When the Mirror Cracks

by Jan Coffey

  “What did you say to them? Why did you send them out? Where is Autumn? What has happened to my baby?”

  She takes my hand and brushes away a wet clump of hair draping over my eye. “You should have kept on these people about the crib when you checked in. I should have said something to them myself. That was thoughtless.”

  The crib? I glance at the crib and at my suitcase. My clothes are spilling out of it. But there are no diapers, no baby clothes, no stroller.

  “Tell me about the cry you heard in the shower,” she asks softly. “Did you hear Autumn cry, Christina?”

  The panic drains slowly out of me. But as reality reasserts itself, a sharp pain stabs me in the chest.

  “No. There was no cry.” I take a deep breath. “There was no baby. I lost her. I lost Autumn…after the accident.”

  2

  Christina

  That first day, the doctors called the outcome of the accident a miracle.

  Autumn, born a couple of hours after we arrived at the hospital, showed no sign of stress from the trauma. Her Apgar score was eight. As I held her in my arms, the pain from the whiplash and cuts and bruises, and the haze of concussion I’d suffered during the accident, disappeared. She studied me and I watched her, her small hand clutching my finger, her trust unconditional. The happiness flowing through me was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. In my mind, the circumstances that led me to keeping the baby after learning I was pregnant were justified, regardless of Kyle’s reaction or feelings.

  My life was finally whole. Autumn engulfed my heart; she was in my arms. She was a piece of me, all of me. I had brought her into this world, and she was everything I’d wished for, dreamed of.

  “I’m recommending a minimum seven-day hospital stay before sending you home, considering everything,” the internist explained to me the following day.

  Whatever they wanted to do, any test they wished to run, was fine with me. I was happy so long as they allowed Autumn to stay in my room.

  It was on the third day that my condition raised concerns. My headaches were lingering, and the doctor ordered a CT scan.

  “You’ll only be away from her for an hour,” a soft-spoken nurse assured me before wheeling me away.

  Autumn’s crib was rolled into the nursery. During the test, a tight fist closed around my heart, as if in warning, letting me know something wasn’t right. When I came back, my daughter’s crib was empty.

  “The pediatrician ordered to have her moved into the ICU.” The same nurse escorted me to where Autumn had been taken.

  Maybe they were doing another test, I thought. I tried to build a bridge of hope, thinking I could cross it, bring my baby back. But with every passing hour, with each test they ran, the supports to that bridge weakened and cracked and finally collapsed. It was then that I was told the structure was flawed to start with.

  A day later, Autumn died.

  Tears burn my eyes. This morning is another reminder that some sorrows never leave. The loss of my daughter will be with me forever.

  The doctors had an official term for what happened to Autumn—traumatic brain injury. It had occurred during the accident. There was no way to have known it.

  “You should call the front desk and explain.”

  Elizabeth’s words are a slap, cutting into my thoughts of the past.

  “Mother, please. Not now.” I keep my tone mild, but she knows what I’ve been through.

  “You had good reason for acting that way. And it was their fault for leaving a crib in this room.”

  “It doesn’t matter whose fault it was. It’s over.”

  I bury my head into my hands. Over the past two months, I’ve been trying to rebuild my life. Piece by piece. The fact is, something broke inside of me when my daughter died, and I can’t quite get a firm grip on my grief. Feelings of guilt dog my waking hours and haunt the restless nights.

  The pickup truck changed lanes. No alcohol or drugs were involved, but I should have been more attentive. I should have been quicker to react. I should have…

  Too many should haves rattle around in my brain.

  There is no quick fix, no going to sleep and waking up and forgetting what happened. The empty crib in the hotel room this morning transported me back to the hospital nursery. My first thoughts then were that someone had stolen my baby. It was after speaking with the nurse that I learned the floor pediatrician didn’t like something she’d seen while examining Autumn.

  “We’re booked in this hotel for ten days. I don’t want them to think less of you. At least, call them and explain what happened. Tell them you’re in mourning.”

