Message in the Mirror

After two months of making an effort, Alan was finally able to manage tidying up. Christa would be pleased. Alan straightened the stack of magazines on the glass coffee table, then tackled the breakfast dishes. He'd never appreciated the feel of bubbles against his skin before. It was odd how things had changed.

Plate, fork, the small cast iron pan that fit a single egg. Christa had an unnatural attachment to that pan. She'd never before left for work without cleaning it. After the dishes, Alan tackled the spots of spaghetti sauce spattered on the stove from last night's dinner. Alan finished his work in the kitchen by pulling out the basket of the coffee maker and dumping the filter and grounds into the trash. Alan smiled at his progress. “I got this, babe,” he said.

***

Christa's phone was on its fourth ring. Fifty-four emails waited unread in her work inbox. Three colours of sticky notes decorated her desktop, demanding her attention. Christa peeled off one sticky note, read the note three times without comprehending, then put her head down on her desk and wept.

Samantha appeared at the opening of Christa's cubicle, as she'd been doing lately. “Oh, honey, what's the matter? Is it Alan?”

Christa nodded. “I'm not coping well today,” she admitted. “Can I go home early?”

Samantha hugged her. “Of course. It's not busy. You go take care of you.”

***

Alan perked up when he heard Christa's key in the lock. Four hours of serious concentration later, the main areas of the apartment were almost up to Christa's standards. Alan waited to see her reaction.

Christa shoved the door closed behind her. Her purse hit the floor as she kicked off her heels. She didn't look around before heading past Alan into the bedroom. Alan watched as Christa crawled under the covers. He sat down beside her, was silent a moment, then said, “It'll get better. I'm figuring this out. I got this, babe.” But of course, she didn't answer him.

Christa woke up early, thanks to her nap. She sat on the edge of the bed for a long time before sighing heavily and pushing off with both hands. In the kitchen, she winced, then reached for the filter basket. She opened the cupboard under the sink and reached for the lid to the garbage, then paused. Christa frowned and looked from the filter basket to the garbage twice before slowly closing the cupboard door.

“See? I'm helping now, babe. Sorry it took so long,” said Alan as Christa opened a new package of filters. “I'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry you had to do everything yourself. I'm figuring it out, though. I'm here for you. I wish you could see that.”

Christa hit the brew button and left the room. Alan heard the shower start a minute later. Someday, he'd figure out what to write on the mirror. When it fogged up, she'd see a love note. He was taking his time on that project. It had to be perfect.

While Christa was at work, Alan tackled the dresser. Christa had gotten into the habit of dropping her earrings onto the dresser instead of putting them in her jewellery box. Alan returned them to their rightful place in the wooden box: top section, arranged by type, sub-categorized by colour.

The next project on his list was a big one: his “man cave.” He wasn't the macho type—just the type to need his own creative space. Christa was different. She thrived on being out of the apartment and surrounded by people. For her, home was just a place to sleep. Recently she'd been home more often.

Christa hadn't been in his room since he'd left her. Alan didn't know how to feel about that. Some days he spent hours in there alone while Christa was at work, just staring at the unfinished projects on his desk. Christa had sent off his last finished pieces for him, then closed the door for good. Alan entered his room and started making a mental list. Organize paints. Pack up brushes. Put away blank canvases. Finish some projects he'd started? After not being able to reach Christa, not being able to pick up a brush had been the worst.

Alan concentrated hard and picked up a brush without his fingers slipping right through it. It felt good. He mixed paint in a palette and selected a small canvas. He'd grown up with a religious aunt. Every time she saw a rainbow, she'd declare a biblical flood would never again occur. He'd caused a flood of tears with his accident. His death. With all his heart, Alan wanted to promise Christa that would never happen to her again. A rainbow felt appropriate.

Painting was harder than cleaning. Smooth, steady strokes required all his concentration. Half a rainbow appeared before Alan gave up, feeling his strength give out. Alan let his knees buckle and he sank to the floor—not through it, thankfully—and rested until Christa got home.

Christa walked through the door, locked it, and kicked off her heels. She filled the kettle and dug through the pantry while the water heated. Emerging with a box of ginger peach tea, she called “Do you want...” she trailed off. “Right.”

Christa put the box of tea on the counter, then went into the bedroom to take out her earrings. Her hand hovered above the dresser for a moment. Christa rested a hand on the dresser, looked around, looked at the floor. She opened the jewellery box, and tilted her head.

“I did it for you. I love you,” Alan said, appearing in the doorway. “You don't have to do it all alone anymore.”

Christa put her earrings in their proper place, shook her head, and exited the room. Something caught her attention. Turning her back to the kitchen, she walked a few steps down the hall toward Alan's room.

Alan groaned, realizing he'd forgotten to close his door. Too late. Christa touched the door lightly, pushing it open with the tip of a finger. Stopping at the threshold, she leaned in and looked around.

“Sorry, babe,” Alan said, though Christa couldn't hear him. He'd just figured out how to touch the world again. Making it hear him was a skill that eluded him.

Christa eased into the room, cautiously stepping up to his easel. She frowned, fingertips brushing the edge of the canvas he'd been working on. She picked up one of his used brushes. Alan hadn't recovered in time to clean them before Christa came home.

“I painted you a rainbow,” said Alan from behind her. “It was symbolic. I'm sorry it's not finished. Leave the brushes. I'll get to it.”

