The Boy in the Mirror: Finding Love in the Strangest of Ways

by Bonny Capps

  “Hey doll!” McKenzie makes me jump as she places her hands on my shoulders. “Are you riding with Matthew?” She asks as she lays her head on my shoulder. “I have dance practice, I'm walking there and he is picking me up after football practice. Why?” I respond, turning to face her. “Well, I need a ride.” She states, matter-of -factly, her head cocked to the side.

  I grab my dance bag and throw it over my shoulder, “Oh, well we can walk to my dance class together and he can scoop us up after wards.” She looks down at her feet and innocently smiles back up at me, “Well, I think I might stick around here and watch him practice and then we can get you after?” “Um, OK.” I murmur, forcing a smile. What the hell is this? “OK! I'll see you in a little bit!” She exclaims, before I can respond she is skipping down the hall. I'm not sure that I want to know what is going on because it might possibly... Upset me? Why would that make me upset. Why would that make me upset? An odd feeling begins forming in my stomach; it’s turning, like I just received bad news. I have no idea where this is coming from.

  I make my way out of the school – safely, no Queen Bitch interrupting my departure. I’ve always been the quiet girl, my thoughts are often kept to myself – with that I have managed to stay under the radar, until I started high school. Sadie literally targeted me; she makes it a point to make my school life miserable. For the most part, I try and ignore it. Obviously, my silence hasn’t done me much good, but for someone like me the words to say are constantly swirling around in my head, yet they never make it to my tongue.

  The trees sway and the breeze takes my hair with it, tickling my nose as I make my way out of the school parking lot. It's a beautiful day, little fluffy clouds scatter in the blue sky, and the sun's not too bright at this hour as I walk the block to my dance school. The dry leaves are already threatening their descent, I can hear them rustling above me as I make my way through town. The end of summer, it's so depressing.

  I enter the old, red stone building, once a theater and smell the musky air. This place has so much history, it's etched in every crack, every mirror. You can feel the plays once acted out here. It's funny how such an old building can hold so much emotion, played out years and years ago. I have a private today for a big rehearsal I’ve been preparing for. I am hoping to become part of a mentor-ship which could earn me a scholarship to elite dance academy, which would be beneficial, because Satan surely will not pay for it.

  I lose myself in my dance - Adagio, Ballon, Bourrée. I feel like I'm floating, I gracefully interpret a swan, my hopes and dreams lye in this dance, “The Swan”, reinterpreted by my choreographer, Dara. Dara is slender, beautiful, and swift. She has long black hair twisted into a bun and her determined, grey eyes watch my movements. She has a wonderful French accent and amazing feet, boy am I jealous of those feet – any dancer would be.

  My practice comes to a successful close and I make my way out the doors, waving goodbye to the fellow dancers. Still no Matthew, maybe his practice is running late? I sit on the bench outside and pull out my phone from the side pocket of my dance bag. “1 Missed Call” from home. Home? Panic begins taking over my body, mom- oh no. Mom. I feel impending doom as my anxiety rises; my intuition tells me something is terribly wrong. My hand trembles as I press dial and put the phone up to my ear. “Mandy!” My father – Satan barks on the other end. “Dad, what's wrong?” I whisper. “It's your mother, she's in the hospital. I am coming to get you.” The line cuts off immediately and I am left alone with my fear, sadness, anxiety, dread. I want to cry, but there are no tears.

  Chapter Two

  The car is quiet other than the soft hum of the tires on the concrete road. I look out the window at the passing buildings and street lights as we make our way into the city. My father is looking straight ahead, his graying hair combed neatly to the side and his mouth in a straight line. He is wearing his usual polo shirt and slacks. His Rolex shining each time we pass a street light. He has been in the US Army for 20 years, joining at the age of 22, being a Lieutenant General; he is very stern – very mean in my opinion.

