Her mother had been playing her whole life at communing with the spirit world. It had been an aesthetic fascination. But Gretchen was left behind to contend with the reality of her absence. With the reality of her nonexistence. Every day. From now on.
Mona was gone. And she needed to accept it. Her camera had provided all the proof she needed. After that she stopped looking for signs.
MONA AXTON GALLERY
455 W. 26TH ST.
NEW YORK, NY
AUGUST 18
Dearest Auntie Esther,
My plan is to arrive at the Axton mansion in the last week of September. The gallery will be closed for one week with a new installation being prepared then. I considered bringing Gretchen with me this time, but Bill and I discussed it and have decided that eleven years old is too young to be introduced to these kinds of things. Next year you’ll meet your great-niece, I promise, and this year I’ll bring photos!
Until then I wanted to tell you that I have been doing extensive research on the area you have pinpointed here. I’m not sure if you would be familiar with Google Earth. I know you don’t have internet out there. But with this, one can download satellite views of any area on the earth—close up, or far away. I am sending you a print of the eight square miles above the mansion. I think this will make an excellent tool for us in isolating the triangle that you have speculated so long about.
I only wanted to let you know that I am with you in spirit, and that I, too, am anxiously awaiting our reunion, and the continuation of our search for the answers to these mysteries, and a chance to bring peace to those souls.
Your loving niece,
Mona
EIGHT
THE DARK MIRROR WAS ELEGANT, EXTRAVAGANT. ONCE Gretchen got close she could see that the frame was composed of wood carved into gilt vines and leaves, and also faces—cherubs, demons, little girls. Some of them were smiling happily, some of them weeping. Gretchen stared, awed by its intricacies. But on closer inspection, she could see the mirror was badly damaged. The frame had looked painted black, but really it seemed to have been charred in a fire. When she looked into the glass, the reflection that stared back seemed to have a double. Her own image haloed in another image of a girl. Or like there was a face behind her face. There were clear patches in the glass that weren’t reflective at all. It reminded her of looking into water—not looking at something solid, but looking at things submerged in water. For one irrational second she thought it was not a mirror but like a pond teeming with life that couldn’t be seen until it surfaced.
“Be careful,” her aunt said sharply, then seeming to catch herself, mumbled, “it’s very old.”
“It’s incredible,” Gretchen said, still uneasy about what she’d seen or not seen in it, and the obvious strangeness of the mirror having been pulled from some kind of wreckage.
“It will be hard to move,” her aunt said. “But you must take it with you. It can’t be left behind. I’m sure Hawk Green can help you lift it. You know Hawk? Course you don’t—you just got here, what am I thinking? He lives up the road . . .”
“I can’t possibly take this anywhere,” Gretchen said. “Why don’t you sell some of this stuff, Aunt Esther? I can help you list it on eBay or we can contact a collector.”
“You can do what you think is best,” Esther said. “I’m out of here.”
If Esther’s tone hadn’t been so easy and forthright she might have thought the woman was scared of something, or that she only had a few weeks to live.
“Don’t worry,” Esther said, as if reading Gretchen’s mind. “I don’t have a disease or anything like that. I’m not contagious.”
Gretchen turned back to the mirror, touched it, and then drew her hand away quickly. It was freezing, as if it were made of ice.
She looked more closely at the ornate faces of little girls carved into the frame; some of them were smiling, but some of them seemed, indeed, to be screaming or to be devils and not little girls at all. The vines were wrapped around their necks, tangled in their hair. Gretchen thought the mirror must be from the Victorian era. Her mother had taught her all about the Victorians. Back then, women wore necklaces woven from the hair of their dead loved ones. People displayed photographs of the bodies of their recently dead relatives—sometimes sitting up in chairs with their eyes wide open—on their mantels. They held séances and played with Ouija boards as commonly and casually as people watched Fresh Prince reruns and played Scrabble today.
She peered into it again, looking for what she might have seen. Then she stepped back, looked at her own mottled reflection. Her hair was a mess from having the window down on the drive and it looked very punk-chic, coming out of the topknot. She leaned in closer and it seemed another face was rising to the surface of the glass, just as she had imagined. Like it was rising from deep within a well, she watched the face open its mouth as if to scream.