Split in half.
My reflection is a throwaway recipe of expired ingredients: gaunt, unfamiliar, worldly, homesick, aged, exhausted, to name more than a few. On one side of the crack, my right eye is almost closed. The zipper from my hoodie follows the crack in the mirror, down, down; I notice the red cloth is deeper, dirtier, a thicker shade of blood.
An image: Right Side Mim turning to Left Side Mim, asking oh-so-many questions. One hand on the vanity, I recall the dream I’d had only months ago: the old feet, the low whispers, the reflection of our faces. Her makeup tray isn’t here, but her makeup is: the perfumes, blushes, eyeliners, and concealers. All of it, save one item.
I pull the war paint from my jeans pocket, and twirl it in my hands. Like me, it’s different now, well-traveled, a little longer in the tooth. Having never finished my last application, there’s still a little left. And I know just how to use it.
In even strides, I cross the room, stepping between my mother and her shaded windows. Head down, I see her feet in those same old ratty slippers—right next to my feet in those same old ratty shoes. So many similarities . . .
I twist the tube of lipstick, and like a phoenix rising from the ashes, so too it rises ready for work. Kathy stands silently by the door; she doesn’t try to stop or rush me.
“You look different,” my mother whispers. It takes me off guard, because for some reason, she didn’t look like a person who was going to say something.
I raise my eyes to meet hers. “I cut my hair.”
Mom shakes her head and leans into my ear. “You look like my Mary.”
The tears become a flood. And I have a new image now: my unopened bottle of Abilitol, the truest talisman of disappointment, snug in the bottom of my backpack. It’s been days since I bowed to the king of habit, and yet, I feel more Mim than ever before.
I wipe my eyes, place one hand on my mother’s shoulder, grip the lipstick between my thumb and forefinger, and lean in. “Let me show you a thing or two.”
She smiles a little, and so do I, recalling my first and last makeover. I paint her lips evenly, careful not to miss those elusive corners, careful not to go outside the lines. She’s staring at me, her eyes full of I-don’t-know-what . . . wonder, appreciation, embarrassment, love. All of it, and all at once.
Finished with the makeover, I step back and admire my handiwork. Still a shadow of her former self, there is something there, something absent only minutes ago—a glimmer of youth, or a little light behind the eyes. It’s not much, but it’s something.
“Look at you,” I whisper, smiling, crying. “Lovely.”
I kiss my mother’s forehead and nod at Kathy. Before walking out of room 22, I set Mom’s empty tube of lipstick on her new vanity, back where it belongs.
42
New Beginnings
I FOLLOW KATHY out the front doors of Sunrise Mountain and slip on Albert’s aviators.
“I didn’t even notice how dark it was in there,” says Kathy.
Metaphor is the word I’m thinking.
“You wanna get some Chinese or something, Mim? I’m starving.”
The image of a blank fortune crosses my mind, but before I can say thanks, but no thanks, something far more important occurs to me. “You see Beck or Walt anywhere?” I ask, looking around.
Kathy is digging in her giant purse. “Damn it. I think I left my keys back at the desk. Wait here a minute?”
She goes back inside while I squint across the lawn. A quick glance in the parking lot, and my poor heart—after beating its tail off in room 22—is performing backflips. Uncle Phil, the trusty, rusty blue pickup, is gone.
I pull my phone out of my bag to call Beck, before I remember . . . his phone. These memories don’t tumble, they crash down: a lost phone knocks over Ashland Inn, knocks over I Love Lucy, knocks over an empty parking space, knocks over, knocks over, knocks over.
We’ll be starting a New Beginning when you get back. Right, Walt?
I put my hand on my chest, feel my heart beating . . .
Hey, hey, I’m Walt.
beating . . .
Damn straight.
beating . . .
I feel the camera zoom in on my eyes.
And what about the voices, Mim? Have you had any episodes lately?
I feel the audience watching.
Symptoms of psychosis, Mr. Malone, are not themselves psychoses.
I feel the audience waiting.
I am Mim Malone. I am Mim Alone. I’m alone.
I feel the red hoodie, the pool on a roof, the untouched bottle of Abilitol.
I’m not crazy.
I feel the empty parking spot.
You ever have the feeling you lost something important, only to discover it was never there to begin with?