The Mirror (3 page)

"Oh, whoopee-twang." But Shay's giggle ended in a gulp.

"What?" Sophie straightened. "You're just . . . overwrought, dear. Get some sleep now." She kissed Shay's forehead before Shay could pull away. "Everything will be fine. You'll see." Reaching for the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, she half-turned toward Shay. "Whoopee-twang?"

Sophie shrugged, flicked the switch above the bulb and left.

Shay threw back the covers, placed her feet on the small braided rug, closed her eyes, gripped the side of the thin mattress and tried to ignore the throb in her head.

One, dreams are never this long or consistent. Two,
I
had. only one glass of wine with dinner. Three, insanity can't possibly come on this quickly. Can it?

She squeezed her eyes tighter, concentrated on sanity or waking up. But the vision of herself making love on this bed with a faceless Mr. Strock, while a bearded God robed in flowing white looked on, broke her up. When God leered Shay lay down again, fighting back the laughter of hysteria.

Okay, jollies over. Let's try again.
This time she made it to her feet and then to the foot of the bed. A vestige of vertigo forced her to grab the iron bedstead.
This really isn't all that funny, Shay. Get ahold of yourself.

Shay reached above the hanging bulb as she'd seen Sophie do and switched on a light she could barely reach. The cedar chest in the guestroom on which she and Rachael'd sat this very evening was now at the foot of the bed in this room. The lace veil hung from one of the hands of the wedding mirror, and the mirror was taller. The whole room was larger.

But to see another woman's face reflecting her own distress, to see the image raise that trembling hand which didn't wear Marek's diamond to its lips and then to feel the cold touch of fingers in the same place . . to be seeing this in a mirror that appeared so weird in itself . . .

"If you had anything to do with this, undo it!" She raised Brandy's fist to the wedding mirror . . . then moved closer. There was no crack running diagonally across the top. And the veil hanging on its frame didn't have mended lace, the satin cap beneath wasn't yellowed.

Shay stood back and shook her head. In the wavy glass Brandy shook hers.

Brandy McCabe had blue eyes instead of brown, long thick lashes and a plump little figure. Her breasts must have been two cup sizes larger than Shay's.

She was also missing a back molar on her upper left jaw. That more than anything dispelled the dreamlike quality of Shay's situation. She was in full possession of another body. What had happened to her own?

An impulse to run based on no other logic than panic sent her to the window--not to the door to the rest of the house where "they" lurked.

But what lurked outside was no better.

No motel next door to hide her view of the mountains, their shapes a dark silhouette against a lighter night sky. No city lights reaching to their bases. No sounds of traffic. No smell of recent rain. The far-off barking of a dog was her only indication that there might be anything left of Boulder, Colorado.

Shay's world was no more out there than in this house ... or in this body. Closing the window on the chill and the scratchy hum of crickets, she sat on the cedar chest and stared at the mirror. It couldn't be responsible. Something this fantastic had to be a trick of the mind. She was ill, and delirium superimposed images of the past on those of the present. She'd felt depressed about the past weighing on this house, and her sick mind was working it out in this way.

Reason dictated that it had been Rachael and not Sophie who'd sat on the bed talking to her. And she'd been saying other things than what Shay'd thought she heard.

This was all too real and detailed for a mere dream.

The Gingerbread House was so quiet it was spooky. Shay shivered in the light nightgown. A tall metal radiator sat against the wall but it was cold to her touch.

Tomorrow she'd probably wake up in a hospital, her mother and father at her bedside, recovered enough to laugh at this whole thing.

The body was making its demands known just as her own would, shaking her conviction in a logic that hadn't been too convincing.

Well, I'll just play it out. .
.
find Brandy the bathroom and
. . . Again that urge to run . . .
and not panic.

Leaving the door open for light, she slipped into the hall and headed for the bathroom. It was a walk-in closet.

Shay stared at the closet for a full minute, shuddering more now from reaction than chill. Finally she moved to the head of the stairs on a narrow strip of grainy carpet. Light from below helped her find her way down bare stairs. At the bottom a table with a vase of fresh flowers sat where the old buffet had. She was stopped by males voices from the living room.

". . . crazy as a loon. Why marry her off to Strock, Pa? You could keep her home to care for you and Ma when you're old."

"If she's that crazy she won't be no good to us. But I don't think she is, Elton. Your sister had two good prospects at eighteen and she turned 'em both down because she didn't love them. Or so she said. Love! I don't know what's getting into women these days but it's got to stop, I tell you. And now she's pretending witlessness to scare men off and get out of marriage. It's not going to work. She's twenty years old and I'm waiting no longer."

Shay tiptoed around the corner, hoping the bathroom under the stairs was still there.

It was, and again she had to stretch to switch on the light hanging from the ceiling.

The toilet tank hung high on the wall with a long chain dangling from it. A metal tub, encased in wood, had only one faucet. Strange that her hallucinating mind could produce details of a time she knew nothing of. Strange she and Brandy should be the same age.

No one had flushed the stool lately and the windowless room smelled foul. Shay pulled the chain when she'd finished and the house reverberated with a frightening clamor. She stepped into the hall quickly.

"Who's working the plumbing at this time of the night?" John McCabe bore down on her. "You? And running about in your nightgown. What's this house coming to? Now get yourself back to your bed, miss, and no more of your antics or I'll take the strap to you, I will."

Shay ran up the stairs to her room and slammed the door, Brandy's heart pumping thunder.

"Old bastard," she muttered and faced the mirror.

