Bridgette was stunned, but not surprised to realize that, no, Beth didn’t like Sylvie one bit. I don’t like her either, she thought. And with that, Bridgette fell into a deep dreamless sleep.
June 20 th 1912
But She Couldn’t Find Herself in the Mirror
When Bridgette awoke she sat up immediately hoping she was home. But one look around killed that. Opulent black and red wallpaper decorated the walls. An ornate mirror topped a bureau covered with portraits and jewelry. Along the walls were two rocking chairs and two soft cushioned chairs. One corner was dominated by a gilt edged mirror, while a large wardrobe sat in another. There were hats, hat boxes, and at least a dozen pairs of heeled shoes lined up along a wall. The elaborate bedroom was a garish contrast to the minimally decorated living room.
A wave of dizziness washed over her as she stood up. She steadied herself and it retreated slightly. She walked over to the bureau. A garish image approached her in the mirror. She froze and her reality crumbled to dust. It was the lady in the portrait. Bridgette almost screamed. Time stretched and slowed down. Terror shot through her. Incoherent thoughts tumbled through her shocked mind. This is Sylvie. This is Sylvie. The alien hands, the tumble of black hair. It was real. Yesterday, despite Nettie calling her ‘Sylvie’ and despite everything else, Bridgette still hung onto a small hope of fantasy. That somehow this was all a mistake. That somehow it was make believe. But the image. The mocking, evil figure reflecting back at her shattered her illusion. Her mind skittered sideways grasping for a rock an anchor a root. Anything that would lock her into sanity. Because insanity was rearing its crazy head and she was inches from falling into its bottomless depths.
It would almost be a comfort to go crazy. Then she could wander and laugh and live in a make believe world. She could pretend none of this happened. She could talk to make believe Tom and go make believe shopping and build her make believe house and retreat so far that none of this would be real and she would be safely tucked away in her own lunatic imagination.
“Lunatics go to insane asylums,” her mind said in a tiny voice that sounded suspiciously like Nettie’s.
Bridgette grabbed the edge of the bureau and forced herself back into reality. Her new reality. She lowered her head and forced herself to concentrate. To breathe. To focus. Yesterday she needed a plan. Action. Something to fix this terrible wrong. Today she would focus on the same goals.
She tried to think of a plan. Nothing. And the nothingness threatened to swallow her whole. She panicked and gripped the bureau tighter. If not a plan, then action. And let’s start by walking away from this damned mirror.
Bridgette slowly unclenched her fists and gently pushed herself away from the bureau. A morbid curiosity forced her to slowly bring her head up and face herself. The ghastly face was still there. Deathly beautiful. Eyes flinty grey. Pale sharp cheekbones. Full lips well placed over a sharp chin. Evil personified. Bridgette imagined this was what Medusa looked like. But that was an insult to Medusa. This face was worse.
Bridgette looked away from Sylvie. She glanced down at the bureau and couldn’t help but be captivated. Opulent, sparkling brooches, necklaces, rings and bracelets surrounded a silver handled brush and hand mirror. Long, sharp hat pins topped with everything from feathers to little figurines were scattered with no rhyme or reason. Delicate perfume bottles sat near the back. And surrounding it all, like watchful sentries, were dozens of portraits of Sylvie in assorted poses. Here she is sitting in a garden and here she is standing by a tree.
It’s Sylvie’s room. She built a shrine to herself. Bridgette turned full circle, the room was lavish and gaudy and completely devoid of a masculine presence. Wasn’t she married? Where’s her husband’s stuff?
“There you are!” Proclaimed Nettie, balancing a tray as she opened the door, “Good Morning! I brought you breakfast. Doc’s boy came by earlier and dropped off your medicine. Now sit down, here near the window.”
Bridgette sat while Nettie opened the curtains, “There now, sit, eat, and look at the pretty day. Your medicine’s right there, take a spoonful after you eat.” Nettie moved a little table in front of Bridgette, sat the tray on top, and started plumping the pillows, “How are you feeling?”
Horrified. Was Bridgette’s first response, but she didn’t say it out loud. Questions flooded her mind. How do I ask what year it is? Or this address? Or what happened to Sylvie’s family? Molly and what was the man’s name? Richard? And Sylvie herself? How do I learn more about her when that’s who I am to these people? Fear kept her silent. The thought and threat of asylums loomed large in her mind. She was sure that Nettie was too sweet and kind to do anything like that, but if word got out, Bridgette was pretty sure there were others who wouldn’t be so kind. Others who would happily lock Sylvie up given half a chance. Not many people liked Sylvie. That was one question Bridgette didn’t need to ask, because she knew that answer.
