Tempus

by Tyra Lynn

  Might as well get it over with. Might as well go down there and see what happens. Probably imagined it all anyway. Probably breathed in too many cleaner fumes. Probably have a brain tumor. My inner monologue continued all the way down the stairs, all the way to the back porch. All the way to still covered mirror.

  There it was, just standing there innocently on my back porch. I reached over and tugged the tarp, which came off with a whispering sound and floated into a heap at my feet. Yep, there it was. “Mirror, mirror on the porch, which of us is the biggest dork?” It was the best I could do; I had never been a poet.

  I walked closer. I felt like I was sizing up an opponent. I walked around it, looking it up and down, almost expecting it to do something. It didn’t, of course. It just stood there, waiting for me to finish. I finally asked it “What are you?” but it didn’t answer.

  I laughed at my foolishness. It wasn’t so bad if I just allowed myself to pretend I was crazy, or in a movie. Yeah, that’s what I would do. I would pretend I was in a movie and I would interrogate the mirror. I would be the ghost hunter and the mirror held someone captive in the glass. It was my job to set him free, or something like that.

  “If you’re in there, and you can hear me, knock three times on the glass!” I peered at the mirror and listened intently. Nothing.

  Hmmm.

  I knew what I should do, but I wasn’t ready to touch it yet. I noticed how dirty it was and thought I should clean it up a little. Maybe that would make the mirror happy, and it would release its prisoner out of gratitude. I giggled a little at that thought. It was like being little again, and playing make-believe. Using your imagination occasionally couldn’t be a bad thing.

  I went inside, found some cleaners, cloths, and a couple of pieces of newspaper, and then returned to face the mirror. I started on the wood, top to bottom, careful not to touch it with bare skin. The dirt and grime in the carved details took some work, and some patience, but I eventually got it all. When I finished with the wood, I started on the glass. I sprayed, I wiped, I polished, starting at the top and working my way down, as careful not to touch it with my fingers as I had been with the wood. The mirror had a few dark spots, but was in good condition overall. I stepped back to admire my work.

  One look at myself in the mirror and I realized something—I touch my face a lot when I work. Well, I wasn’t about to touch that mirror until I washed my face! A dash to the kitchen and a clean cloth took care of that problem, and then right back to the mirror. I looked carefully at my reflection. Not perfect, but not bad. Moment of truth time.

  I faced the mirror squarely and looked over the trim, remembering exactly where I had placed my hands. I noticed a few butterflies, not in the yard, but in my stomach. Not many things made me nervous, so I was not exactly sure how to handle it. I took a deep breath to calm down, as they tell you to do in the movies. I placed my hands on the mirror, but closed my eyes.

  My eyes did not want to open. It was partly because I was afraid I would see something, and partly because I was afraid I wouldn’t. I was too scared of either one, so I let go.

  CHAPTER III

  Time is the longest distance between two places.

  —Tennessee Williams

  I kept my eyes closed for a few more moments. I imagined the blue-eyed boy on the other side. Was he there? Did he see me? If I’d only had the courage to open my eyes, would I have seen him?

  My fear turned into something else in those few seconds—I had to know if it was real. I might not see him at all. If I didn’t, that wouldn’t confirm anything except that I didn’t see him this time. But if I saw him, if he was there, if he looked at me, if I knew that he could see me…

  I didn’t know what that would mean, but I knew it would mean something. I took another deep breath and extended both my arms. Opening my hands, I leaned forward, and grasped the mirror firmly. I stared at it without blinking for as long as I could, and there, looking straight into my eyes — was me.

  I waited.

  I don’t know why I waited, but I did. I had never had to wait for a glimpse, ever. I had also never seen anyone see me back, I reminded myself, and so I stood there, and waited. I closed my eyes, and then opened them, and still there was only me. I put my face near the glass; close enough to fog it when I breathed. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.

