by R. K. Ryals
“What?” I gasped. “No!”
“It’ll be your words, Hawthorne. I’m just going to write them down while you speak and vice versa.” His hand found my hand, and he tugged me toward the bed. “Sit,” he ordered. My tailbone hit the mattress, the mirror from my dresser suddenly appearing in front of me. “Look in this, and tell me what you want me to write.”
Handing the mirror off, he sat behind me on the dark comforter, and for the first time I stared at his face. It wasn’t a direct look. It was his reflection, but it was his face nonetheless. He had a strong countenance, a hard jaw and straight nose. His hazel eyes teetered on bright green, the color in stark contrast to his dark brown hair.
His eyes met mine in the mirror, and he froze.
“It’s just a reflection,” I defended, the words slipping free before I could grab them back.
One of Heathcliff’s hands rested on the bed, the other poised above my notebook, the cover open to reveal the page I’d written in school. His gaze fell to the words, scanning them before his eyes rose again.
“An honest reflection,” he murmured. “Isn’t that what you said in class? The mirror is honest.”
My gaze studied him before sliding to my face, to my gray eyes and reddened cheeks.
“Let’s write, Hawthorne,” Heathcliff prompted. “What do you see?”
“My mother,” I whispered. My mouth choked on the words, desperate to draw them back in, but it was too late. Thoughts I’d never shared with anyone but Gregor fell against my lips and there was no holding them back. I guess when you dam something up long enough, it’s bound to explode.
“I see my mother,” I repeated. “I see her eyes and her face, but I don’t see the storm. When I was a child, her eyes always looked like the sky right before the tornado sirens go off, like funnel clouds of wildness. I used to envy her those eyes. They flashed like lightning. Now, when I see the same color in mine, I’m angry.”
Heathcliff wrote in the notebook, but mostly he stared at my reflection, an odd expression on his face. “Angry?” he asked.
I swallowed hard. “Because she took that away from me. She took away my right to be wild or irresponsible. I couldn’t do that to my uncle, and if I did, if I decided to be rebellious despite that, I’d prove them all right.”
“Them?”
“The town,” I replied, my gaze on my eyes. “They’d look at me and say, ‘she’s just like them’, and that’s the one thing I never want to be.”
Heathcliff sat up behind me, the notebook forgotten. “Why do you care? Why not be wild and free. You can be both. Being free spirited doesn’t mean you’re going to leave.”
My gaze found his in the glass, the storm I was fighting so hard to control swirling in my eyes. “Doesn’t it?” He started to reach for me, but I gripped the mirror. “And what do you see? What do you see when you look at yourself?”
His gaze swept from my reflection to his own. “One of the Vincent boys,” he answered. “Tied forever to hardware and gasoline.”
Surprised, I asked, “And you don’t want that?”
“No,” he shook his head, “I mean, yes. I’m proud of it. There was only a hastily constructed shack in the wilderness when my ancestors came here. I’ve been bred on stories about how my family built everything they have out of timber, tools, and sweat. I just want to do something different.”
Realization dawned, and I stared. “You want to leave.”
He glanced at my reflection. “Don’t you? I see it in you, Hawthorne. You’re like a weed in the middle of a field of flowers waiting to be pulled loose.”
My gaze fell. “I’m not my parents.”
His hand slid across the comforter, his fingers tugging on the hem of my shirt. “No, you are you. They’re not allowed to steal that.”
Maybe, once, I wouldn’t have allowed them to take those choices away from me, but now …
“He’s dying,” I breathed. “The paperwork he brought home,” I hiccupped, “they said terminal cancer. Stage four.”
There was sorrow in Heathcliff’s eyes, but there was also something beyond that. “And when he’s gone? Have you thought about that?”
My eyes closed. “I don’t want to think about it.”
Heathcliff’s fingers found my face, turning it. “Look at me,” he whispered. “Really look at me.” My eyes squeezed tight, and he sighed.
Tugging my chin away from his grip, I murmured, “Two days of work, driving a stick shift, and a quick kiss doesn’t earn you that.”
