Mary, in Need of Belle

by Brian S. Wheeler

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  Mary’s Diary – March 22nd

  It is impossible to keep all the mirrors covered.

  I can’t cover all the glass surfaces. I can’t put a blanket over every piece of polished furniture.

  I dread the sight of my reflection. It only brings me haunts.

  I wonder if I see my soul in the hazel eyes of my reflection, or if I’m looking at Belle’s soul waiting to invade my shape.

  There are too many reflections – thrown off the windshield of a passing car as I ride the school bus, shimmering in the water collected in the sink, formed on something as simple as a dinner plate. Any reflection trips my thoughts so I lose sense of myself. The call of one of the sisters or Mr. Carpenter’s grumbling shakes me back to my senses. I can’t guess if a second, a minute, or an hour has passed while I stared at my reflection. I have to shake my head or splash water on my face to remember where I stand. And these are only small reflections. I dare not look at myself in the mirror.

  Lilac and Rose suspect my fear of my reflection though they can’t possibly understand it. They are always ready to help me clasp my necklace, and they tell me in the mornings when my hair wakes up in tangles. They let me know if any of my makeup might have smudged.

  Perhaps they are so ready to help because Mr. Christensen’s inspections grow more intense. He lingers longer on me each day we line up in the living room. I think the twins recognize how Mr. Christensen pauses when he comes to my position in the line. I wonder if they pity me for having to stand so long beneath his breath. They must think Mr. Christensen stops because of blemishes I don’t notice without a mirror.

  But I fear worse. I worry Mr. Christensen starts to look for more than my blemishes.

  Mother turns away and tries to ignore it.

  Queenie sees it plain. She saw it first. She saw it all along.

  Maybe Queenie possesses a relic buried beneath her trinket piles that gives her clouded eyes a keen vision into men’s hearts. Maybe she know my mother so well as to guess the kind of men Kay comes to call husband. Maybe those men betray too much to the old dame the first time mother introdcues them to Queenie. No matter the means, or the magic, Queenie knows.

  And she knows which of Kay’s daughters possesses the courage to protect her siblings. Queenie knows the name of the soul who will take action before a monster might touch.

  I am crying as I write this. Queenie’s music drifts through the walls.

  Belle is coming home, and there will never be room for both of us.