Memories and Mirrors

Her mother was dead, and now so was Nana.

The overhead door rattled as she opened it, an ominous noise, like a revelation. In theory, this should excite her. A storage unit of memories, boxes of history. Answers. Instead, she felt only trepidation gnawing through her chest and leaving emptiness in its wake.

A broken lamp sat against the wall, its beautiful stained glass shade cracked. She remembered how it used to sit in the parlor. Nana had insisted she call it that, the parlor. She'd never understood. It was an old word, something antebellum. Checking under the lampshade and finding nothing of interest, she moved on.

To one side of the storage locker was a cherry red piano. She knew it would still be out of tune. How many years had they talked about getting it repaired, knowing it would never happen? She'd been loud enough, a boisterous young child. What would her grandmother have done with a noisy piano?

She wasn't here for those memories. They were just icing, a bitter crust. What she really wanted stayed as hidden as it had been during her childhood. The barrier was physical here. A folding screen split the space in half. Behind it were ramshackle cardboard boxes, half disintegrated with age.

Things hidden away, not spoken of and hopefully forgotten. She sat and pulled the closest box to her. The tape came off easy as the dust. Junk, old chipped plates, molding linens. She shoved the box aside and grabbed another. Paper, a scrapbook full of pictures of a house, a Christmas tree. It went the way of the junk box and she found a third. Framed photos, a little girl holding a kite, a baby swaddled in a mother's arms.

Tears prickled at the edges of her eyes. She wanted to be anywhere but here.

The woman in the photos shared her eyes, squinting with her smiles and crowfeet wrinkles when relaxed. Dark hair curled wildly. She knew her by the similarities, but nothing triggered in her mind. Where there should have been recognition, she drew a blank.

She knew the woman’s name, of course, Cynthia, mother, but it rung hollow. The six years they’d shared were erased.

Why had she even come here? Nana had tried so hard to spare her this pain, to wipe it from her mind. How had she never understood that? It made all the simmering resentment seem petty now that it was too late to apologize.

She studied each frame intently, hoping one would finally lead to a revelation. Instead, she reached the bottom of the box, finally pulling out a book.

The cover was black, oiled leather. A collector’s edition, she suspected, and obviously treasured by its worn spine. The book fell open to a well-traveled page. Lines gave way to well-ordered stanzas, poetry. She turned the page, another poem: ‘The Southern Wind.’

Along the path, the southern wind blows. She knew the first line even before she started reading. It echoed out of her like the bell of some founding memory had been rung. She recalled.

The room was dim, lit only by a child’s nightlight. The quilt, scratchy. She breathed in the scent of perfume and detergent. It lingered in the air, like the sound of a television somewhere down the hall.

She came back to reality all at once. Her fingers shook, jostling the thin pages of the book. The thing she’d desired had come to her, and it was the antithesis of her expectations. Tears spilled down her face, though she couldn’t find a reason. Her mind clouded in confusion. Here was a memory, vivid but without context. What was this book?

She set it down and stood, turning away. How easy it would be to walk off and forget, but that would leave her with an extra shadow, a specter of what-ifs. She’d had a life of them already. She took the book and left.

***

The book sat across the table, staring her down like an unwelcome dinner guest, ruining her appetite. She’d pushed aside the magazines and unopened mail, lest the book get lost in the hubbub. Now, it just drew attention. She sighed and put her fork down on her pasta. There would be no rest unless she dealt with it.

Reaching across the table, she grabbed the book. The exterior was blank, dark, and dull, like a void. It was small, about the size of a postcard and the width of her finger. The edges were crowned in gold leaf, pages thin as a Bible. The cover seemed to pulse in her hands, like the blood of a living thing.

She opened it and read.

With a blink, she sat on that same bed from before. The blankets rough on her bare legs. A lacy pink nightgown went down only to her knees. There was more light this time. A lamp in the shape of a cartoon character glowed on the bedside table. She looked to the colorful wallpaper. The room was a specter from childhood’s hour.

Another blink and it disappeared.