I expected him to get angry, to call me crazy and leave, but he didn’t. His body sank into the mattress, his hand falling to mine on the comforter.
“I’m not going anywhere, Clare,” he said.
“Hawthorne,” I corrected.
“Clare,” he insisted. “It’s too late for me to leave. I’m invested now.”
I laughed, my eyes opening, my gaze on our hands. “You make me sound like a bank account.”
Releasing my hand, he reached over me to grab the mirror, and I glanced into the glass, his gaze finding mine in this alternate reality, in the world of looking glasses. “Maybe it is kind of like that,” he remarked. “I’m investing in you, Clare.”
I cringed when he said my name, but I didn’t look away. “Why?”
“Because that’s what I do,” he stated, and shrugged. “Ask my family. I invest in things, and I keep at it until I wear it down.” He smiled. “My brother found an injured dog once on the side of the road. Everyone, even the vet in town, said he wouldn’t survive. They decided to put him down. But I stole him.”
My eyes grew round. “You took him from the vet?”
He nodded at our reflections.
“And did he?” I asked.
“What?”
“Die?”
Heathcliff’s grin widened. “I nursed him for weeks. Brought him food and water, bathed him, accepted medicine from the same vet I stole him from. My parents didn’t get angry. I think they thought it would teach me something about life and death. That maybe if I saw him pass, I’d learn what it meant to let go.”
“And?” I prompted.
Heathcliff leaned forward behind me, his mouth near my ear. “His name is Rat, and he’s ten-years-old now. Lives with Mams. You can meet him. He’s not as active as he was when I was eight, but he’s a good dog. Loyal.”
Staring, I mumbled, “And they call me the odd one.”
His lips brushed my neck. “I just don’t like giving up on people.”
How my shoe found this boy’s shoe is beyond me. I’d always run away from people, from possible relationships. I’d made it my entire school career avoiding relationships of any kind, romantic or otherwise. Until his shoe met mine in English class.
“I’m not a good investment,” I whispered.
“I beg to differ,” he argued. “I think you may be my best yet.” He leaned away, and I released a pent up breath. “Now, come on, we have an assignment to do.”
In the end, Heathcliff left that night, a sheet of paper dangling from his fingers. I held the other. We’d placed them side by side before he departed, his gaze sliding to my profile while I avoided his. The assignment wasn’t officially over until the end of term. But we had a start.
Hawthorne Macy
I’m a cook. I like making food because I can take a variety of components and make something old, comfortable, new, or unique out of it. My life is like a recipe. In my mirror, I see the ingredients, my uncle and me. I’m not sure how we work, but we do. Each time I’ve glanced into the glass growing up, I’ve seen him behind me. At first, I was a little girl with terrible hair, my bewildered uncle standing at my back, his flabbergasted eyes on my tangled head. I think that’s how we came to be, Gregor and me. He was left with a terrible muddle of a girl, and he had to figure out how to put her back together.
Other times, I look into the mirror, and I don’t see my uncle or even me. I see my mother, her stormy, tornado-infused eyes taunting me, telling me
that I can’t be daring or free. Her eyes tell me I have to fight too hard not to be like her or my father. Her eyes tell me to be afraid.
Finally, I look into the mirror, and I see myself. There are yearnings there I’m not sure I’m ready to explore. There’s grief I’m afraid to face. There’s courage, but there’s also regret.
My uncle is living on borrowed time. He did more than fix me, even with my doubts, even with the things about myself I’m not sure of. He loved me, and I loved him back. He took my heart, and he kept it safe. He guarded it. I think, if I’m being honest, I’m afraid that when he’s gone, I’m going to break what he worked so hard to keep strong.
Max Vincent
I’m a Vincent. When I look into the mirror, I see a name. I see wood, nails, gasoline, and sweat. Then, I see fire. Figuratively speaking, I want to use the gasoline and the wood to burn down what I know is expected of me. I want to see more, be more, and do more. I don’t want to spend my life staring into a mirror pretending I don’t want to be somewhere else, be someone else.
