"Mirrors"
by Theresa Ann Wymer

They say the eyes are the window of the soul. They say that when you look into the eyes of your newborn child, all the purity of the world is reflected in them.

I never found that to be true of you.

Not that you aren't the dearest being in the world to me. The world would shatter and splinter into pieces if you were ever taken from me. But even as a child, you had a puzzling expression, though never cold or cruel. More as though you'd seen everything already, life held no surprises for you, and there wasn't a whole lot I could teach you.

I'd say the first time I saw that expression shaken was when you fell off the ladder. I still don't know what you were trying to do, but of course I dropped everything and ran to catch you before you smashed your poor head in. And you looked so surprised! Was that the first time you realized you weren't immortal?

That's the knowledge we all have to live with, my dear. And I have to face it now, more than ever.

I don't think you've really admitted it to yourself yet, Shuuichi. You put on such a brave face and tell me everything will be fine.

My poor child. Your heart must be cracking into pieces. I hope somehow it can be mended. I'm not worth all this grief, trust me. If I ever thought I was someone special, life knocked that pretension right out of me. It's hard to feel terribly aloof and dignified when a nurse jabs a needle into you every two hours and all you can do is struggle to focus your eyes and then realize you're drooling again, and you're far too woozy and pain-filled to worry about something you would have found utterly humiliating even six months ago.

You're a far better pain-killer than any needle, my son.

I remember when I was a girl, yes, sometime back in the Stone Age. All right, it was just the Bronze Age. But we were all over at Sakiko-chan's house, and talking about this and that. And someone mentioned an old European custom she'd heard of once, where you light a candle and hold a mirror up to your face. You look at the reflection over your shoulder and you'll see your future husband.

So, we were celebrating the start of summer vacation, and Sakiko had purloined a bottle of red wine from wherever her parents kept it, and Eimi-chan was showing off a green peridot ring that she'd gotten for her birthday. And no, I did *not* say, "When I'm a grown-up woman, I shall have a son with hair red as wine and eyes greener than that damn ring you keep showing off!" But I did prick up my ears a bit when I heard about this old belief about the candle and the mirror, and I yelled, "Let's do it!" And, oh, they all giggled and I giggled too, and nothing got done that night, of course.

But not long after that, I took out a silly candle that I had, in the shape of a excessively cute fox, and I got out my hand mirror and my cigarette lighter. I made sure my parents were in bed, and I lit the candle, murmuring something like, "As the candle burns, so does my life. As the mirror shows the truth, so shall I live it." I don't know where I came up with this, probably something I'd read in what purported to be a spellbook of Western witchcraft. Please don't laugh. (Not that you ever would, you've always been so much better behaved than that). I was fascinated by such things as a girl, though I never told anyone. You're so sweetly practical that I doubt you'd ever believe in spells or sorcery. Indulge your foolish mother.

My hand shook and the flame shuddered. I stared into the mirror's surface as hard as I could and didn't see a thing except shadow and my own wide-eyed, pale face. Then I remembered you're supposed to half-look away and let your eyes unfocus in order to see what is not seen. So I did.

I saw...I saw the shadows move, the candle flickering and jumping in its wick. Behind me, something roiled. In the mirror, in the space over my shoulder, something danced.

I had a choice then, of throwing down the mirror and switching on the electricity, of blowing out the candle and hiding under the blanket. Instead, I felt my flesh creep and I welcomed the feeling. At last, the impression that something would *happen* to me, that I wasn't plain, ordinary Shiori.

I let my gaze unfocus and mentally urged whatever was there to come to me. That's a dangerous thing to do, especially unwarded and unprepared as I was, but you're only sixteen and dumb once. But my hand shook involuntarily, and I caught a glimpse of the fox-shaped candle over my shoulder. Narrow-faced, smiling, eyes cool and enigmatic. Those eyes *glowed*.

At that point, I did drop the mirror. It broke with a muffled tinkle on the carpet, and I froze and held my breath, terrified my mother would knock on the door asking what was going on. But nothing happened. I let out the breath I was holding, turned the lights on, knelt and picked up the shards. I couldn't bear to throw them away, so I kept them in the top drawer of my bureau until I, I don't know, went to college or became an OL or got married. Sometime around then. And of course I blew out the candle. That fox was so cute, it would have been a shame to burn it.

What do you think of such things, my dearest son? Of bells, books, and candles. Of swords and jewels. Of mirrors.

There's something uncanny in all these things. The bell that rings with the clear, cruel tone that pierces your brain and makes your whole body tremble with the same vibration. The book, which speaks with no voice. The candle which is harnessed flame, the life-giver and the destroyer.

The mirror, which shows all, which unstintingly reflects the hideousness we all wish to hide from. Reveals beauty concealed. Shows what is there, for those who are brave, or foolish, enough to look. The mirror, which is said to be the soul of a woman as the sword is of the man.

I have not borne the gaze of a mirror since before I entered this hospital. It is too pure, too unrelenting.

My darling, your eyes are like that with everyone. But not with me. Never with me.

The mirror is the soul of a woman. On that night, did I conjure you up in my thoughts, banish you with the mirror I broke? Did something break in me that night? I certainly never had any urge to play with the supernatural again. I went to college, became an OL, met a nice young man at the firm, got married. I had you, he died. The stuff of life.

And my life will be gone soon. Do I have regrets? Of course I do. I wish your father had seen you grow up. I wish I could live to see you married, with a family of your own--happy, your eyes unclouded by tears.

A mirror that mists over reflects the darkness in the heart of its mistress. A spotless mirror reflects her purity.

I think there are very few, if any, truly spotless mirrors. Some of us put up a good facade, but know the truth in our hearts.

And you, my son? If your mirror (which you do not have, you are a man) is as clear as your beautiful eyes, I need not fear for you. But can something so unsullied be of this earth?

You are too good for this world, my son. It's not just a mother's partiality speaking. You are in this world, but not of it.

And I don't know why.

When I broke the mirror that night, did I shatter something else? Mirrors break every day, with no great apparent trouble (though some say "Seven years bad luck!") But did I shatter part of me with it: the venturesome, half-psychic Shiori who always knew what her friends would say before they said it, who tried to scry out her future one summer night?

I don't know. But perhaps when that mirror broke, that part of my soul fled until it could find a home in you, my son.

When I die...yes. I will die soon. I must face that, and not be afraid. But when I die....

Will that other part of my soul die with it? Will it break in pieces, too fragile to stand the reality?

You must be strong. I'll miss you terribly, but stay alive! Stay in this world for me, because if you go, there will be nothing left at all of me. Let your heart break, if you must, but do not die.

Do not break the mirror, my son. Do not break the mirror.

"Bells, like mirrors and cats, are queer things, and it doesn't do to think much about them."
--Lord Peter Wimsey, The Nine Tailors by Dorothy Sayers.

November 10, 2001 9:25-10:05 PM