  A wave of some emotion washed over me. I’m not even sure what it was. It was like sadness, almost, but not entirely. It was also like disappointment, but that wasn’t quite it either. It even felt something like failure, just a little. Whatever it was, it wasn’t relief, it wasn’t happiness, and it wasn’t the way I normally felt. Even when I saw something I desperately wanted to see more of but couldn’t, it didn’t bother me much. That was all just a part of it, a part I’d learned to live with a long time ago. This time I felt like—like there was supposed to be more, and I was doing something wrong.

  Once again, I didn’t know what to do. I should just go upstairs, read a book, and take advantage of my day off. I should call Julie and ask her what she was doing. If I got her started, she could talk all day and that would definitely take my mind off this fiasco a little bit. Was it a fiasco? Not much, it was more of an annoyance, but it felt fiasco-ish. I should just turn around, walk away, and forget it all.

  I started to look at my watch and check the time when I realized I had forgotten to put it back on after my bath. It didn’t matter much at this point, I guess. By now, I was beginning to believe it was entirely possible I had imagined it all. Maybe not all of it, but the part of it that had made me act like a psycho. The part where I thought he had looked at me. Perhaps the beautiful boy was nothing more than a regular, run-of-the-mill glimpse. I had seen other boys that were attractive, after all, boys who were probably eighty years old by now, if they were still living. The thought made me a little sad, but it calmed me down, and I needed that.

  I thought of the handsome man and the beautiful woman in the perfume bottle. That’s the way I kind of thought of glimpses—as moments stuck inside the objects. I had never thought of them as existing any other way, even as a child.

  When I was very young, I didn’t know other people couldn’t see them. I sometimes said things about what I saw. Mom always seemed interested, but Dad just chalked it up to a vivid imagination, even tried to ‘play along’ sometimes, which confused me. It confused me because I knew he had no idea what he was talking about, and parents are supposed to be smart and know everything. I was talking about ‘real’ things, and he was making things up. It eventually turned into me playing along with him, instead of the other way around.

  I was about five or six when I discovered that some objects could give me glimpses almost every time I touched them. Mom had given me a Kenton Hansom Cab from the 1940’s, and I would wheel it around the floor saying ‘Where to, Madam?’ The little girl I would see was normally wearing a blue-striped pinafore sundress, her blonde hair in pigtails. I would mimic her while I was playing. Once I ran over my own fingers and shouted ‘Horsefeathers!’ Mom asked me where I had heard that. I told her that’s what Mary said when she hurt herself. Dad decided Mary was my ‘imaginary’ friend—but I knew better.

  I knew she wasn’t imaginary, but I also knew I couldn’t play with her, or talk to her. I was sad because part of me felt like Mary was my friend. I got to hear her sing, or talk about school, or talk to her parents about everyday things. Every glimpse was just a little different, but she was always playing with the toy.

  It was new then. The horse was white as snow, the cab as black as ink, and the wheels bright yellow. She loved it, and so did I. By the time it came to me, it was damaged, the paint faded and chipped, but I loved it just the same, and I loved Mary.

  I wondered for a moment if Mary was out there somewhere, still living. I wouldn’t know how to find her if she was. I wondered, too, if Dad had any idea where the little cab came from. I briefly thought how neat it would be to be able to find Mary, and show her the little Hansom Ca
b. Would she even remember it?

  I was sitting on the porch swing now, pushing myself back and forth with one foot. I didn’t even remember sitting down. I looked over at the mirror, silent and stoic. I also became aware of a beautiful, haunting melody carried by the slight breeze. Piano, coming from Mrs. Watson’s parlor, no doubt.

  She played like that whenever she was sad, whenever she was missing Mr. Watson. I wondered how long she had been playing — it was the perfect backdrop for my sudden feeling of melancholy. The poignant tune was both comforting, and heartbreaking. I listened until she stopped and waited to see if she would play another, but there was only silence.

  I was startled awake by the sound of a door slamming.