I want to be who I am. I want my name, but I want more. I’m not ashamed of that. In truth, I don’t really know what I want to do or who I want to be. I just want the freedom to find out.
Closing the door behind Heathcliff, I turned, my back settling against it. There was a light on in the kitchen, and I knew my uncle was sitting, as he often did in the late afternoon, at the kitchen table, a newspaper in front of him, a cup of strong coffee in his hand.
My feet found him.
I sometimes wondered if my body worked as a whole, or if my heart ruled it rather than my mind. My feet often took me places I’d never thought of going until I got there.
“He kissed me,” I blurted.
Uncle Gregor’s head shot up, his coffee midway to his lips, his gaze sweeping my face before going to the hall beyond.
“He’s gone,” I supplied, and repeated, “He kissed me.”
“You said that.” Setting his coffee down, he peered at me over the brim of his reading glasses. “You know to be smart, don’t you, Hawthorne?”
My feet took me to the table, my stance uneasy. “I’m not quite sure what to think about all of it.”
Shifting uncomfortably, Gregor gestured at the chair next to his, and I sat. “Well,” he cleared his throat, “I don’t really know how to begin …”
His face reddened, and I took pity on him. “I’m seventeen, Uncle. I know about sex. I just don’t know about Heathcliff.”
Uncle Gregor released a relieved breath. “Follow your heart. It won’t fail you. Not yours.”
My fingers played with the edge of his newspaper. “You have too much faith in me.”
He smiled. “Maybe, but I know you, Hawthorne, and I’m willing to bet I’m not wrong about your heart.”
His chicory-enhanced coffee tickled my nose as I leaned over, my gaze scanning his face. “Do you think I’m like my parents?”
Startled, Gregor stared. “Your parents?” My lips parted, but he didn’t give me a chance to respond. “Your parents weren’t runners. I know what the people say in this town. I know the rumors. Being from a small community makes us all afraid of losing people. It’s a comfortable but often boring life. Young people come and go. It doesn’t mean they’re running. Your parents didn’t run, they quit. There’s a difference.”
A tear fought a battle with my eye and lost, the moisture rolling down my cheek. “Why did you keep me? Why didn’t you go after them?”
The paper rattled as Uncle Gregor shoved it aside, his gentle hand finding mine. “They were terribly young, Hawthorne. I lived away, working for a pharmaceutical company when my parents passed. I was twenty-eight. My brother was only sixteen, and I became responsible for him. A year later your mother told him she was pregnant. They were so very young. Very restless people with few responsibilities. They had you, but it wasn’t enough. Oh, they gave it a good show for the first six years, but it wasn’t to be. They wanted that chance to be young, I suppose.”
“They were irresponsible,” I spat.
His kind gaze captured mine. “Maybe.”
My shoulders slumped. “They’ve had their chance to be young by now, but they haven’t returned.”
Gregor’s hand tightened on mine. “That’s real fear they’re facing now. You grew up while they did, and I don’t think they know how to come home to a stranger.”
There were no words for the emotions that churned in my gut, the uncertainty, the anger, and the confusion. In many ways, I’d learned to cope with my past by loving my uncle and his home too much. I’d planted my soul here, and then I’d met Heathcliff’s shoes. The young man wearing them was making me search deeper within myself than I wanted to. He was making me care about him, care about something other than this house and the sweet Southern air beyond the windows.
“Let yourself bloom, Hawthorne,” my uncle whispered. “Open yourself up.”
Taking a deep, chest-expanding breath, I breathed, “And if I’m making a mistake? If I’m making the wrong choice?”
Uncle Gregor patted my hand. “Choices aren’t always mistakes, but they are always defining.”
“I wish I had your confidence.”
“If you did, you wouldn’t be young.”
Tugging my hand away from his, I stood and stepped away from the table, my back to him. “Do you believe in love?”
His chair scraped the floor. “I do, but ask me why I do.”
Turning to face him, I mumbled, “Why?”
“Because I believe in you. Because no matter how many times your heart is broken in life, your love will always be worth it.”
His words warmed my heart, but they also filled me with fear. “You think my heart will be broken?”