“Okay I guess,” said Bridgette, looking down at the food. Nettie sat on the edge of the bed and watched her carefully.
“What’s on the…” Bridgette stopped and reworded the question, “What’s the news…. Lately?” she hoped she sounded casual and sane.
Nettie’s face lit up with surprise and happiness, “I wanted to tell you, but then I remembered how you said you didn’t like those-,” she cut herself off mid-sentence, “never mind that now, I’m so glad you asked! Floyd was in town the other day and Dale Horner, you remember him don’t you dear? Well, Dale caught a stray cow, only it wasn’t a stray it really belonged to Judd Nelson, but he never brands them and there go his cows tromping all over yonder, well, Dale kept it and….”
Bridgette’s thoughts wandered while Nettie gossiped about folks in town. I’ve got to find a way back home. That apple was the key. Sylvie did something to the apple and now I’m in her body. And time- don’t forget that you‘re back in the past somewhere.
“….. and then Minerva told me that a friend of her mother’s met a lady in New York City who had survived the sinking of the Titanic! Well, bless her heart, I said to Minerva, you tell your mother’s friend to tell that lady that the angels were with her that day! Imagine, hitting an iceberg and sinking. In today’s day and age if a ship is built to be unsinkable then it should not sink! This is 1912 after all.”
Nettie stopped her news brief, stood up and cracked the window open. “There’s a nice breeze to cool you off, it’s going to be a warm one today. Do you feel like you can manage to go for a walk?”
Bridgette’s mind reeled, 1912? It’s 1912? Of course it is… Because this horrible situation is getting worse instead of getting better. Did she expect anything else? Maybe Nettie waving a magic wand and swishing this all away. She could only wish it would be that easy.
And then she realized Nettie was expecting an answer. “Yes, I… I mean no, I’m rather tired today, I need… I need to clear my head….”
She stumbled on, “Nettie, my days got all mixed up, what is the date today?” She inwardly cringed and hoped that question didn’t bring up any of that ‘asylum’ business.
Nettie smiled, “Of course, dear, after all you’ve been through. Losing your family and catching consumption and all. Rest will do you good. And it’s perfectly understandable to lose track of time. Today is June 20th and of course it’s the year 1912. I’ll leave you be. Do you need anything?” Nettie looked at the plate of food Bridgette had yet to touch.
“No, thank you very much, Nettie, I’m fine… for now,” Bridgette replied.
“Don’t forget to take your medicine and call out if you need anything. I’ll be out hanging the clothes,” Nettie said walking towards the door, “And eat something, dear,” she said and pulled the door halfway closed.
Bridgette heard the distant creak- slam of the screen door closing. She pushed the table away and walked towards the door. Sylvie’s reflection mimicked her every move. Defeat nearly crushed her as she watched her new image. She faced the mirror and steeled herself. She thought of Tom a
nd felt a surge of love and protection towards him. She forced herself to gaze into her new face and saw the flinty eyes soften into a dreamy, if not puzzled, look. The sharp angles on her face seemed less menacing. She willed herself to smile. To her relief, the small smile didn’t resemble a leer. The face looked much kinder than it did in the portraits. With a small surge of triumph, she turned her back on her new reflection and walked out of the room.
As Bridgette walked to the living room, a pleasant floral scent drifted through the open windows. In front of the fireplace were the rocker, table, and a footstool that Bridgette somehow missed yesterday. The quilt hung over a chair. A freshly polished mirror reflected the cozy scene. In fact the whole living room looked freshly cleaned, including the floor.
Bridgette blushed at the thought of throwing up the day before. Nettie and possibly Beth must have cleaned both her and the room. She tried to brush the embarrassing thought away.
Sitting in the rocking chair, Bridgette picked up the red book. There was no sign of the apple on the floor. Bridgette assumed it had been swept away as a pile of useless dust the day before. She turned and found the portrait perched on the little square table. She glared at Sylvie and felt the childish urge to stick her tongue out.
