But inside, in the reflection, I see us the way we always were and will be. Locked in a place and time by the residue of life and the love that bound us. We were never orphans when we were together. Reflections are the illusions of what cannot be known from the outside.
Dad moves upstairs now, coughing hard as he gets ready for bed. The cough that lasted all winter is back again. I walk up the stairs to my bedroom and along the way pass the myriad of my school portraits. Missing upper teeth in that one, too-long bangs in another. Acne, brown corduroy jumper, spiked hair, pigtails, eyeliner. Thirteen portraits of a life frayed at the ends, bounded and boundless.
I climb a few more steps and stop at the picture of me when I was eight. My tight tiny smile as my brows gather in concentration. The heavy bangs cutting diagonally across my forehead. I remember this time so clearly. It was the first time that Dad and I had moved away from our house by the train tracks. Without their consistent presence reminding me of the time of day, evening, or night, I became anchorless.
I climb to the very top step and look behind me at the wall of memories. Who are we in the end? A collection of photos? How do we know what is truly lived if we cannot remember it? Dad holds on to the pictures like precious jewels. They are the first things that he unpacks. The first things he hangs on the walls before anything else is done to settle in. The pictures of the life we had so long ago. The only new pictures are the ones of me collecting an award, the odd holiday pose in front of the tree. Me in front of the sterile blue background of school portraits.
There are no pictures of Dad after Mama disappeared. The only pictures that remain are the ones in my mind: Dad reading medical studies, his sheepish look as he picks me up late again, the glow of the screen on his face as he researches online, the crook in his neck as he talks on the phone to scientists, detectives, hospital administrators, his joy at my first science-fair project winning regionals. The moments collect together and beat in my heart. Dad is still here. And if I cannot keep him alive, then I would rather we both be forgotten.
I begin to prepare for bed as I do every night. I will brush my teeth. I will wash my face. I will use the toilet one last time. After I enter the bathroom and stand before the mirror, I glance at my reflection and find a shadow looming behind me. When I whirl around, there is nothing there. After pacing the small space, opening drawers, searching for the shadow, which eludes me, I run back into my room and slam the door. I crawl into bed with my clothes on and pull the covers over my body, leaving the lights on in case the shadow returns. There was a shadow, I repeat over and over. I saw the shadow. It was real. I saw it. It was real. I saw it. It was real. My eyes begin to drift closed. I saw it. It was real. I saw it.
The tomb of sleep finally descends.
Summer
You will die every night only to be reborn the next day. The marrow of your bones birthing cell after cell. Muscle covering skeleton. Flesh folding over muscle. Hair coating flesh. Lungs expanding.
Your eyes will open and you will look down at the body of someone living. A life that is filled with the death of you. Second by second. Minute by minute. Hour by hour. Time passing through you like a sieve. And then the siren songs will begin.
You will listen to the whispers. Light and sweet at first. You will welcome them with familiar thrills. Here is home. Here is your family. They welcome you. Join you. They have been waiting all this time. You will look at them and wonder where they went and how they came back. You will try to hold each of them in your arms. And when you can’t, they will anger. Their voices changing to ash and coals. You were never happy with them. You left them. You were too weak to stop it. How could you let them disappear?
You will stand up to leave, but they will follow you. Pester and torment you. Words, simply words, you will say, but when the voices cannot be ignored, you will begin to sing. Softly to yourself at first. Then louder. Then screaming into the cave of your mind. Fighting and yelling at them to leave. You will slam your head against the wall over and over again to fight against their voices invading like skittering insects crawling through your skull.
You will see the nurse approaching, his hand clutching a small cup of pills. He grips your forearm. You will try to thrash out of his hands, but he will force the pills into your mouth. He will be stronger and hold his hand over your lips to keep you from spitting them out until all you can do is swallow. Swallow your life and voice and everything you should hate, but want and know this is how it is supposed to be.
When the voices leave, they part silently, disappearing one by one like melting snowflakes whispering, Traitor. Your family. You will weep, searching for them in the halls. Turning corner after corner only to sit down and realize you have never moved from your chair. Lost in the mirror halls of your mind. You will stand up crying. In grief. In love. With ghosts. In confusion. In pain. In heat. In cold. Inside. Outside. This skin