  He met my mother when he first began serving and they married after only two weeks of knowing each other. I've seen picture after picture that simply is not the life I've ever known or the parents I've ever known. They looked happy, he was actually smiling. My mother was in every sense of the word beautiful. She looked so free spirited. Her long, wavy amber hair resting on her shoulders and she always wore the prettiest dresses, she was so feminine and she looked so young. She was beaming. I remember looking at those pictures ever since I was a little girl. Wondering what I did to make her so sad, just by being there. Just by being me, it made her so distant. I would look at myself in the mirror and look for any flaw that could have made her not want me so. Could it be the freckle under my eye or my lanky legs? What? But then she saw me dance and each and every short time I was on the stage that made a tiny difference for me, because looking down in the audience I saw her eyes gleaming, her smile beaming like it used to in those pictures.

  My father slowly pulls into the parking garage and we find the closest parking spot. I reach for the handle to free myself from the tenseness of the confined prison of this car when my father speaks abruptly, “Wait.” I sink back into my seat and look straight ahead. “Mandy, before you go in there, you need to know that your mother is very ill... gravely ill.” Wait, his voice cracked, what is this? My eyes slowly travel to meet his. His eyes look dark, almost black – eerie even. I nod and get out of the car.

  We make our way to the entrance and into the cold, white hospital. We go up three floors in the elevator and we are at our stop. The doors open and there is the dreadful sign that I didn't want to see, or I didn't know that I did not want to see it until now. “ICU” I break it down in my head, repeating constantly “Intensive Care Unit, Intensive Care Unit”, oh no, this is becoming too real now. She was just in bed this morning when I left for school. What happened between then and now?

  My mind is racing, my emotions are going crazy. I follow behind my father, almost hiding behind his broad shoulders, I don't want to see. I look at the passing rooms, each and every one of them occupied by a patient clinging to life, family quietly weeping in some, holding their loved ones hands, praying, clinging to hope. No, no, no. I don't want this, not for her. Not for my mother.

  Finally we stop, so quickly I almost run into my father. He turns and nods to one of the nurses at the nurses’ station. He steps aside and looks down at me, nodding in the direction of the closed blue curtain. I look to the curtain and then back to him. He nods again, more impatiently. Why the hell are you making me go first? I don't want this; I don't want to open that curtain. You do it, be a father for once.

  For the first time ever, I stand my ground. He will open that curtain. It's a stare down for what seems like a minute or two, my lips pursed, trying to hide the trembling. His shoulders slump and he lets out a sigh. What's this? His jaw tenses and he looks down at his perfectly polished shoes. He's given up. He turns and opens the curtain and I make my way into the room behind him.

  Dad steps to the side and reveals my shell of a mother. I examine the room around me, machines with tubes – all going to my mother's hands, mouth, and nose. They are invading her body. My eyes travel up the tubes and to the machines controlling them. The one in her throat goes to a... ventilator? It's such a sickening sound that it makes, Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. With each whoosh her chest responds. Up down, up down, up down. It is a relief that it helps her breath, but oh my God. It hurts so bad knowing that this machine is the string between life and death.

  I see her heart beats in the monitor, they seem like they are so weak, is this in my head? What do I know about heart monitors? My feet feel like they have rooted into the cold, white tile floor. I feel like there is a rock in my stomach. She looks to be at peace. Her eyelashes lay on her delicate cheeks; her hair looks as though it’s been brushed. It is mostly brown with hints of gray strands peeking out here and there – her
natural amber highlights have gone away, faded away with the rest of her. Her face and arms look yellow, that can’t be normal.

  My father stands at attention in the corner, looking at his wife with no emotion what so ever. I uproot my feet and slowly make my way to my mother's bed side. I sit next to her frail body and look down at her, strands of my hair escaping my bun. I'm still in my leotard and sweat pants. “Hey mom.” I whisper, hoping for some type of response. But, who am I kidding, she never responded when she was in her bed at home - she would lay there motionless, sometimes with her eyes open, staring endlessly at the wall. I remember being a little girl; I learned at a young age that no matter what I did or what I said, it was never going to invoke a word from my mother.

  We sit in silence as I sit and examine for any type of movement until we hear a light tap at the entry. A handsome man peers in; he looks to be in his early 30's and is dressed in scrubs and a doctor’s jacket, his blonde hair messy and his blue eyes kind. “Mr. Knolls... Miss Knolls, may I have a word?”