  I opened my eyes and blinked at the shadows around me, trying to figure out where I was. I pushed myself up slowly, realizing I was lying on the porch swing—the last place I remember being. I heard the back door creak and realized Dad must be home. How long had I been asleep? I looked at my arm—no watch. I began to remember as the fog in my head cleared.

  “Dad,” I croaked through my dry throat, “I’m back here.”

  My droopy eyes snapped open, and there was the mirror, just as I had been dreaming. Had I been dreaming? I couldn’t remember for sure. Pictures flickered in my mind, but some of them seemed like memories more than dreams.

  Other pictures seemed more like memories of a dream. I remember watching some show once that said the brain doesn’t know the difference between dreams and reality, it reacts the same to both, which is why you can cry real tears in your sleep, or talk and walk. The conscience is what knows the difference or something like that, I think.

  “Jessie?”

  “Here, Dad. On the porch.”

  Dad came around the side of our big wrap-around porch. His face had a worried look for a moment, and then he smiled. “I tried to call a few minutes ago and you didn’t answer the phone. I got a little worried so I came home. I thought you might be sleeping.” He stared into my sleepy eyes. “Guess I was right.”

  “What time is it?” I asked through a yawn.

  “Five-thirty,” he answered as he walked over and sat down beside me, suspiciously eyeing first me, then the mirror. “I see you cleaned your mirror.”

  The look on his face cleared my head a little more, and I realized how I must look. I was dressed up, for me at least, and the mascara I had on was probably all under my eyes right now making me look raccoon-ish. The once filthy mirror was spotless.

  “If you wanted a day off, you could have just asked. I know it’s your last summer before,” he paused, his voice sounding sad, “before you graduate and go away to college. I know it seems like all you do is work, and I’m sorry. I’m going to hire someone else when school starts, give you more time to enjoy your friends, do things you should have been getting to do before now.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that. I loved my dad very much, and he always tried to do his best for me. I knew that every decision he made was because he loved me, but I also knew my dad was afraid. He was afraid of being alone, but even more than that, he was afraid of losing me. Maybe those weren’t the right words; maybe afraid of not being able to ‘watch out’ for me would be better words.

  “You don’t have to do that, Dad. I love working at the store. It’s genetic.” I gave him a smile with teeth.

  “You are so much like your mom.” His voice wavered a little on the last word, and I pretended not to notice. “What say we get this mirror up to your room and see how it looks? You must love it to sneak a day off just to clean it.”

  He was already up and walking toward the mirror before he could see the look on my face. It probably would have surprised him, and not in a good way. I don’t know what it looked like, but it felt like it wasn’t good.

  As my dad hoisted the mirror, I opened and held the back door, watching silently as it invaded my home. Through the mudroom, through the kitchen, through the dining room it traveled, peeking at me over my dad’s shoulder. Three flights of stairs and a door later, there it was, in the corner of my room, looking at all my things.

  “I’m going to shower and call in pizza, that okay with you?” Dad was already standing at my door, poised to escape. He didn’t come to the third floor often; it was just too hard on him.

  “Sounds perfect.” I said as I turned to face him. “Thank you for the mirror, I do love it. It’s exactly what I wanted.”

  Dad beamed, and the smile reached his eyes. I would do almost anything to see him really happy. I decided right that second I would love that mirror no matter what, so as his footsteps faded down the stairs, I turned to the object in question.

  “Truce?” But there was no reply.

  I stood in front of the mirror. I could almost see something on the other side, misty looking, but with form. My hands were gripping it so tight my knuckles were turning white and I was straining my eyes, trying to see, willing the misty shape to become solid. Behind the shape, I could clearly see what looked like a clothing store, a fancy place for gentlemen. There was a sign with words, but I couldn’t make them out. I was getting angry.

  “Just let me see you! Just let me know if you are real!” I shouted at the mirror. “I know you’re in there!”

  The shape became the boy. His eyes crystal blue, just as I remembered, and ringed by long dark lashes. His hair, black as coal, falling softly over his forehead. His skin looked so smooth, almost luminous. I tried to memorize his face before it disappeared again.