Resisting the urge, she turned her attention back to the red book. She thought of yesterday when the apple seemed like the answer. Something had happened, though. She knew she’d seen Tom. And at that moment, Bridgette’s little actions- actions intended to keep herself from living in a permanent land of lunacy- turned into a small smidgen of a plan. She’d read the book from cover to cover. She’d find out how Sylvie got the apple and what she’d done to force Bridgette into her body. She’d do what Sylvie had done and get back to her right time, her right life, and her loving husband. And when she got back to him, she’d hug him and never let go. She’d move all the marble angels in the world to go back to her life and the way things used to be.
And it Became Clear
Sylvie Sterling
Her Joyful Life
Written By: Sylvie, the Most Beautiful Woman in the World
Bridgette rolled her eyes at the now familiar first words. As she scanned the page she realized that Sylvie had written her own story in a godlike style. Sylvie this and Sylvie that. She had actually written her story as herself and about herself. “Who does that?” Thought Bridgette uneasily. Her little plan dulled a bit in the face of such calculating and brutal self-confidence. Bridgette grabbed the reigns of her new found hope and told herself that the red book was the key. The answer was in here somewhere and it was a good thing that Sylvie was so proud of herself because surely she had written the answer down. If for no other reason, than to pat herself on the back and revel in her glowing achievement. Bridgette held on tightly to her hope and plunged into Sylvie’s deplorable red book.
Sylvie declared on the very first page that this would be a memoir to capture forever her happiness, pleasure, and satisfaction. To keep her indulgences. And she would return and re-read her cherished memories to give her joy during sad days. And with that said, she wrote her life story.
At twelve years old, she lived in a ramshackle shack with her wisp of a mother. Sylvie’s mother took in sewing to help them get by and they had a few goats and chickens as well as a scrap of a garden for food.
One of Sylvie’s great joys was to go out hunting for birds, rabbits and other small game. Sometimes she would carry her catch home to use for food for the next meal. But sometimes she wouldn’t. A skilled hunter, using a slingshot, she knew right where to aim to hurt or maim an animal, but not kill it. That was the fun part. She could watch for hours as a rabbit squirmed and tried mightily to hop on it pulverized leg. Sometimes she would hit a bird on its wing, and watch as it plummeted to the ground and then tried to walk/fly beating its good wing furiously while its broken wing hung limp. Soon, she would get bored of whatever little animal she’d recently injured and rather than put it out of its misery, she’d merely walk away. It wasn’t worth her time or effort to kill it. She couldn’t be bothered and Mother Nature would take care of it soon enough.
During this time of her life, Sylvie learned the thrill of hands on killing by wringing the necks of chickens. Some people preferred to quickly chop the head off but no, not Sylvie. She loved to feel the panicked chicken wiggling for its life as she held it by its neck. And she’d go slow, too. She could keep it alive, frenzied and squawking for a very long time. Finally, too soon and usually because her mother was hollering at her that they needed to start dinner, she would have to finish it off. She slowly turn her hands, not too quick though, bending one way and the other and then a final mighty SNAP and the chicken’s neck would go limp. Sometimes, the body had a few more wiggles, but essentially the show was over by then.
Sylvie would beg her mother to let her kill a chicken for dinner and more often than not her mother would say no because they needed their chickens for the eggs. So, Sylvie took it upon herself to find chickens whose necks she could break. These chickens usually belonged to someone else but Sylvie got good at sneaking into the yard or barn, grabbing a chicken and taking her sweet time to wring its neck.
She’d gotten away with this little adventure many times, but one time Mrs. Jenkins caught her. Rather than let Sylvie explain that ‘she didn’t mean to’ and ‘she thought Mrs. Jenkins might want a chicken for dinner’, Mrs. Jenkins marched Sylvie home and told her mother all about it. Mrs. Jenkins demanded Sylvie’s mother pay her $2.00 for her prized chicken or she would get the law involved. Sylvie’s mother dug the money out of her little jar and paid Mrs. Jenkins.
Turning her tired eyes to Sylvie, she tried to explain that that was the last of their money and she didn’t know how she would get enough together to get them through the cold winter. This infuriated Sylvie. How dare her mother whine to her about cold weather and food. Sylvie was cold and hungry all the time and look at this horrible place she was living in. It was her mother’s fault the wind whistled through the walls and it was her mother’s fault the piddly garden hardly grew anything. If her mother knew anything at all then they could live in a house with actual rooms instead of this rotten little hut they called home. Sylvie’s mother was quiet and she had tears in her eyes when she went back to her sacks of sewing.
