Forty Days

Sandwiched between soaring skyscrapers stood a peculiar little second-hand shop. In its window rested a full-length mirror with an intricately carved frame. My reflection startled me. I felt haggard and worn, while the image reflected was rested, serene. For a moment my spirits lifted; perhaps it could do the same for Ellen.

The shopkeeper was a small woman, old beyond the point where years had meaning. She crept along but with purpose, and her sly smile hinted at a secret.

“I set the mirror out for you,” she said. “It will be delivered to your house, before you get home.”

It was presumptuous of her. But I had already decided I wanted the mirror. “I do like it. How much are you asking?”

“The price is yet to be determined.” Her eyes twinkled. “Keep it for forty days. Then decide if you are willing to pay the price.”

It was foolish to agree without knowing the cost, but I was drawn to it. And if her price proved too high, I could always return the mirror. As I stepped outside, her chuckle lingered in the autumn breeze.

#

When I got home, the mirror was already waiting in the corner of the bedroom. Ellen, weakened by her latest treatment, slept quietly. I sat in the chair beside her and took her hand; she sighed softly. With my free hand, I stroked her bare scalp, a side effect of the harsh medical treatments. My gaze drifted toward the mirror, and what I saw startled me.

Her reflection showed a head of golden curls, lifted by a faint breeze that played around her shoulders, as if the last month of chemo had never happened. And she wasn’t lying in bed at all, but walking beside me through a park, our hands intertwined. We were smiling—not the weary, resigned smiles of late, but true smiles of joy.

“Sam, was it a hard day?” Ellen asked. “You look worn out.”

I felt her squeeze my hand and turned to her. “The mirror…”

She smiled faintly. “It’s beautiful. What a thoughtful surprise.”

“But the reflection—how’s it doing that?”

“You must be exhausted.” She glanced at the mirror, then absently touched her bare scalp.

In the glass, though, I saw her fingers trailing through a cascade of golden hair. “There—don’t you see?” I pointed.

“They say it’ll grow back.” She pushed herself upright. “Can you help me? I’m a little unsteady.”

I helped Ellen to the bathroom. In its mirror, she was only herself, pale, bald, and fragile. But in the bedroom mirror, she moved as if nothing had changed, as though illness had never touched her. I left her to her privacy and returned to the bedroom, where her reflection was waiting, hand outstretched toward me.

I sat in the chair and stared at her image. It wasn’t a video. No tricks, no devices—just the beautiful, healthy woman I had married. And then, without knowing how, I was there too.

She hugged me, and together we walked down a tree-lined street. Ahead stood a Victorian house with a wide yard, a for-sale sign planted in the grass. The exact type of house we were looking at before…before her illness.

My shoulder shook, snapping me out of the trance. Ellen, the real Ellen, stood beside me.

“You drifted off again,” she said. “Maybe you need rest more than I do.”

“Look in the mirror and tell me what you see.”

“I see a very tired married couple doing the best they can.”

“Do you see yourself with hair?”

“Sam, don’t tease me. Can you bring me some soup? That’s all I’ll be able to keep down.”

#

That night I sat in the chair while she slept, her hand in mine. But in the mirror, we were moving into the Victorian house. Boxes cluttered the wide, empty rooms. She pulled me from one to the next, describing how each would look once we made it our own. In every room we paused to embrace, to linger in long, unhurried kisses. It was everything we had dreamed. Except it wasn’t real.

Ellen was asleep, laboring to breathe. Why couldn’t she see it? I knew it wasn’t real, but why couldn’t she at least share the fantasy? I hung my head and wept, longer and harder than at any time since the diagnosis.

The next morning I helped her dress. She stood before the mirror, fussing with that terrible wig. In her eyes it reflected a woman fading, clinging to what remained. In mine, it showed the vibrant life she’d been denied. I was a coward for retreating into that world. I had promised to stay with her through every step, yet still I couldn’t look away.

#

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, plastic chairs digging into our backs. A dozen of us sat scattered in a holding pen, waiting to be processed by the bureaucratic machine of American healthcare.

After an hour we entered the doctor’s office, with its framed diplomas and potted plants. He sat stoic behind his desk. He didn’t need to speak; we already knew. Still, the words came: Not responding. Aggressive growth. Most cases, a year—two if you’re lucky. I wish I had better news. A pause. The receptionist will take your deductible.

No words passed between us on the drive home. Ellen was exhausted, physically and mentally. I helped her back into bed. And for a moment hoped that she would see the healthy version of herself in the mirror. Her tired eyes glanced at it, but to her it was only a mirror.