  My nerves are getting stretched thinner with every word she speaks. “I don’t care what they think of me.”

  “But I do,” she persists. “You’re jet-lagged. You didn’t know where you were.”

  I’m a fucking guest at this hotel. A paying customer. I don’t need anyone’s understanding or sympathy. But I know there’s no point in arguing with Elizabeth when she sets her mind to something. She’s doing this for my sake. To protect me. Her way of showing love is to take charge of my life.

  I run my hands over my face and stand up, looking for my cell phone.

  “Losing a baby is a very traumatic thing,” she says. “I had three miscarriages before I got pregnant with you.”

  I’ve heard Elizabeth repeat this too many times since leaving the hospital. It’s as if she thinks my knowing what she went through can somehow diminish my pain. I need to distract her as much as I need to distract myself.

  My cell phone is charging next to the bed. I fire a text to Kyle to remind him about sending the updated schedule for today. He’s been in Osaka attending a gaming convention, but he’s flying into Istanbul tomorrow night. The two of us have been assigned by my mother to oversee the sale of Externus. Kyle has been in charge of sales and marketing, and I’m the business strategy person. We’re the bookends holding the small company together until we can hand it over to the next owner.

  Elizabeth Hall and Jax York married six years ago and two years later started the active-media gaming company. Since then, it’s been a five-person operation. Using a pool of freelance programmers, Externus has thrived. Now, with Jax gone, my mother is the sole proprietor. And she’s ready to sell.

  “Time marches on, Christina. You’re young. There’ll be lots more babies in the future for you two.”

  There’s no point in arguing with her. Kyle and I work together and live together. We were an item when I got pregnant. Thinking back, there were conversations he and I should have had long before I slid that First Response test in front of him. It should have been obvious to me that he wasn’t ready to be a father. True, he didn’t immediately pack up and move out, but I guessed it was only a matter of time before we went our separate ways.

  “Before it happens next time, though, see if you can get him to put a ring on your finger.”

  Elizabeth’s words make me feel cheap. There’s plenty I’d like to say to her, starting with a reminder that she was an unmarried mother too. But staying silent wins out. I’ve come to terms with my mistakes. I should have communicated with Kyle. And even though my mother did the same thing, my holding back with him was still wrong.

  While I wait to hear back from Kyle, I sit on the edge of the bed and page through my Instagram account. My thumb hovers over the pictures I posted while I couldn’t sleep last night. The aerial view of Istanbul while the plane circled. The photo I took coming out of the international arrival gate at the new airport. The driver who met us was holding a sign reading Hall. I enlarge the photo and look at the woman wearing a brown headscarf and standing next to the driver. They have the same pose, the same expectant expression. They’re both waiting for us.

  Elizabeth continues. “When they were leaving, I said a few words to the manager about taking the crib away. I assume housekeeping will take care of it.”

  My attention stays focused on the woman in the picture. The raincoat covers her f
rom chin to knee. Her face is washed out, sick pale. High cheekbones dominate her thin face. A surgical mask is draped around her neck, the kind people who are worried about germs in public places wear.

  “She looks like she’s just seen a ghost. I hope she connects with her people.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  I get up and hand my mother the phone. “Her. The woman at the airport. We saw her coming out from Customs. She looks sick. I hope she connects with her people.”

  Elizabeth zooms out of the photo and stares intently at the driver and the woman standing side-by-side.

  “I liked the driver. We should use that company again. I know we’re going to be busy with meetings, but I hope we’ll have a chance for some sightseeing. This is your first time in Istanbul. There’s so much of the city I want to show you.”

  I leave the phone with my mother and go to the window, pulling open the curtains. The hundred-year-old hotel we’re staying in was originally built as an Ottoman jail. But with all the marbled hallways and plush furnishings, I doubt any former prisoner would recognize the place. And I do want to get out and feel the true pulse of the city, if possible.

