Girl in the Mirror

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “I know just the place to talk. It’s on our way home. A sorry little café. The food is simply awful, but it has marvelous views of the valley, and what harm can they do to a bottle of good champagne?”

  “I don’t feel like celebrating.”

  “Champagne is not just for celebrating, querida. The bubbles loosen the tongue and lift the spirits. We shall go, look at the mountains, have our drink, and then you will cry on brother Bobby’s shoulder.”

  Charlotte smiled, albeit weakly. He turned his head quickly back to the road. He didn’t want her to know that he’d seen the sheen of tears glistening in her brilliant blue eyes.

  Later in the café, they sat at a table by the window, watching the sun lower into the valley. As the shadows deepened in the darkening room, Bobby watched Charlotte’s face as she talked about her love for his brother Michael. A myriad of emotions flickered over her lovely features as rapidly and unpredictably as the light of the candle stuck in the wine bottle on the table. She talked on and on about how she had never, even in her most secret dreams, ever believed that someone like Michael would ever love someone like her.

  While she talked, Bobby listened patiently, knowing that she had to get through this prologue before she began the heart of her story. As the sun disappeared and the candle sputtered lower, however, her story began to take a turn. She clutched the stem of her glass tightly, holding her lips tighter still as she paused and collected herself. Bobby sat up in his chair, moved his glass aside and leaned forward.

  “When I was young,” she began, looking off into the distance, “they used to call me Charley Horse….”

  She watched him while she told him about her childhood. His eyes widened when she described how she was chased home by boys with sticks and, later, ridiculed by strangers on the street. He sat back in his chair with astonishment while she described how Dr. Harmon had cracked her jaw and rebuilt it, using her own bone and the implants to extend her jaw and chin. When she told him what Dr. Navarro had just finished telling her, she knew he believed her.

  She imagined she was telling the story to Michael, and gauged Bobby’s responses carefully. When she finished and his eyes softened with pity and total acceptance and love, she broke down. She didn’t dare hope for this much.

  “Why me?” she cried, bringing her face to her hands.

  “Why couldn’t this have happened when I was old? I wouldn’t care so much then.”

  “Oh, sure you would have. Beauty is never something one wants to lose. At any age, darling.”

  She dropped her hands and spread them on the table. Her anger flashed in her eyes. “What the hell does Navarro know? He’s just some small town doctor. He doesn’t even know what tests to order.”

  “He’s very intelligent, Charlotte. He is well respected, does immense research at the medical school. If he’s told you to have the implants removed, then I’d believe him.”

  “You’d believe anything he said because he’s your healer,” she shot back, cornered. “You’re too afraid to think that his herbs and treatments won’t heal you.”

  Bobby fingered his wineglass. “I do think the herbs are helping,” he said softly. “But I know they won’t heal me.”

  The guilt hit her full force. “I’m sorry, Bobby. Forgive me. I’m lashing out. I’m just so afraid.”

  “Of course you are. So am I.” He leaned closer. “I love great art above all things,” he said slowly. “I understand what a master this Dr. Harmon must be, and what a disaster it will be to destroy his masterpiece.” He lifted his shoulders, draped in his raffish suit. “But you have to do it,” he said, raising his eyes to meet hers steadily. “It is, after all, only your face. It isn’t your life.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “How can you ask that?” He appeared flustered, tapping his fingertips rapidly on the table in the same manner Michael might have.

  “Michael,” she replied. “How can I tell him about this? He loves my face.”

  “He loves you,” Bobby said fervently. “You can’t separate the two.”

  “You don’t know how I looked. You can’t imagine.” She shook her head, bringing shaky fingers to her temples.

  “I wasn’t just some lady looking for a chin-lift. I had a real deformity. Ugly, Bobby. There’s no other word for it. Ugly.”

  He blinked slowly, trying to comprehend. “It’s hard to imagine. That under that gorgeous face…”

  “Exactly. I see how you’re looking at me now. Trying to imagine. It’s like I’m wearing some kind of mask. I know, you see, because I did it, too. When I looked in the mirror. That’s how I know how hard it is not to feel that this face is something unreal. That I’m not real.”

