Girl Before a Mirror

by Liza Palmer

  “We should probably . . .” I motion to the steps. “So, we’ll see you on Monday.”

  “Monday,” Preeti says.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” I say, extending my hand. Preeti takes it and is about to say something. Again. Then a nod. A smile. A squeeze of my hand. Then Sasha’s. “Make sure to bring all three of them with you.”

  “All three?” I ask.

  “Why not? To visualize the scope of your campaign,” she says.

  “The scope, huh?”

  “At least that’s what I’ll tell my husband,” Preeti says with a wink and disappears into the river of women exiting the ballroom.

  “Are you going to stick around?” Sasha asks. “Or . . .”

  “Or,” I say. This feeling is swirling in the pit of my stomach. It’s making me agitated. Anxious.

  “And how is or?” Sasha asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say, and the tears begin to well in my eyes without any warning.

  “Wait . . . don’t cry . . . come on,” Sasha says, pulling me into her. I say nothing. There are no words. I let myself cry on Sasha’s shoulder and she just talks to me. About romance novels. Stories. Love. Hope. Time. Letting go of butterflies. Swans. This one ballad that can get her crying no matter what. What’s the name of it? It was her grandmother’s favorite. What’s the name of it? Something. Bette Midler. “The Rose,” she squeals. “The Rose,” she whispers. And then she’s humming it. And now she’s singing it. Every time it makes her cry. Her entire body rumbles with the passion of Bette Midler. She raises her fist to the rafters as she sings, “And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong.” She gets me laughing as she lets her voice whisper the next few lyrics, crouching with the intensity the song deserves. She never lets me go. She cries with me. She gives me a tissue and doesn’t mind that I get snot on her little black dress. The ballroom empties out and it’s just us and the hotel staff and conference volunteers. The DJ tests out the sound system, and her music fills the room.

  Sasha and I finally stop clutching each other like long-lost siblings reunited after decades apart. A nod. A smile. We leave tomorrow morning. The shuttle leaves at eight A.M.

  “Mrs. Brubaker would like to see you,” Hector the Oddly Arousing Assistant says, appearing out of nowhere.

  “Oh . . . thanks,” I say, as Sasha and I try to collect ourselves. We follow him up the stairs, backstage, and find Helen, who’s now dressed in full flapper garb. Her assistant is fitting a beaded headband tightly around her now pin-curled hair. Another assistant hands us two copies of Be the Heroine. We thank her. I look at Sasha. She’s thinking the same thing. Consolation prizes for saying no to our request for her counsel.

  “Oh, don’t be all pouty. I’m saying yes,” Helen says, thanking her assistant as the headband is set perfectly in place.

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Hector will e-mail you from my private e-mail address,” Helen says. Hector nods. Sasha opens the book. It’s signed. She looks up. Beaming.

  “Thank you so much,” I say.

  “Now, I don’t know how this is going to work, but I do know that if I get a call from you and all you want to do is talk about how your boss doesn’t understand you and ask me to act like your mom or something—”

  “I can assure you that is not what we’re thinking this is, either,” I say. Sasha is speechless, clutching the book to her chest.

  “I know. I know you don’t,” Helen says.

  “Thank you so much,” I say.

  “You’re so great,” Sasha says, and Helen smiles.

  “Okay, so I’ll see you when I see you then,” Helen says.

  “Looks like,” I say. Helen gives me a wink and walks out into the swarm of women already enjoying cocktail hour.

  I open the book. Helen has written:

  Anna:

  Change doesn’t happen just because we think something

  is wrong. Change happens because we think something

  is wrong and then don’t stop fighting until it’s right.

  Don’t stop until it’s right, Ms. Wyatt.

  We’re all counting on you.

  Your mentor,

  Helen

  Sasha and I walk out from backstage, through the transforming ballroom, and into the cramped and busy hallway. One final smile. Sasha stays behind at the cocktail hour and tells me she’ll cab it back to the Biltmore. I make my way to Lincoln.

  I now know what I must do.