  “Who is she?” Elizabeth asks, coming to stand beside me. She’s still going through Instagram pictures. “Is she on my company’s payroll?”

  Elizabeth isn’t on my page; she’s on Kyle’s. The post is from last night, and the picture shows the front of the Externus booth at the convention.

  “They look pretty cozy, standing that close.”

  I try to ignore the wave of jealousy rolling through me. Kyle’s finger-combed blond hair stands out amid the sea of dark-haired people in the picture. The woman beside him has jet-black hair that hangs nearly to her waist. She has a practiced smile, and confidence oozes out of her. She’s a woman accustomed to being stared at and admired.

  I’ve seen her picture before on his account. He posted it the last time he was in Japan four months ago.

  “Those legs,” Elizabeth says admiringly. “Everyone needs a short black dress like hers. What size do you think she wears? Maybe a two?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” I reach for my phone, but she holds it away from me.

  “Did you bring the black dress I bought you at Bloomingdale’s last year?”

  “No. I’m twenty pounds heavier than this time last year. It doesn’t fit me.”

  “Maybe you should think about going on a diet. It’s been two months already.”

  My weight was an issue with her even before the pregnancy. That’s another conversation I don’t want to have right now.

  Relief comes through the text notification popping on the screen, and I snatch my phone back before walking away. “Kyle says we have no meetings today or tomorrow. The first one is scheduled for Wednesday morning.”

  “He’ll be here for it?”

  “He’ll be here.” I pick up my suitcase and put it on the bed, sorting my clothes to put in the dresser drawers.

  Cozy. I think about Elizabeth’s not so subtle insinuation that Kyle has something going on with that woman in the picture. Our relationship has definitely been on the rocks since I announced my news. But with the baby on the way, I’d hoped…I’d hoped…what, that he’d suddenly decide he’s ready to be a father? That he’d forgive me for not being forthcoming about wanting a baby badly enough to leave him out of the equation?

  “What do you want to do today?”

  Elizabeth’s voice puts an end to the thoughts of my fractured relationship. I need to get out and move around. Maybe it’s the history of this place as a prison, but the walls are closing in on me.

  “Maybe take a walk in the neighborhood. I should get some work done too.”

  “No, we’re going to a hamam. Massage. Pampering. There’s nothing like it. You could definitely use it, especially today.”

  Elizabeth picks up the phone, and I listen to her speaking Turkish to the concierge, making arrangements. It amazes me that after so many years, she is still fluent. My mother knows her languages. In any given situation, she can break into German, French, Farsi, or Spanish. She credits it to being an Army brat, traveling everywhere. That and her years working as an interpreter overseas. Four of those years were spent in Turkey, during which I was born.

  She did her best to encourage me in languages as I grew up. After-school programs. Native-speaking tutors. But some broken high school Spanish is the best I can do.

  “I asked for a good place where locals go. She’s booking us at a traditional hamam near the Spice Bazaar.”

  “Give me a few minutes to put myself together.” I disappear inside the bathroom to dress.

  I pause in front of the mirror and cringe. My face is all puffed up. My hazel eyes are slits, barely visible. I shudder at my hair. It’s frizzy and totally out of control. I think of all the people who paraded through my room an hour ago.

  I pull on my clothes and gather my hair into a ponytail. By the time I come out, Elizabeth has a bag packed for me. As we’re walking out, my eyes are once again drawn to the crib. It was here in the room when we arrived last night. A mistake, or a misunderstanding, by the hotel staff. The dates of the travel, the length of stay, the hotel where we’re staying were all decided by Jax months ago. He and Elizabeth had planned to come on this trip themselves. The two were to be joined by Kyle later when the acquisition details were finalized. I wasn’t supposed to be part of this trip because of the baby.

  “The Spice Bazaar isn’t too far away from where we’re going. Maybe we can walk through it afterwards.”

  “Lead the way. Take me were you want. You are the expert.”