  The doctor’s name is Doctor Smiley, yes really. He has led us to a private meeting room. My father and I sit opposite of each other and the Doctor pulls up a chair to face us. There is something about him that is so comforting, I don't know what it is but I just want to hug him. Doctor Smiley threads his fingers and rests his elbows on his knees. He looks concerned but positive? He looks from my father to me and I can see his jaw tense.

  He looks down briefly and then back to us with a sympathetic smile. I feel like I am literally sucking air through my nose at this point, the rock - it’s still in my stomach and my heart is skipping a beat. Well, tell me dammit! What?

  Finally, he sits back in his chair and speaks. “Your wife – your mother, she is very ill. She is currently in an induced coma, when she came in earlier she was barely clinging to life. Her liver has given out; her kidneys are near given out. We have put her on an organ donation list, for the liver and the kidneys as well. But until then, I would suggest that you begin making arrangements. The transplant list can be a lengthy process; we have to wait for a match.” My father sinks into his chair. The Doctor continues to speak; my mind is drifting as I look down at my lap, not hearing a word.

  My heart literally, hurts. I have missed out on so much with her, even though she was under the same roof all this time – she was never ever there. Suddenly my father stands, as does the Doctor. I clumsily stand as well, bowing my head. The doctor and my father shake hands and we are on our way out of the hospital. We enter the elevator, just the two of us. The silence is overwhelming, it is dreadful. When the elevator doors open we once again escape the awkward silence, passing through the exit.

  My father stops in his tracks and looks at me, you can see the annoyance written all over his face. “I have phoned Matthew, I have business to attend to. He will be here shortly.” I open my mouth to respond, but he has already begun walking back to the direction of the parking garage. I back into the wall next to the entrance and look down at my feet. If that’s his way of coping, it’s surely a shitty way to go about it. Does he even care?

  After about 5 minutes I hear the roar of an engine. Matthew hastily jumps out of his car and runs up to me, halting before me. I see his black converse but I have still yet to look up at him. He pulls me to him. My body feels limp as he embraces me. I return the hug; it is so comforting, his smell, and his presence, everything about him. He brings life to me. I lay my head on his chest and finally, my tears escape from the inner depths and start flowing. I feel so overwhelmed. It's odd that these emotions, this vulnerability is not present with my father. But Matthew, I trust him so. What would I do without him?

  I hear another car door close and think nothing of it until I feel another hand, a smaller hand on my back. No, what? McKenzie? It is... her. Why? This was my moment with Matthew. I NEED Matthew right now, just him and I. I need to talk with him. McKenzie always respected that, until now. I cling to Matthew, but McKenzie wraps her arms around me – and him, her chest against my back.

  Suddenly, I feel Matthews’s hands leave my back and I see them making their way around – hers. I try and pry away, but this only makes them hold each other tighter. Finally I break away and look up at Matthew, the look on his face, what is that? Sympathy? I don't need your sympathy Matthew! You seem to have found something in McKenzie, is this why you were late picking me up, because of her?

  Oh not all of this, not with what is going on with my mother, I can’t worry about them, not now. And, who am I to get upset about who Matthew dates? He is my best friend, I should want the best for him and I think she could be it, but the anger is overwhelming.

  Matthew leads me back to the car and leans in, allowing McKenzie into the back seat and helping me into the front. I smile to myself, see McKenzie, I still get shotgun. We stop first at McKenzie's house and Matthew frees her from the backseat from his side, to keep me from having to get out. He grabs her hand and helps her out, always such a gentleman. Then for a few moments, all I can see is their legs and they each step closer, their jeans are touching. NO. Not my best friends. This is not OK.

  Oh why does this bother me so much? I see his hands travel down her sides and stop on her hip bones. I look away and try to find anything else to focus on, tree, fire hydrant, something – anything! McKenzie startles me as she bends down and peers at me from the driver's side, “It'll be OK doll.” I nod, forcing a smile. Then she is off to her front door as Matthew gets back into the car. Before turning the ignition he lays his head on the head rest and looks at me, his deep eyes searching mine. He wants me to validate something. What? Him and McKenzie? I look away, I'm... hurt. Can he tell? He lets out a sigh and puts his hand on my knee, sending tingles down my spine. “Mands, I am always here. You know that, right?” He can tell, ugh I am pathetic. No wonder all he can do is sympathize, I'm a wounded bird. “Mands?” He gently touches my chin and tries to pry my face in the direction of his. I'm not budging. He gives up, squeezes my knee and we are on our way.