  14

  I walk through the Biltmore lobby in a haze. Climb into the elevator, push the button for Lincoln’s floor, and stand back from the doors. I’m not ready. I’m not ready. I get out on his floor. I can hear my labored breathing inside my head. My heavy footfalls bringing me close . . . close . . . closer to him. My belt cinches at my waist. Squeezing me tight. I undo it, looping it up and throwing it into my purse in a panic. My dress falls loosely around my body. His door. I turn to it in what feels like slow motion. I put my hand on the doorjamb and lower my head. A deep breath. I raise my head and knock.

  I hear him just inside, his confident steps nearing the door, and everything in these last moments becomes precious to me. I want to save the sound of him walking toward me under glass. He opens the door, pulling it wide open. Come in. I walk under his arm easily and enter the room. I cross to the far window. I turn around and he’s by the door.

  “You Marpled me,” I say.

  “I beg your pardon?” he asks, putting his hands into his jeans pockets.

  “You Marpled me. I didn’t see you coming. And now I’m sitting in some well-appointed salon as you unmask me as the murderer,” I say.

  “This is in refer—”

  “The Anna Wyatt Marple Theory: No one ever noticed her observing, chronicling . . . working. No one ever noticed her at all.”

  “Not to be confused with us being the dead bodies of our own story?”

  “No, and apparently I make a lot of Agatha Christie references,” I say. A smile.

  “Anna, I—”

  “If someone doesn’t perceive you as a threat, how will they see you coming? They won’t. I won’t. I didn’t. I never saw you coming.”

  He is quiet.

  “You’ve unraveled me,” I say. Lincoln is still. “You’re so good at that.”

  “What?”

  “Stillness.”

  “Only on the outside, love.”

  “Hm,” I say, feeling the first tear stream down my face. I can see Lincoln fighting the urge to come to me, comfort me, soothe me. But he knows he can’t. Not about this. Temporary. The word cuts through me. I take his blue V-neck sweater from my purse and lovingly place it on the bedside table.

  “You’re not staying the night.”

  “No.”

  “Smart.” He shakes his head. Hurt. Angry. Frustrated. He manages a smile. “Smart,” he repeats.

  “It doesn’t feel smart,” I say.

  “Well, at least you’re not a coward.”

  “Lincoln—”

  “Earlier today? I thought I was this white knight saving you from this terrible fate. Stopping things before we got in too deep—”

  “Too late.”

  “Too late,” Lincoln repeats. A smile. A painful smile.

  “And I think I might be as big of a coward as you are.”

  “We truly are soul mates then.” He laughs and then stifles a sob as he brings his fisted hand up to cover his mouth. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.” I cross the room toward the desk. “But . . . but I can’t leave with nothing.” I find the pen and pad of hotel paper among the beginnings of his packed clothes and write. I tear off the slip of paper and walk over to him with it. I let my head fall onto his chest and feel his hand instantly on the back of my head, his other arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me close. Closer. He kisses the top of my head. Desperate. Urgent. Insistent.

  “It’s going to be all right,” he says, his voice rumbling in his chest. And I just shake my head
no. As the ice of the last forty years melts, the tears finally come. I pull myself away, the now crumpled piece of paper in my heated palm. I fold the paper into his hand and close his fingers around it.

  “It’s a Hail Mary, I know.”

  “Hail Mary?”

  “Oh, that’s right. American football reference. Sorry. Um . . . a last resort? Look it up, it’s actually perfect for whatever this is I’m about to do.”

  “You have my full attention.”

  “Here’s the address of this little Italian restaurant in D.C. we went to for my birthday this year. I didn’t know what to wish for. Isn’t that weird? I should have known then.” The tears choke me up and I let my head fall again into him. He can only wrap his arms around me and wait. Helpless. I make myself look at him. Those dark blue eyes. He’s in pain. I put my hand on the side of his face and he leans into it. His eyes closing. A deep breath. He calms. “Come to dinner. It’s all there.” Lincoln opens his eyes with a deep breath. He unfolds the piece of paper and reads. My birthday. The time. The name and address of the little Italian restaurant in D.C. He looks up from the paper and the anger and frustration have transformed into . . . sadness. A desperate sadness.