  Passing through the lobby, I don’t look at the people behind the desk. I can feel their eyes on me. Elizabeth walks beside me, chatting with everyone as if half of the hotel staff wasn’t upstairs this morning, searching for my imaginary infant. I think of what she said as far as explaining. I should have thanked them, at least. But I was still too numb. And it’s my nature to always react to whatever Elizabeth says. All part of a long story of our mother-daughter drama.

  Outside, the doorman signals to a cab that immediately pulls up in front. The sun is shining. The leaves on a pair of trees across the narrow cobblestone lane are starting to turn.

  Just as the taxi starts, I see her. She’s standing at the corner, by the door of the Seven Hills Restaurant. Sunglasses cover her eyes. The surgical mask hanging around her neck. A group of tourists are lined up, waiting to go in the restaurant, but she’s not with them. She’s watching us.

  “There she is,” I say to my mother.

  “Who?”

  “That hijabi woman. I showed you her picture.”

  “Where?” Elizabeth is distracted, counting her Turkish liras.

  I look out the back window. Her face is turned to our cab as we move slowly down the street.

  “Next to the restaurant. The woman in the brown headscarf and raincoat.”

  “We’re in a city of eighteen million people.” She counts the coins.

  “I’m talking about one face, one person. She looks familiar. Are you sure you don’t know her?”

  Elizabeth finally turns around and follows the direction of my gaze. “I don’t see anyone I recognize.”

  I pull out my phone and search through the photos for the picture at the airport.

  “Her.” I point. “The woman who was standing at the gate.”

  Elizabeth half glances at my phone and dismisses the whole topic. She’s more interested in talking to our driver in Turkish. They go back and forth, and both are smiling.

  She catches me watching her and decides to take on the role of tour guide.

  “This city has been the center of the world, connecting the East and the West, for thousands of years. Persians, Greeks, Romans, Arabs, Crusaders, Ottoman Turks. They all came and conquered. One civilization building on top of the last. And our hotel is in the heart of it all.”

  The car maneuvers through the traffic, and she’s pointing at buildin
gs. Hagia Sophia. Across a huge plaza, the Blue Mosque. Tourists and locals crowd the sidewalks and open spaces. Buses are lined up along the streets. Signs direct people where to queue up. Tour leaders carrying signs snake their groups along, pointing out what they should see, diverting attention away from beggars and refugees. Like a young girl with a dirty face, dressed in a ratty T-shirt and pants. She holds a cardboard sign toward my window as the cab stops for a red light. It reads in scrawled English, Syrian. Hungry. Help.

  My fingers move for my purse. Elizabeth clamps her hand on mine, stopping me.

  “Don’t do it. The money doesn’t go to them. Don’t enable their handlers.”

  The car moves into the intersection and turns down a side street. The look in the child’s dark eyes stays with me, and my shoulders stiffen. They told me all babies are born with blue eyes. Autumn’s were blue too, a dark blue, the same as the color as the sky just before dawn. What color eyes would my own baby have eventually had? I’ll never know.

  The headache is back. This car and these streets are closing in.

  We take another sharp turn into a busier street, and I clutch at the worn leather seat of the cab. My fingers slide off.

  Today, I opened a door to thoughts of Autumn, and I can’t close it.

  My baby cried all the time. But as soon as I picked her up, she’d nestle against my bare skin, listening to my beating heart, and then she’d sleep.

  I remember counting her fingers, breathing in the smell of her skin, feeling the silky softness of her light brown hair.

  Kyle came and stayed late at the hospital the first night we were there. He brought me a giant vase of flowers and did a great job of pretending that he was happy. But Autumn cried the entire time he held her, as if she knew this father-daughter thing wasn’t permanent.

  For the rest of my stay, he came late or his visits were short. He had to work. With Jax dead and me in the hospital, someone had to take the reins of the company. It’s sad that he wasn’t there when our daughter was born, and he wasn’t there when she died.