  The trip is quiet; I am finding solace in the rolling trees again. This is safe. I can’t bear to look at him, not now. Not with all of these confusing feelings running through my mind. We make our way up to my house, a home too vacant, too big for my father and me. We park out front. Shit. Satan's car is right in front of Matthews. My heart is trying to jump out of my chest. I sit, trying to work up the courage to face my dad. My hands firmly curled up in my lap. Matthew is looking straight ahead; his stare is vacant, distant. I have dumbfounded him. I know this. But I'm angry. No, I'm hurt. I'm lost. Maybe I'm overwhelmed by the nature of my feelings towards him right now. Whatever it may be, I can’t look into his eyes right now, for fear of what I might do or say. I get out of the car and slowly close the door. I walk up the steps and pause as I listen. Matthew's car stays idle until I unlock the door and enter, and then he's gone.

  I drop my dance bag on the floor in the entry, next to the boot rack and the antique table of here and there's. I look into the kitchen and see my father sitting at the bar. He is slumped over, head hung low. I smell the staleness of cigarettes and see a stream of smoke slowly, gracefully traveling towards the ceiling. He lets out a string of coughs. I am frozen there, for what seems like forever, watching him. I can see him taking long draws of the cigarette. I finally make my way towards him, my heart is going insane.

  Mandy, what the hell are you doing? STOP. But the curiosity has taken over me. What do I want to hear? He looks vulnerable for once. He looks... sad. I work my way around the bar to face him. He is drinking. He never drinks. There is a sweating glass tumbler in front of him, next to a bottle of Wild Turkey. His fingers are tapping the glass and his hair is amuck. His eyes travel up to meet mine. He lets out what seems to be a raspy laugh before taking another inhale from his cigarette.

  Oh, I hate him. I hate him. He looks disgusting to me right now. He looks so weak. He exhales the smoke through his nose and abruptly stands, almost falling he grips the bar stool only to knock it over.
I step back, my defenses are up. He stumbles around the bar, using it for support as he clumsily reaches towards me but I am not within reach. He reaches across the bar and grabs the bottle of bourbon, unscrewing the lid and taking a swig. He slams it on the counter and sways before me.

  I shake my head and try to turn; suddenly he grabs my arm and whips me around. OUCH! It hurts, I try and pull away but he has my arm gripped firmly, his fingers digging into my skin. He pulls my face close to his and sputters to me, “It's your fault.” His eyes are on fire, filled with pure and utter hatred. I cringe before releasing my arm from its grip. I am so, so pissed. I've never recognized the extent of the anger I feel right now. Through gritted teeth I finally speak up, “You shouldn't be allowed to call yourself a father or a husband. She would NOT be in that hospital bed, in that condition if it were not for YOU. I hate YOU.” Oh, the anger is flowing through my veins. I glare at him, the amount of despise I have for this man, oh it is relentless. His hand rears back and before I know it he plants a firm hard slap against my cheek.

  He. Hit. Me. He sends me back, almost knocking me over if not for the counter opposite of the bar. I plant my hands on the counter, the small of my back planted against the edge. My mouth has dropped open in shock, tears forming in my eyes. My father shakily lifts his hand, examining it before looking back at me. His eyes begin filling with tears. My hand has found my cheek, boy it is on fire. “Mandy, I-” Before he can finish his sentence my feet have taken flight, almost on their own, around the kitchen, up the stairs, past my mother's room and finally to the comforts of my safe haven. I slam the door behind me and lock it. The tears are flowing; I toss myself onto my bed and bury my face in my pillow.

  My mom, Matthew and McKenzie, my dad, Sadie. I can’t help but feel useless. I’m alone in this world. I have no one. I knew today would be rough. But, I didn’t know that my life would change in so many ways. My mom is laying in the ICU, alone. Matthew is probably laying in bed thinking about McKenzie. My drunken father is downstairs, sulking and feeling bad for himself. It seems that I’m forgotten in all of this. It seems that no one cares. I find myself pleading with God. Please, please God take me away. I can't bear anymore.