  “This is a year from now,” he says.

  “That’s usually how birthdays work,” I say. He laughs. And I smile. Lincoln carefully folds the paper up, pulls out his wallet, and tucks it into its leathery folds. He looks at me again. Pleading. He looks down at me with this . . . pain. “Lincoln.” I close my eyes and just breathe. I put my hands on his chest and force myself to push away from him. Make myself leave. I stand in front of him and he kisses me. And in those moments, I am as raw and naked as I have ever been. I whisper, “And if I don’t see you again, loving you will have been the bravest thing I’ve ever done.” And Lincoln lurches forward, desperately pulling me into him.

  I don’t remember walking away from him. And I don’t remember—won’t remember—what he looked like in those last desperate moments. The hallway. The elevator. If I slept. The wake-up call and the zombie-like shuffle to our shuttle in the wee hours of the next morning. Sasha fell asleep on my shoulder as we waited for our flight and I tried Ferdie again. And again. And again. Nothing.

  So, I keep busy. I talk to business affairs while we’re at the airport and tell them what Preeti said about bringing all three men to the pitch meeting. They give me the green light. Once we’re on the plane, I send e-mails to all three of the winning contestants’ representation requesting that they join us in New York for the pitch meeting at Quincy Pharmaceuticals. Even though it’s Sunday, flight arrangements are made, hotels are booked, and congratulations are extended. We’re all set for tomorrow’s big pitch.

  And every time I think about what I’ve lost, maybe forever, I just let it come. The tears. The emotion. All of it. I sit in the first-class seats that I upgraded us to sometime this morning and just sob. The flight attendant offers me tissues and the businessman across the aisle just looks concerned. And the bundle of used tissues that I stuff into the netted compartment on the back of the seat in front of me grows. And grows. And grows. I’m trapped in this steel tube hurtling through the air away from Lincoln, and I can’t stop crying. But the scary part? It feels good. And soon—somewhere over the Midwest—it starts becoming less about Lincoln and more about me. My past and my childhood and my parents and who I am and most of all, who I had to become to survive it all. The bundle of tissues grows. And the flight attendant brings me more tea and I can’t stop crying.

  “You sure this—” Sasha asks, looking up from the drawings she’s finalizing for tomorrow.

  “This is good. It’s good,” I say, sniffling and sniffling. Sasha thanks the flight attendant for another bundle of tissues. She passes them over to me.

  “What if he’s an earl? Or a prince? Oh! Oh my God. What if you’re pregnant and then? A year from now at your birthday dinner? You present him with his secret baby love child and he’s all ‘And now you are my queen and this is my heir.’ ” Sasha’s voice becomes reverent and whispery. “He places a tiny crown on the baby’s head.” Of course she acts this out and then in a booming voice with the worst British accent of all time, she says, “‘Come with me and we shall rule everything the light touches.’ ” Sasha’s arm sweeps in front of her. Thank God we’re in first class; she wouldn’t have nearly enough room to be so dramatic back in coach.

  “First, that’s The Lion King. Second, what am I, Teen Mom? We used protection. And third, what kind of unhinged martyr would be all—yeah, I’m carrying his child, but you know what’s going to work out best? If I shoulder this whole pregnancy thing on my own and then spring the baby on him way down the line when I’m properly filled with just enough resentment that it would be completely disastrous.”

  “So you’re saying he could be at least an earl,” Sasha says. I sigh, balling up another tissue, stuffing it in with the others. “You should have stayed the night. You should’ve—”

  “And then what?” I ask.

  “Then he sweeps you up and asks you to marry him, sobbing that he’s never before loved—”

  “I was in that hotel all night. He never knocked on my door to sweep me up and beg me to date him, let alone marry him. So, this isn’t—” The emotion builds and I can’t help but get caught up in it once more. “It wasn’t just me,” I finally squeak out.