“I think your heart will learn. The heart can’t be broken if you don’t let it break. Let it, Hawthorne. People are so afraid of being broken that they don’t allow themselves to learn from the pain. The heart can’t be taught if you don’t give it something to learn.”
My chest felt funny, heavy and uncomfortable. “He plans to leave one day.”
Uncle Gregor stood and stepped toward me, his gaze full of warmth. “Then let him, but give him a reason to wish he’d stayed. You won’t understand this now, and I don’t expect you to, but know this: sometimes love isn’t forever. Sometimes it’s just moments in your life that teach you. If it’s the forever after kind of love, it’ll find you again. If it isn’t, don’t let a broken heart break you. Let it make you love harder. Love is a mistake worth making.”
There was passion in his voice, strong and sure, and I found myself smiling. “You know, you’re kind of wise, Uncle.”
He snorted. “No, I’m old. Now what’s for supper?”
I laughed, my gaze scanning his face, my eyes tracing the lines around his lips. Gregor was only forty-six years old. No matter how old that seemed to me right now, it was still too young to die.
Swallowing past the sudden lump in my throat, I gasped, my question broken when I asked, “Are you afraid?”
“Afraid?”
A tear slid down my cheek. “Of dying?”
“Oh, Hawthorne.” Closing the distance between us, he pulled me into his embrace and tucked my head under his chin. He smelled of chicory and menthol. “I’m not dying. Not really.”
My sobs shook me, my nose and eyes leaking into his linen shirt, staining it. “I don’t know if I can make it without you.”
Gently, Gregor pulled me away from him, his eyes capturing mine. “You can do anything, Hawthorne. I won’t be leaving. Not really. People don’t die, we pass into memory. I’ll live through you, through your heart and your mind. That’s the wonderful thing about life. Our bodies die, but memory allows us to live in those we love.”
My sobs shook me. “I’m so scared. I want to pretend I’m not, but I can’t. I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry.”
Uncle Gregor gripped me. “Shhh …” he soothed, “I’d be more worried if you weren’t.”
&
nbsp; We were doing a lot of hugging lately, my uncle and me, as if we needed every possible moment we had to say good-bye.
“You know,” I gasped, my voice shaking, “you’re supposed to be all against my having a relationship with someone. The whole protective I’ve got a gun bit.”
Uncle Gregor chuckled, the vibration a welcome comfort against my ear. “Is that so? I’m afraid I’m going to fail you there. The last time I held a gun, I managed to shoot up my grandma’s prized roses rather than the target.”
It was the first time I’d heard this story, and I smiled. “That’s not so bad.”
“It is when the target was on the other side of a creek opposite the house.”
“Oh,” I laughed, “that’s pretty bad.”
“It was considered safer that I didn’t have anything with a trigger after that.”
My chuckle mingled with his.
“Tell me your stories, Uncle. All of them,” I urged.
He grew still. “Some of them involve your parents, Hawthorne.”
There was silence, and then, “You said people don’t die, they pass into memory. I want you there in mine, the hard moments and the good,” I whispered.
Uncle Gregor pulled me away from him again, his eyes searching mine. “Let’s make something quick to eat,” he suggested. “There’s a lot of stories to tell.”
I made us sandwiches after that, a peanut butter and jelly with mayonnaise for me and a ham and cheese with mustard and potato chips for him, the chips crushed between the bread. It’s funny, actually, that I remember that. For hours, he told me stories, and I do remember them. All of them, but what I remember most was his face, the way his eyes lit up at some and darkened with others. Outside, the sun faded, setting below the trees, turning the limbs into silent, spooky sentinels. A chilly wind pushed against the kitchen’s dark panes, the breeze lifting loose tin on the roof. It knocked against the ceiling as if it sought entrance. Maybe it was weeping, too.
Afterwards, when talking became too much for Gregor, when the fatigue settled in, he took himself off to bed. I remained, my hands clutching a mug of coffee. It was the chicory kind. I hated the taste of chicory, but I enjoyed the scent, the reminder that my uncle was still here.