She dropped the book reflexively, as if it had bitten her. The images it conjured were more than memory. For a moment, she had actually been there. The sensations had been real.

Her heart thundered as she picked the book off the floor. She dove into the sensation of touching it, breathing the experience in. Her eyes fell closed in concentration.

The room again. She recognized her surroundings, though her eyes were still closed. A hand settled covers around her, tucking her in.

“Mama!” She looked up, drinking in those familiar dark curls.

“What’s wrong, darling?”

“I’m just so happy to see you.” Her voice was high, childish.

“I’m glad to see you too, sweetie.” A wide smile flashed across the woman’s face. “Do you want a bedtime story?”

“Yes,” She couldn’t keep the tears from her eyes, luckily her mother didn’t notice as she leaned over and pulled a little black book from the nearby shelf. It seemed tiny in her big, soft hands.

“What story do you want?”

“The southern wind.” She just wanted to see if her suspicions were true.

The woman smiled, “that’s a good one.” Her voice was a song as she spoke the opening lines.

The room dissolved.

She sat on her sofa with no clue how she’d gotten there. Outside the window, evening had become night. Time was missing, but the book was still suspended in her hands. As mysterious as it was tantalizing.

It made silent promises to restore what was taken from her. So close, if only she could just reach out and grab it. The mystery tugged, and she fell into it again. The world changed.

The lamp was off, her mother was back lit in the doorway. The hall light made her a shadow, walking away.

“Wait, mama,” Her voice ripped out of her, a desperate plea.

“Yes sweetie, quickly now, you need your sleep.”

“I don’t want you to go.” She wanted to get up and run to the woman, meld into her reassuring presence, but she feared that leaving the bed would shatter the spell.

“Is this because you’re going to stay with Nana tomorrow? Don’t worry, I’ll just be gone a few days.”

The trip. The crash.

“Mama, no! You can’t leave. You can’t!” She wanted to explain, but the words caught in her throat. There were only tears. “Please don’t go.”

The door closed and left her in the dark.

This time the change was more gradual. She came back to the present like a dreamer. In the split second before waking and sleep, there was hope. It was bright as sunlight on her skin, but faded just as easily, a cloud tumbling by.

Alone. Desolate. She forced her eyes open and found the book held out in open palms. The back cover lay open, revealing a worn stamp for a curiosities shop. Here was a chance at answers.

***

Dust danced through the shop air and landed on trinkets and bits. Taxidermy and crystals crowded mismatched shelves, the sort of place she’d never come willingly.

“Ah, you’re the daughter.” The craggy voice came from behind the checkout counter. “It’s like seeing a ghost walk in here after so many years.”

“The daughter… you knew my mother.” She was noticing the old woman for the first time, almost a part of the scenery.

“Yes, she used to come here often. I knew you would come for answers, eventually.”

“The book…” She stopped. How much would the woman believe?

“Has it spoken to you? Your mother said it spoke to her. She wanted to put it’s magic in you, paid a pretty penny too.”

“This curse is worth money?” She removed the book from her bag.

“Honey, it’s no curse. It’s a window book, a diary for the soul. You can write something down in it, something real, and it can be played back whenever you want.”

“She did this… for me?”

“Of course, is something wrong?” The old woman asked.

“No, it works perfectly it’s the memory that’s bad. It’s the last night I had with her. The next day she… she died in a car crash.”

The old woman shook her head, “Wouldn’t that be a good thing, he last memory you had of your mother, memorialized forever?”

“No, I just spend the entire time trying to warn her, but I can’t. Before I found it, I almost couldn’t remember her. Now, All I have is this.”

“I see. I’ll buy the book back from you. Maybe someone else can record a happier memory in it.”

Her hands were shaking again. She could get rid of this thing before her life became an endless replay of the past, but giving the book up was a surrender to the truth.

A strange inheritance, but here it was after so many years.

“How much will you give me?”

“A memory is a hard thing to put a price on, but I sold it to your mother for twenty thousand, I’ll give you that and a chance to move forward. Let’s leave memories as memories.”

She nodded and handed over the book.