  “But you said yourself you got used to it.”

  Her heart was in her throat, and she had to swallow hard. She suddenly remembered what it was like, when people at other tables stared at her, not with admiration as they did now, but with a perverse pity, as they would at any freak.

  “You have no idea what it’s like to be grotesquely ugly, to suffer, and to somehow accept it. Then to be given a second chance. To suddenly be beautiful, more beautiful than you’d ever dared hope. Only to have it all taken away. In one day. To be told, Sorry, it’s all over now. It was just a dream after all—only now you don’t want to wake up. You don’t know what that’s like, Bobby. You can’t…”

  “Charlotte, listen,” Bobby broke in, squeezing her hands. “Listen. Beauty isn’t about faces. People I’ve loved, handsome, healthy men…. I’ve seen them shrink before my eyes. Their beautiful faces scarred by disease, gnarled and pale. They were devastated. But to me, they were still beautiful. I didn’t desert them because their faces had changed.”

  “Michael couldn’t love me like that.”

  There. She’d said it. She’d voiced her worst fear. Losing her beauty was one thing. Losing Michael was far worse.

  “He could. Loving someone, as Michael loves you, goes beyond the face.” He smiled gently now. “You won’t lose him. He understands how hard this will be for you, especially knowing all you’ve been through already.”

  “He doesn’t know,” she said, feeling sheepish. “You see, I’ve never told him about the surgery. About all this. The time was never right. And then, well, it just became too late.”

  Bobby’s brows gathered and he brought his coupled hands to his lips in thought. “He doesn’t know? Any of this? The surgery, the deformity…”

  She shook her head. “None of it.”

  Bobby’s enthusiasm wavered, striking new fear in her own resolve.

  “He’ll be angry that you didn’t tell him.”

  “Lied to him.”

  “You didn’t lie.”

  “Not telling the truth is a kind of lie.”

  Bobby frowned and looked away. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make comparisons.”

  “We both know that,” he said, brushing off the apology. He thought a moment longer, looking at the last of the candle sputter at the mouth of the wine bottle. Then he looked up again, full of resolve. “Tell him. Soon. Tonight. If you delay, it will make him even angrier. It will appear that you’ve held back because you didn’t trust him.”

  “I’m so afraid.” Her eyes were wide. “If he rejects me, I couldn’t bear it. I’d die anyway.”

  “He won’t. Look at how he’s been with me.” His voice trailed away. “He’s sold his condo in Chicago, given up everything, to pay for my medication. To stay with me. Sure, I’m his brother. And he loves me, unlovable as I may sometimes be.” He glanced at her sideways, a devilish humor in his eyes. Then the serious intensity returned and he leaned forward over the table.

  “Would he do less for you? I ask you, Charlotte. Give Michael the respect he deserves, the trust. Allow him to show you how much he loves you. After all, every man likes to think of himself as a knight in shining armor. Let Michael be yours. Tell him the truth.”

  Charlotte saw the light of
appeal burning in his eyes, saw the light of the candle, shining brightly despite so little wax left to burn, and felt the first glimmerings of hope spark within her. Could it be possible that now, when all the other dreams—her beauty, her career as an actress—were crumbling around her, her greatest dream of all would be realized? That the dream, buried so deep she dared not even write it on a piece of paper, might come true. The one that she’d abandoned that fateful winter night in a Chicago garage.

  That someday, someone could see beyond her face and love her for who she was inside.

  Later that night, Michael returned home late from a site visit, his face flushed with excitement. He grabbed her close, swatted her behind and kissed her soundly.

  “Made a big sale,” he said, pouring himself and her a glass of champagne from the bottle that he’d brought home.

  “I sold not only a landscaping job, but an addition for the house as well, one that would overlook the garden I’m designing. It’s like everything is coming together for me, at last. The house and the garden, together. I can do both. Both! Do you see what that means to me? It’s like a great circle. I’m finally old enough to see all the work I’ve done in the different areas of my life merge together. It’s so much better. Ha! I’d never have believed that growing old could be so exciting.”