  The clothing caught my attention then. It wasn’t a black shirt he had been smoothing, it was a vest. The pants were—what were they called? Peg top trousers? My mind raced, trying to recall a time period. White shirt and cuffs, vest, trousers. I hurriedly looked at the shoes. Oxfords. The clothing in the background, all similar in style. Furnishings, furnishings, furnishings—1900’s. Early 1900’s.

  My heart sank.

  I looked up slowly, and he still stood there, letting me inspect him. That’s what it seemed like, at least. His eyes followed my movements, as if he were watching, as if he could see me. He couldn’t. I knew that now. There was a century between us, and I suddenly hated my glimpses. I hoped I never had another.

  “I wish you were real,” I said to the boy in the mirror.

  He smiled a beautiful smile and whispered. “I am.”

  I sat straight up in my bed, the echo of his voice still in my ears, the sadness following me from my dream. My heart was pounding, my breath was ragged, my eyes were wide open, and, though I knew it had been a dream, I recognized the truth in it. The clothing. I hadn’t dreamed that, I simply remembered it in my dream. A century!

  I turned and looked at the mirror across the room. The glass appeared to glow in the moonlight from my window. It looked magical, almost. It also looked different.

  When I first saw it, it was a beautiful mirror for my room, so perfect for me it seemed made-to-order. The chance of it being the one object to hold a glimpse that could glimpse me back—maybe. Now, it was a book with missing pages. The best book I had ever picked up, and could never read. Perhaps I would start wearing gloves at work.

  Three a.m. I thought of the oil lamp and the beautiful lady on the stairs, the beautiful lady with the handsome husband reflected in the—mirror. Three a.m. Too early to get up, but I didn’t think I could go back to sleep. My eyes kept returning to the mirror.

  One last look couldn’t hurt. I knew it was stupid. I knew it was a waste of time. But what if it wasn’t? What if?

  I jumped out of bed, headed straight to the mirror, and grabbed it like I meant to shake it into compliance. I saw the room the instant my hands touched it. A library?

  I could see bookshelves everywhere and a desk across the room at an angle. It was dark and I couldn’t see any real details. Faint light came from a window somewhere to the left. My eyes searched rapidly since I didn’t know how long the glimpse would last.

  An office? Papers on the desk. Books stacked on the corner, one open in t
he middle. A globe. That was all I saw. The glimpse didn’t stop, it slowly faded out. That was another first.

  I plopped down on the floor in front of the mirror. That wasn’t the background from before. Nothing looked the same as before. The time period looked like it was probably the same, based on what I could see. It could also have been a later room, furnished with antiques. My eyes had been searching for anything out of place, or should I say out of time. I had noticed nothing that appeared newer than the early nineteen hundreds.

  There was something special about this mirror—I could just feel it. That idea made my earlier sadness a little easier to handle. Maybe it was one of those rare items that would allow me multiple glimpses!

  I jumped to my feet and hurried into my little library. I slid open the roll-top, pulled out my old notebook and a pencil, and rushed back to my room. Sitting on my floor with the notebook in my lap, I flipped to the last entry. I ignored the date, turned to a new page, and began to write and draw as fast as I could. I had been documenting some of my more memorable glimpses—some—but I hadn’t done it in a while.

  I started with the basic information on the mirror, and included a sketch of it; I also made a rudimentary diagram of the room and the things I remembered. Then I decided to do a sketch of the boy, including his clothing. I started with a simple line drawing to get the shapes and sizes correct, but as I commonly did, I got carried away. I loved to draw, and I was good at it.

  As my pencil moved on the paper, his face took on dimension. I shaded the hollow below his cheekbone, blending with the tip of my finger. The deep shadow below his angular jaw line brought his face into sharper focus. The dark hair framed his beautiful face. The bow shape of his upper lip, and the fullness of the lower, came to life on the paper.