  “I know. I know it wasn’t,” she says. She smiles and goes back to her drawing. “But the secret baby would have been an awesome reveal.” I look over at her. She’s said it almost to herself. As she chooses different colored pencils and with her tongue sticking out just so, she looks like a little kid sitting there. The same little kid who found that stack of romance novels in her grammy’s crafting room all those years ago. I tear up (of course) and smile. I can’t help it. After everything she’s been through with men—on the cusp of her own Time-Out—she still believes. In the happy ending and being swept up by heroes and . . . love. She still believes in love.

  Do I? Did I ever?

  That’s the saddest part. When I think about me as a kid . . . searching for it. Waiting for it. Hungry for it. Just as I learned to write in cursive and spell three-syllable words, I learned to live without love. The bundle of tissues grows to epic proportions as I sniffle through several more work e-mails and maybe watch a few cat videos just to balance things out. It’s all such a blur.

  Sasha and I fly into JFK since our meeting is first thing tomorrow morning and I’m happy to be busy and tromping through Manhattan. This is where Lincoln is. And then I’m crying in the back of a cab and Sasha is telling the cab driver—who couldn’t care less—some sob story about why I’m hysterical. By the time we check in to yet another hotel I am finally calming down.

  Before we meet for dinner at the hotel’s restaurant, I excuse myself to put yet another call in to the ice rink where I met Ferdie less than a week ago.

  “Hi, is Ferdinand Wyatt there? He reffed a game last Tuesday,” I ask the put-upon woman who has the unfortunate task of answering the phone.

  “Who?”

  “Ferdinand Wyatt? Ferdie Wyatt?” I ask.

  “Oh, Ferdie. No, you know what, he’s been AWOL all week. He was supposed to ref a game tonight, but nothin’,” the woman says.

  “Oh . . . okay, well, if he does happen to check in—” And the woman hangs up. “Dammit.” I can only shake my head and make plans to ambush him at his apartment when I get back to D.C. Of course, Lincoln’s words come back to me. That it doesn’t help Ferdie to fix things . . . but I just need to know he’s safe. Alive. And then I’ll back away. Maybe. After checking to see if he has groceries.

  Baby steps.

  15

  It’s Monday morning.

  The Lumineux waiting room. I half expected Audrey Holloway to be waiting here for us. And when she’s not it’s the least calming revelation in history. She’s waiting. Biding her time. This campaign belongs to Sasha and me. It’s ours because we have come to embody it. With
everything I’ve learned and cried about and excavated over the last week, it all comes back to this.

  Just Be.

  Sasha and I sit in the corner with Jake, Lantz, and Josh, who look even more unbelievable in this everyday environment. A few businessmen sit on the other side of the waiting room. I catch each one of them looking at the three men, trying to flex nonexistent muscles and, finding themselves wanting, going back to scrolling their smartphones. Sasha is quiet. She is tight and elsewhere.

  We stopped for bubble water and I had antacids ready for her before we got our first cab. But I know—from firsthand experience—how rocky the terrain is at the beginning of a Time-Out. It’s not much better a full year into it, truth be told.

  I think about what Helen wrote in my book that change doesn’t happen just because we think something is wrong. Change happens because we think something is wrong and then don’t stop fighting until it’s right. It was a cruel wake-up call when I realized just because I had become aware of the blind spots in my life, that didn’t mean that I automatically got some secret key that’d take me to the next level. No. It sucked. For a very long time. Every day. There was a reason I went underwater. My parents are never going to be who I want them to be. Ever. The glimmers I think I catch sight of every now and again are just that—glimmers. They’re not the promise of depths I’ve yet to uncover or tips of some love iceberg I am on the verge of crashing into. They’re aches from a phantom limb that never existed.

  So, now I know. They’re never going to be the people I want them to be. The thing about living in a fantasy world is that anything can happen there. In this fantasy world my parents could turn around one day and gift me with the love I’ve always wanted. And my childhood could be erased and replaced with the happy one I always dreamed of. Now, with the cold truth of who they are out in the open, comes the task of resetting the bones that were broken and learning how to walk again.