I’m a cook. I like making food because I can take a variety of components and make something old, comfortable, new, or unique out of it. My life is like a recipe. In my mirror, I see the ingredients, my uncle and me. I’m not sure how we work, but we do. Each time I’ve glanced into the glass growing up, I’ve seen him behind me. At first, I was a little girl with terrible hair, my bewildered uncle standing at my back, his flabbergasted eyes on my tangled head. I think that’s how we came to be, Gregor and me. He was left with a terrible muddle of a girl, and he had to figure out how to put her back together.
Other times, I look into the mirror, and I don’t see my uncle or even me. I see my mother, her stormy, tornado-infused eyes taunting me, telling me that I can’t be daring or free. Her eyes tell me I have to fight too hard not to be like her or my father. Her eyes tell me to be afraid.
Finally, I look into the mirror, and I see myself. There are yearnings there I’m not sure I’m ready to explore. There’s grief I’m afraid to face. There’s courage, but there’s also regret.
My uncle is living on borrowed time. He did more than fix me, even with my doubts, even with the things about myself I’m not sure of. He loved me, and I loved him back. He took my heart, and he kept it safe. He guarded it. I think, if I’m being honest, I’m afraid that when he’s gone, I’m going to break what he worked so hard to keep strong.
Max Vincent
I’m a Vincent. When I look into the mirror, I see a name. I see wood, nails, gasoline, and sweat. Then, I see fire. Figuratively speaking, I want to use the gasoline and the wood to burn down what I know is expected of me. I want to see more, be more, and do more. I don’t want to spend my life staring into a mirror pretending I don’t want to be somewhere else, be someone else.
I want to be who I am. I want my name, but I want more. I’m not ashamed of that. In truth, I don’t really know what I want to do or who I want to be. I just want the freedom to find out.
Closing the door behind Heathcliff, I turned, my back settling against it. There was a light on in the kitchen, and I knew my uncle was sitting, as he often did in the late afternoon, at the kitchen table, a newspaper in front of him, a cup of strong coffee in his hand.
My feet found him.
I sometimes wondered if my body worked as a whole, or if my heart ruled it rather than my mind. My feet often took me places I’d never thought of going until I got there.
“He kissed me,” I blurted.
Uncle Gregor’s head shot up, his coffee midway to his lips, his gaze sweeping my face before going to the hall beyond.
“He’s gone,” I supplied, and repeated, “He kissed me.”
“You said that.” Setting his coffee down, he peered at me over the brim of his reading glasses. “You know to be smart, don’t you, Hawthorne?”
My feet took me to the table, my stance uneasy. “I’m not quite sure what to think about all of it.”
Shifting uncomfortably, Gregor gestured at the chair next to his, and I sat. “Well,” he cleared his throat, “I don’t really know how to begin …”
His face reddened, and I took pity on him. “I’m seventeen, Uncle. I know about sex. I just don’t know about Heathcliff.”
Uncle Gregor released a relieved breath. “Follow your heart. It won’t fail you. Not yours.”
My fingers played with the edge of his newspaper. “You have too much faith in me.”
He smiled. “Maybe, but I know you, Hawthorne, and I’m willing to bet I’m not wrong about your heart.”
His chicory-enhanced coffee tickled my nose as I leaned over, my gaze scanning his face. “Do you think I’m like my parents?”
Startled, Gregor stared. “Your parents?” My lips parted, but he didn’t give me a chance to respond. “Your parents weren’t runners. I know what the people say in this town. I know the rumors. Being from a small community makes us all afraid of losing people. It’s a comfortable but often boring life. Young people come and go. It doesn’t mean they’re running. Your parents didn’t run, they quit. There’s a difference.”
A tear fought a battle with my eye and lost, the moisture rolling down my cheek. “Why did you keep me? Why didn’t you go after them?”
The paper rattled as Uncle Gregor shoved it aside, his gentle hand finding mine. “They were terribly young, Hawthorne. I lived away, working for a pharmaceutical company when my parents passed. I was twenty-eight. My brother was only sixteen, and I became responsible for him. A year later your mother told him she was pregnant. They were so very young. Very restless people with few responsibilities. They had you, but it wasn’t enough. Oh, they gave it a good show for the first six years, but it wasn’t to be. They wanted that chance to be young, I suppose.”
“They were irresponsible,” I spat.
His kind gaze captured mine. “Maybe.”