The reflection of Brandy looked shocked and defenseless, the room behind her cloudy and warped in the ancient glass.

If you do this to me I'll shatter you with my bare hands.

Shay traced a line along the top of the mirror where there should have been a crack. She hadn't noticed before the few chips of darkened enamel adhering to bases of nails or in the ridges between fingers of the frame's hands, as if the bronze had once been painted.

The plumbing still clanged downstairs.

I
don't like this world.

Throwing back the covers, she wiped the grit from the sheets and with a nasty look for the mirror switched off the light and crawled into bed.

Running around on bare floors had left more grit on her feet to replace what she'd just removed.
Tomorrow I'll wake up in my own world.

Shay rolled over and buried her face in Brandy's pillow.

4

An odd sound awoke Shay. She lay there wondering where the roosters came from and then sat up, almost hitting her head on the ceiling that sloped past the bed to the peak in the roof.

"Oh, no!" Her tongue felt her teeth as her eyes searched the room. The molar was still missing, the room still Brandy's.

She rushed to the window. A horse grazed peacefully in a pasture where there should have been a motel.

You marry in the morning, Brandy McCabe, if I have to hold you up to the preacher myself.

Shay turned to the wedding mirror. "Take me back." She beat on it with her fists but it stood solid against her.

She caught sight of Brandy's rigid face held up so close to her that the steam of her breath evaporated on the mirror's surface. Shay dropped her arms and moved away. Why was she so sure it was the mirror?

The surge of adrenaline that had propelled her out of bed receded, leaving her limp . . . and angry.

"Brandy?" Sophie entered wearing the same dress she had the night before but covered by a long white apron. "Nora has hot water for your bath. Where's your robe?"

"How should I know," Shay said between Brandy's teeth.

"Do try to be cooperative, dear. Make the best of this situation." Sophie brought a hideous flannel robe from the closet.

The heavy woman called Nora dumped two buckets of steaming water into the metal tub and mixed it with water from the one faucet. Looking scandalized when Shay dropped the robe and nighty from Brandy's body, Nora hissed and slammed out of the bathroom--buckets and door banging.

Well, there's nothing here you won't see on yourself. Just less of it.

The water was only three inches deep. The soap was as hard as a brick and lathered about as well. But the bath felt good and Brandy needed one.

Washing someone else but feeling the touch of the cloth and the tug of water against submerged skin . . the fingers, shorter than her own, showing no clumsiness at obeying a different mind . . .

Dark hairs covered Brandy's legs and puffed under her arms. Shay eyed the leather strap hanging from the sink. Probably the one John McCabe had threatened to beat her with.

There was undoubtedly a razor to go with that strap. Shay was tempted to give Brandy a shave, but then shrugged it off as a useless gesture.
This can't last forever.
And she wasn't about to crawl into bed with Brandy's groom tonight. The name "Strock" had a harsh sound to it.

Perhaps God was punishing her for her disdain of her mother's obsession with the past. Perhaps he was teaching her a lesson and would soon slip her back into her own body and time. Shay hadn't given God much thought since she was thirteen.

But instinct kept harping back to the mirror. Even though it'd been in the attic for years and done nothing to anyone. Even though it was not a very logical explanation.

This whole trip started with one quick glance into Grandma's eyes in that mirror.

A stab of longing for her mother and father . . . Shay wept quietly into the washcloth.

Shay sat across from John McCabe while Nora and Sophie delivered breakfast to the round kitchen table.

"You're not married yet. Get up and help your mother." His teeth were crooked, the lower ones brown-stained.

"Leave her be, John. It's all on. Where's Elton?"

"He went downtown to get the news." John McCabe slipped his spectacles higher on his nose to read a long document with a colored seal showing through when he held it up. "Well, Strock gets Brandy and the Brandy Wine this morning." He glanced at Shay with the look of longing she'd seen on Jerry Garrett's face. But it quickly vanished. "What he wants with the last, I don't know."

"There's talk of opening the mines again. Eat your breakfast, Brandy." Sophie slid an egg onto Shay's plate.

"Conger and his black iron," John said with a snort. "Bunch of nonsense."

Ham slices, fried eggs, cornbread, pancakes, and something that resembled oatmeal. Brandy felt hungry but Shay didn't know where to start.

She wore the dress Sophie'd taken off her the night before. It was so tight she wondered if there'd be room for food. The egg was the best she'd ever tasted.

When she poured herself a glass of milk, John and Sophie stopped eating to stare at her, Nora halted her fork on its way to stab a pancake.

Creamy, warm, sweet. It probably came straight from the cow. She drank it all before taking another bite.

"But you don't like milk," Sophie said in astonishment.

"Oh." In a fit of delayed rebellion, Shay refilled the glass and then wondered if it was cholera one got from unpasteurized milk, or . . . diphtheria? Brandy probably hadn't had much in the way of shots.

Sophie leaned toward her and whispered, "What's happened to your corset?"

Shay, who wasn't wearing one, was saved by a flutter of chickens on the step as Elton McCabe walked in the back door.

"Old Strock spent most of the night at Werely's." Elton winked at Shay and filled his plate. "Wagers are out he won't make it to the wedding."

"He better had," his father answered and swiped at a fly crawling across the oilcloth toward the white butter.

"Bet he spent the rest of the night on Water Street," Elton said through a mouthful.

"Elton!" Sophie rose to get the coffeepot from an iron stove that poured too much heat into the room. "Coffee, Brandy?"

"I don't know." Shay sucked a piece of food from the unfamiliar hole left by the absent molar. "Do I like it?"