A few days later, Sylvie was carrying her slingshot looking for rabbits when she saw Billie Jenkins catching frogs near the river. Images of nagging Mrs. Jenkins mocked her. Sylvie was furious. She walked over to Billy and told him she knew a secret. Billy’s eyes widened as she told her tale of a special place not too far from here with frogs as big as cats. She could show him but he’d have to keep it a secret. A special secret between him and her.
Billy was more than impressed. At eight years old, he was honored that a big kid wanted to show him a secret place. With no hesitation, he stood up excited at the adventure. Sylvie held out her hand and Billy grasped it firmly. She led him away from the river and over some fields. After walking a ways he said that he wasn’t allowed to go this far. Sylvie told him not to worry and the secret place was just down the next hill and over by the forest. Billy put on a brave face and kept walking.
As they came to the forest, Sylvie took them around a clump of rocks and proudly showed him the secret. It was an old crumbling well. Long forgotten and abandoned, its rock sides were uneven and collapsing. Billy looked dubious, but Sylvie assured him that the biggest frog she had ever seen lived in the well. She had called it out before and it had hopped around before it jumped back in. If Billy could catch it he could show his friends that he had the biggest frog in all the land. Leaning into the well, Sylvie called to the frog. She stepped back and said she had seen the ripple of it getting ready to hop out. Now Billy should call it. Surely it would hop out as soon as he did. Billy leaned into the well calling for the frog.
Sylvie pushed him in. He landed with a mighty splash and immediately started calling out for her. Sylvie looked over the edge to see him thrashing around, grabbing a
t the walls, and frantically searching for something to hang onto. He looked up and called to Sylvie, raising his hands, trying to keep his head above the slimy green water. Sylvie watched his splashing and after a few minutes she could tell he was getting tired. He was treading water now and every few seconds his chin and mouth would bob beneath the water.
Sylvie stepped back and picked up a few rocks that had loosened from the stone well. Leaning back over the edge, she dropped the rocks on Billy’s head and hit it every time. Billy screamed and cried and panicked. He went under water a few times and was slower and slower at coming back up. Sylvie looked around and saw a brick sized rock. She picked it up and aimed and it landed right on target. Billy stopped screaming and sank.
Turning to leave, Sylvie saw the old hag standing back in the shadows of the forest. Sylvie thought she’d been caught. The old hag called out and asked if she was going to leave him like that. Sylvie didn’t respond. Cackling, the hag said the best way to do it is to see their eyes. That’s when it’s best: when you can see their eyes seeing you killing them. Still cackling, she hobbled away deeper into the forest. Sylvie was relieved. Everyone knew the hag was crazy. Few people ever saw her and the ones that did were convinced they were listening to the mutterings of a lunatic.
Going the long way around, Sylvie saw Mrs. Jenkins down by the river calling for Billy. Mrs. Jenkins didn’t see Sylvie. Sylvie smiled to herself and went home.
News of Billy’s disappearance traveled fast and search parties were raised. Talk of wild animals passed between the townsfolk. The women went to the Jenkins to sit with Mrs. Jenkins while Mr. Jenkins and the men scoured the fields and river.
Two nights passed and on the third day Sylvie decided it had been long enough. She went to the Jenkins where her mother was sitting and helping with food. Sylvie imagined herself being hurt and forced herself to cry. She was proud of how hysterical she sounded when she burst in the Jenkins house and said she thought she found Billy. Mrs. Jenkins jumped up and held onto Sylvie like she was a life preserver in a storm. Sylvie cried harder and led the way. As the group nearly ran towards the well, more people joined in. The news of Billy traveled as fast as the rescue party. Sylvie was pleased to see that there were almost thirty people with them by the time she spotted the well. She pointed and collapsed on the ground crying while carefully watching the scene. Mrs. Jenkins, crazy with worry, reached the well first and looked in. She screamed a heart wrenching scream and nearly launched herself into the well to get her boy. The crowd pulled her back and she collapsed on the ground, screaming and crying and hugging the well. Eventually the men got Billy’s body out of the well. Mrs. Jenkins was led away hysterical and crumpled in grief. Sylvie was avenged.
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