  Her heart broke seeing him so happy. Please, God, she prayed. Please don’t let me ruin this. Let it be all right. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the pain of her prayer tight in her chest. She made a quick sign of the cross, then served her dinner.

  She’d prepared his favorite meal especially for him—shrimp in a mole sauce, the way his mother taught her to make for him, a fine Montrachet wine, lemon ice to cool the palate.

  While they ate, he leaned over the table to kiss her. He was feeling the wine, she knew. His eyes glassed over, his touches grew more frequent, more urgent. As the candles burned low, she was reminded of her conversation with Bobby earlier that afternoon. Give Michael the respect he deserves, the trust. Tell him the truth.

  The Mozart that Michael loved filled the room. They were like teenagers, necking at the table while the lemon ice melted in the bowls. In the heat of their passion, he grabbed her hand and led her to the next room, to their four-poster bed. Laying her down on the sheets, he began making sweet, gentle love to her. She moaned, exploding in a need one step removed from desperate. There was a blackness inside of her she was digging her way out from, a swirling darkness that she climbed steadily to escape. Kissing, clutching, they rolled back and forth on the crumpled sheets, growing so blinded by their individual passions that they lost sight of each other.

  She pulled back then, climbing to her knees, drawing him up before her. Their arms around each other, she looked at him, a mere outline in the darkness. So she traced his face steadily with her fingertips, over his broad forehead, his high cheekbones, his straight nose, his full lips. Sharp, strong lines.

  He imitated her movements, tracing her face. A calm settled on them and they hugged. They rocked gently now, back and forth. No kissing. No more caresses. Just a deep clinging. This was, she felt, what she needed most from Michael. This spiritual, ancient rocking.

  The lovemaking that followed was tender, unusually sensitive and fulfilling. Afterward, she lay on his chest, feeling the lift and drop of his breathing, hearing the rumble of his body beneath her as they cooled.

  “My dragon,” she whispered.

  “My Charlotte,” he replied.

  Her breath caught in her throat and she realized that all of her earlier intoxication was gone. She was completely sober now. She was Charlotte Godowski. That was who she had to tell Michael Mondragon all about.

  It was dark. That was good. She could not see his face, nor could he see hers. She had to have faith. Yes, faith in him. Faith in herself. Dear God, help her. Her hands trembled and she ran her fingers up and down his arm.

  “Michael,” she began, as she had so many times before.

  “I love you.”

  “And I love you.”

  The response was pat. Comfortable.

  “Michael, I—I need to tell you something.”

  “Anything, my love.”

  She closed her eyes. There was no backing down this time. No more lies, no more delays.

  And then she told him. Line by line, word by word, she pushed out the same story she’d told only twice before. Never before, however, had the stakes been so high. He was silent during the telling; he didn’t ask questions, or suck in his breath. He lay quietly, almost as though she wasn’t there. She wondered wildly if she was using the wrong words. God, could she have told the story wrong? Did he not understand?

  The CD clicked: Ravel’s Pavane for a Dead Princess. It was all too appropriate. All too sad. She persevered, putting one word after another, beat by beat, like the moody music, keenly aware of Michael’s silence. His breathing was ragged. His body was cool.

  “Michael, say something,” she cried. She rose up on her elbows and stared down wildly at his face. His eyes were closed. His brows were gathered tightly. Was that a tear that pooled by his eyes?

  He brought his hand to the bridge of his nose and squeezed, grimacing as one in pain. “Charlotte,” he said. Then stopped.

  “What, what?”

  “I don’t know. Really. I don’t know what to say.” He opened his eyes and studied her face. “You say you’re not who I see. That you’re someone else. Another face. A face I’ll have to learn to love.”

  “It’s still me.”

  He didn’t respond and she felt her world crumble.

  “This doctor,” he said, clearing his throat. “Dr. Harmon. Have you seen him?”

  “No. Not yet. I’ll call him tomorrow.”