Christa dabbed the brush onto a nearby rag. She dropped the brush like it was a rattlesnake when it left a paint smudge behind. Before she could do more, the kettle screamed from the kitchen. She backed quickly out of the room and ran for the kettle.

Alan stayed behind. He moved the unfinished rainbow and cleaned up the dropped brush. Christa shouldn't have seen the painting before it was finished. He would clean his brushes tomorrow.

After moving the kettle and turning off the burner, Christa returned to Alan's room. She opened the door and peered inside. She shut the door and opened it again. She edged in, looked around, then backed out and closed the door behind her. She shook her head, and went to make her cup of tea.

“Sorry for the mess. I'll be more careful,” Alan promised, walking up behind her. He sat at the table across from her, content to spend this moment with his wife, even if she couldn't see or hear him. “I love you. I love the way you buff the egg pan. I love the way your earrings are way too organized. I love the way you make an exception for your high heels and kick them across the entry way every day. I love that you still sometimes ask if I want tea. I'll always love you. I'll always be here for you. You're not alone.” That was what he should write in the mirror. Perfect.

Christa put down her mug, squinted across the table, and rubbed her right ear. She blinked, then rubbed her eyes and abandoned her mug.

“I'll be there in a minute,” Alan called as Christa left the table for the bedroom. He picked up her mug and deposited it in the sink.

A moment later, Christa walked out of the bedroom in her pyjamas. She came back to the table, looked around, and frowned. She walked to the sink and stared at the mug for a full sixty seconds. “Did I...? I guess.” Christa slowly headed back toward the bedroom and Alan's room, stopping to stare at his door. She reached out, then pulled her hand back. She shook her head, and went to bed.

“I'll finish the rainbow later,” Alan said to his wife as she tossed and turned. “It's hard to paint right now, but I'm getting better. I'm getting closer to reaching you. I'm still here.” He sat there all night, keeping watch over her.

***

Samantha appeared at the opening of Christa's cubicle. “Honey, you look awful.”

Christa swallowed hard. “I'm losing it, Samantha. I'm not sleeping well. I'm constantly distracted. I think I'm starting to hallucinate. I could have sworn I saw a new painting in Alan's room yesterday. I'm losing it.”

Samantha handed Christa the cup of coffee she was holding. “You're grieving. The heart pretends to see what it longs for. I'm proud of you for even going in that room. That's a step forward.”

Christa took the warm mug and managed a tight smile. “Right. I'm progressing. Grief takes time.”

Samantha patted her shoulder, then left Christa alone.

***

Alan realized the mirror wasn't the right place to write a lengthy love letter. He prioritized the important things: Christa wasn't alone. Writing on the mirror with ghostly fingers was painstaking work. He had to write the words over and over, running the shower to steam up the room so he could see if the letters stuck. He was exhausted when it was finished. He flopped onto the couch to wait for Christa.

Christa arrived home late. She rubbed her neck as she trudged through the kitchen and down the hall toward the bathroom. She entered the bathroom, turned on the hot water, and stared at her reflection. She frowned at herself, touching the bags under her eyes, the new wrinkles in her forehead. As she stared, words appeared in fog on the mirror: You're not alone. I'll never leave you.

Christa shrieked and sprinted out of the bathroom, pushing off walls and grabbing door frames to control her panicked flight out of the apartment. “Help! Help! Someone's been in my apartment! Help!” she screamed as she banged on the door of the next unit over.

Alan realized his mistake. Shame flooded him as he ran into the bathroom and used a hand towel to erase his words.

Brent from next door arrived with a baseball bat. Christa cowered behind him. Brent searched the two-bedroom apartment. He used the bat to sweep under the bed. He searched the closets.

“Babe, I'm so sorry. Please don't be scared. I love you. I meant to say I love you,” Alan pleaded. She couldn't hear him.

“There was a threat on the bathroom mirror. I saw it when it fogged up,” said Christa, voice shaking.

Brent used his bat to poke at the shower curtain, then reached in and turned the knob to hot. As it ran, nothing appeared on the mirror.

“It-it was there,” said Christa. “I saw it. And yesterday, the paintbrush had paint on it. My earrings were all in the jewellery box. And the coffee! I didn't dump the filter, but it was in the garbage. Someone's been breaking in!”

Brent looked at the mirror, then put the bat down. “You've been acting a bit...off, lately. Is there someone I can call for you? Family? A friend? A doctor?”

Christa sputtered, then sobbed, then laughed. She sank to the floor as Brent turned off the water. “The paintbrush had paint on it. Of course it did. It's a paintbrush!” She howled with laughter, tears running down her face, knees pulled up to her chest. “And the coffee's in the garbage. Where else would it be? In the garbage with my sanity. I'm sleepwalking. I'm sleep-cleaning. I dreamt the whole thing!” Christa starting slapping her own face. “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!”

Alan tried to stop her, but catching hold of a moving hand was too difficult for him. Brent knelt down beside Christa and held her hands. She tried to pull her hands away, but Brent was stronger.

“I can't wake up,” she whimpered. “He's gone, and I can't wake up.”

Alan backed away. No longer able to vomit, he had no way to relieve his heaving insides. He finally understood he had not been watching over Christa. He had been haunting her. Now he'd have the image of her fracturing in his head for eternity. Now she haunted him, too.