Late Night Bloomer

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. I have you to thank for that.

***

We met on the first day of kindergarten. You probably don’t remember. I do. You were the other Emma—the perfect one.

There was a symbiosis between us. You thrived as I withered away.

My eating disorder began in sixth grade. The year prior, you stopped me in the hallway at school. You were with a group of friends. Not all of them, of course. You have so many. There were three that day.

You stopped me, and said, “You’re like a carpenter’s dream!”

You and your friends began to simultaneously chant, “Flat as a board and never been nailed, flat as a board and never been nailed, flat as a board and never been nailed, flat as a board and never been nailed.”

Looking back at it now, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You and the girls must have rehearsed the joke after hearing it from God knows where, and the euphemism of being “nailed” likely went over your heads. We were ten years old for Christ’s sake. If anyone else would’ve walked by at that moment—well, anyone other than Greta who already had C cups—the joke would’ve been delivered to them.

Anyone else would’ve handled it better. I was too damaged for that joke. You see, when I told the story to my mother that evening, she explained that it was sexual. She said the punchline was men don’t want to sleep with women who are flat chested. She said it was a stupid joke for a child to be saying to another child.

My stepfather had been grooming me for several years, making me watch violent porn. All I heard my mother saying in her explanation of your joke was that if I remained flat chested into adulthood, I’d lessen my chances of sexual assault. That stuck with me as I willed my boobs not to grow.

You were in my sixth grade health class. We learned all about sex thanks to our signed permission slips. There was a pop quiz about sex and sex organs the first day. The teacher announced our scores. I had the highest score, a perfect score. The other scores were dismal. If my expertise set off any alarm bells for my teacher, she never expressed it. We also learned about eating disorders. We learned that low body weight could stop a woman’s menstrual cycle. I began starving myself to prevent puberty from happening.

You were in my ninth grade gym class, the year of 1996. We were assigned lockers and yours was next to mine. The first day, you strode in with your bright blue eyes. Your baby blue angora sweater tee matched your eyes and hugged your ample breasts. You took your sweater off, exposing your black lace bra.

“See something you like?” you asked. Your friends laughed as my cheeks burned.

I still hadn’t started menstruating. My mother asked our family physician about it. “Just a late bloomer,” he said.

You went away to college, and I never heard from you again. Not until I got somewhat famous for my critically acclaimed folk rock album. I hadn’t been back home in years. Too many bad memories. But I was on tour. I did a show in the city closest to our little town. You knew the people who ran the venue and got backstage.

I’m 40 years old today, but when I look in the mirror, I don’t see a 40-year-old woman. I don’t see myself at all. I see you, when you were in your teenage prime. You now? You look much older than your age. I guess it’s better to bloom late. Your blossoms have drooped.

I know it’s not fair. This symbiosis we have between us as the two Emmas from rural West Virginia. I didn’t choose it. But with mirror magic, I flipped it.

Eyes are the windows to the soul, the life force energy; mirrors reflect. Locking eyes with myself in the mirror bounced my most potent energy back to me threefold. At first I used my increased power to glamor or enchant myself for my performances. I’d psyche myself up and walk on stage. The crowd would go wild, feeding me their energy. I became a mass of energy, burning hot—a star. That’s when my magic got too intense for me to manage.

I never planned this. I couldn’t have planned something so perfect. I started out picturing myself as you when I looked in the mirror. I wanted to feel how it felt to be so beautiful that strangers are extra kind. I wanted to feel adored. But over time my appearance changed. My hazel eyes turned blue. My body filled out in what I’m told are all the right places. My bone structure became more symmetrical, more like yours. People assumed I’d had phenomenal work done and asked the name of my surgeon.

And yet. And yet, the mirror haunted me. I looked into my eyes, which had gone dead, losing all the light they once held. They were a pretty, soulless blue. I saw my perfectly chiseled features, but I didn’t feel beautiful. I didn’t feel like you must have. I still felt the same as I had in school—like a loser.

I had the same mentality as in my past. One you’d never known in your privileged life, one that was formed through generational and childhood trauma. No matter how significant my outward transformation was, the mirror reflected what was inside me.

The ancients knew to cover mirrors when mourning a loved one. They knew a freshly dead body meant a spirit, a fragment of the eternal consciousness, was suddenly without a host—and it could enter the body of whomever gazed into a nearby reflective surface, possessing them. Modern mystics call it having a “walk-in” when you’ve had a near death experience and personality change.

Well, Emma, you walked right into me as I choked the life out of you. You died, but it is me who has been reborn. To your credit, you did not go down without a fight. That’s when I knew I’d made the right choice. I admire your—my—fighting spirit.

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. I locked eyes with myself—yourself.

“See something you like?” I asked.

And I did. For the first time, I did.