do you know how awful puberty is when you have to go through it alone? At sixteen the girl, now a young woman really, was in the throes of it. All sorts of stuff was going on in her body and in her mind. All sorts. She’s trying to achieve some kind of independence, to be her own person, that kind of thing, and here she’s got this monster in the closet, right, this dirty secret that she can’t share with anyone. Because how, really, do you tell someone that your mother has been standing in front of a mirror for years on end? It’s ridiculous. No one would believe you anyway even if you did tell. They’d think you were making it up.

That’s what you’d become to me by then. A monster. A horrible dragon clutching its treasure in a dark room. I had to do something. Anything, I thought, would be better than this.

But what? I didn’t know. I didn’t know until one day, who knows why, Mr. Jonet — he was the chemistry teacher that year — started talking about apples. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, apples. He went through every story that ever had an apple in it, he went on and on about the health properties of apples, the symbolism of apples, all of this stuff about apples. It drove the class nuts. Rumor had it he’d fallen in love with Miss Hayton, the biology teacher. We made jokes about him bringing her an apple, like some pet schoolboy. We got sick of hearing about apples.

Then one day he told a story about a woman named Eve. She was apparently the first woman, ever, on earth. She was good, pure good, no evil in her at all. Kind of like you used to be, before the mirror came. Or at least how I remember you to be. Rose-colored glasses and all that. So anyway, this Eve lady was brought low by an apple. The fruit of evil, it was, and she took a bite and then she wasn’t so good any more. Cast out of the garden, I think it was a garden, by a serpent or something. But basically, Mr. Jonet said, what had happened was that Eve’s eyes had been opened to everything that was around her, to all of the nuances of life, to all of the little details that she couldn’t have seen before, because pure good can’t see anything but good, and that’s unhealthy. That, he said, is what leads us to a fall. When we can’t see and appreciate the bad in something as well as the good, we’re in trouble. Rumor had it Miss Hayton had turned him down.

And the girl thought, maybe if I take my mother an apple, her eyes will open, too, and she’ll look at something other than that mirror.

It couldn’t be just any apple, though, could it. It had to be the best apple, the ripest apple, the reddest apple, because for her mother, only the best would do. The girl didn’t really know anything about apples, which were good for what, which were sweet, which were sour, none of that. But she learned, and that autumn she went into town again and brought home the best apple she could find.

Oh, right. I said I’d speed it up. You do look a little uncomfortable. You can probably guess what happens next.

The girl takes her mother the apple, and the woman doesn’t blink an eye. Doesn’t acknowledge the girl standing there beside her with an apple in her hand. The girl can’t take it any more, she starts shouting and cursing and crying and making a real scene. She throws the apple against the wall and slams the door on her way out of the room. The next morning, she packs a bag and is gone.

What happened to you anyway? The doctor said the delivery boy found you lying on your bedroom floor. I didn’t even know you let those kids have a key to the house, but I guess the groceries had to come from somewhere. One year I’ve been gone, and not a word from you. Not that I expected one — you didn’t even blink when Dad finally left! Not a call, not a question about how I was doing, and then the next thing I know Mr. Spinner is crying and telling me you’re in the hospital. I called the hospital and they told me you wouldn’t be going home. They told me I’d better get here as soon as I could.

I know, finish the story already. Okay. The girl hears that her mother is in the hospital, right, and her first reaction is good, let her rot. Then she thought, the house is empty, here’s my chance.

I went to the house yesterday, mother, to collect a few things. Do you know what I found? I could hardly believe it. You picked that apple up after I left, didn’t you. You picked it up and put it on your dressing table. It’s still there, all rotten, right beside the tarnished comb. I saw that apple and how you’d moved it, and I finally figured out what I could do.

Here. I brought you something. This is the story you wouldn’t let me tell, and this is how it ends. I smashed your mirror, mother. I brought one of Mr. Spinner’s hammers with me to the house, was going to break open the door of the shed and get some stuff out of there. Instead, I used it to break your mirror. Don’t be mad, there was no way I could have carried the whole thing.

Here, mom. Uncurl your fingers, let me put this in your hand. Be careful, I taped the edges but they might still be sharp.

Look. It’s a piece of your mirror. I brought it for you. That’s right, take it. Can you hold it up? Okay, good, now you can see yourself. Surprised, aren’t you. Well, I told you, mother. This is a story about love.