  He nodded, taking it in. “Okay. Good.”

  His methodical calm unnerved her. “Navarro was pretty clear what he’d say.”

  “He’s just some Mexican quack.”

  Her heart chilled. That was so cold. So quick. His denial was so far from the support she needed right now. She wanted to hear him jump up and declare his love—no matter what. Pick up the gauntlet, Michael, she thought. She needed to hear that. Her heart was breaking.

  Her hands roamed his chest, back and forth, then slid up his neck to his face.

  His hands remained at his side.

  “Michael, I’m so scared. You’re so quiet. I need to know you love me. Will love me no matter what. Please, tell me…”

  “I can’t.” His Adam’s apple bobbed and he turned his head away from hers.

  She sucked in her breath and withdrew, moving from his chest to her side of the bed. She curled her knees to her chest, trembling.

  He got up quickly, pushing back the covers. She saw his nakedness as a strong, dark shadow at the side of the bed.

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Prepare me. Why weren’t you honest with me?”

  “I was afraid,” she whispered. “Afraid that you wouldn’t love me.”

  “It was wrong of you, Charlotte. To lead me on. To tell me all those stories…”

  “I know. I’m sorry, Michael, I’m sorry,” she sobbed.

  “I can’t believe this.”

  “It’s still me.”

  He looked at her, studying her, then raised his eyes to stare out the window. “Is it? Who are you, Charlotte?”

  She saw in the moonlight the profile of his face. He was trying to figure things out. To think of the right words. To be the Michael everyone expected him to be, that he expected of himself.

  “Michael,” she said in a low voice, dragging herself to a sitting position. “Just tell me it doesn’t make any difference. Tell me you love me. That it’ll be all right.”

  He was silent.

  “Please, Michael.” Her voice rose and caught. She hated to hear the plea in her voice. “You don’t understand!”

  “I do understand! I understand that all that we had together was a lie.”

  “No!” Her stomach dropped. She felt ill. Cold. “Pl
ease don’t say that. How can you say that?”

  “I need some air.” He turned and grabbed his pants. “I need to think.”

  In a frozen silence she heard the swish of one leg entering the jeans, then the other. The hum of a zipper. His arms going into the sleeves. Feet into sandals.

  “I’m going for a walk.” He started for the door, then stopped. His hand rested on the doorknob, hesitating. Then, without another word, he walked out.

  She watched him leave, and it was like a door closed to her soul. He wasn’t coming back, she knew. Not in the same way. Even if he did, it was too late. His silence spoke for him. The gauntlet lay in the dirt, abandoned. There was no knight. There was only the dragon, and that monster had devoured her.

  Michael walked at a furious pace through the field of tall, brittle grass that left angry scratches on his fisted knuckles. He pushed hard toward the woodlot beyond. The hurt burned in his heart, bringing him real pain that made him wince. Only walking at a furious pace helped, fighting fire against fire. How could she have lied to him? Manipulated him. And what was all that about her deformity? And surgery? Charlotte ugly? Impossible. He couldn’t grasp it. No, not his Charlotte. But was she his Charlotte?

  He shook his head. What the hell, he didn’t know who she was anymore. When he thought of all the stories she’d told about her past—all the lies! His heels dug into the soft earth as he strode on, walking far and long before he even noticed that he was deep in the woods. Michael slowed, then stopped, his long arms hanging at his side while he got his breath to steady and the sweat to cool upon his brow. Gradually, even his raging thoughts began to die down to embers. Standing still in a dark forest silence, he felt calmed by the noble trees that surrounded him. Ancient spirits standing straight and true.

  Straight and true. God, the image shamed him. Could he say the same about himself? Michael put his hand to his face, squeezing his eyes tight. In the blackness he could see Charlotte’s face, tearstained and bereft, when she’d begged him to comfort her. Fresh pain stabbed. How could he have left her like that? She’d suffered. She’d been sick. What did she say…that she could die? His fists gathered again, this time against himself and the fates. It was wrong! Not fair. How could God be so cruel?