I told myself I’d return the mirror in the morning. It wasn’t fair; she was the one who deserved its gift. I would allow myself one last night. I settled into the chair as she drifted into sleep.

In the mirror, the house was already furnished. We had a dog for me, and a cat for her. The cat hissed at me but adored her, fair enough. The dog loved me, but loved her more, also fair. She had news to share. I reached for champagne; she stopped me with a smile and said no alcohol for nine months.

#

In the morning Ellen’s cough was worse, so I chose to stay home rather than return the mirror.

“I woke up a few times last night,” she said. “You were just staring at that mirror… like you were somewhere else.”

I forced a smile. “Sorry. This chair’s too comfortable. I must’ve drifted off.”

I cooked Ellen scrambled eggs, and she ate most of them, sipping at her orange juice between bites. We talked quietly, laughter slipping in here and there. For the first time in days, the morning felt good. I was grateful I’d stayed home.

By midday she wanted a nap, so I sat in the chair beside her as she drifted into a restless sleep. My eyes wandered to the mirror. What harm was it doing? And yet it felt wrong, almost like betrayal. Still, there we were inside the mirror, living the life that should have been.

We had a baby boy, wild with energy. Ellen was radiant, a natural mother. We teased each other about whom he resembled more. Then, a poke on my shoulder pulled me back.

“You drifted off again,” Ellen said. “You really do like that mirror.”

“I’m going to take it back. It doesn’t fit this room.”

“Don’t,” she said. “It’ll look perfect in our house.”

“The Victorian?”

Ellen smiled. “Yes. I know it won’t happen. But it’s nice to dream.”

I held her hand. “It’ll have a big yard. And we’ll get a dog and a cat.”

Ellen smiled, and I went on describing the house and the pets. At first her eyes sparkled, but the light faded when I spoke of the baby boy. Tears welled, then spilled down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I wish I could give you a child… something to carry on, after…”

“No, don’t,” I said, my own tears flowing. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sorry. The mirror’s going back.”

#

But I didn’t take the mirror back. And day by day I sat by her bed as her illness progressed. Inside the mirror, I lived the life we could have had. There was singing and dancing, laughing, and lovemaking. Outside there were tears, and pain, bedpans, and ice chips.

How can you have everything you ever wanted, and at the same time be filled with grief? What happened in the mirror was as real as anything that had ever happened outside the mirror. If only I could share it with Ellen. But she was dying without ever knowing what our life could have been, without seeing our children take their first steps, speak their first words, without ever hugging them.

I was losing her, but now I had a lifetime full of memories. She only had a promise of a life, one that was cut short.

#

On the fortieth day, I returned to the shop, unsure what I would choose. The old woman grinned, and guilt and shame overcame me. My eyes turned cold, and I glared at her.

“Don’t blame me,” she said. “You could have returned it.”

“I begged you to let her into the mirror.”

“The mirror allows only one master.”

“What does that mean?”

She shrugged. “It no longer matters.”

“If you have this power, you must have others. Heal her. Save her. Let her live.”

“She lives in the mirror.”

“Enough with the riddles. Every day I see her in the prime of life, but when I turn my head, she lies dying. Is the one in the mirror real?”

“As real as you want.”

“That is not an answer.” I paced around the shop, locked eyes with the old woman. “It’s been forty days; what is the price of the mirror?”

“At midnight, the version of you standing before me will merge with the version in the mirror. There will be no more traveling between worlds. You must choose. Step into the mirror and live that life or stay here. At one minute past midnight, the mirror becomes only a mirror.”

“And if I choose the other world… what happens to my Ellen?”

“She dies alone.”

The words echoed through the shop.

“And if I stay here?”

“The other Ellen is young. She will grieve you, but in time find someone else.”

#

Shortly before midnight, I stood in front of the mirror. Inside, Ellen and I were sending our oldest child off to school for the first time. On this side, her lips were cracked, her breath shallow. The doctor had warned: a month left, perhaps less.

I stepped toward the mirror, toward the life we had been promised. Then I looked back at Ellen and the life we had been dealt. Her eyes lingered on the cup of ice at the bedside, her lips parted. I pressed my palm against the glass and bowed my head. A lifetime of joy, or a handful of days. I inched forward. She would forgive me. She would want me to be happy.

I heard the faint sound of Ellen trying to swallow, her mouth dry, searching for a bit of moisture. Each tick of the clock, striking like a failing heartbeat. My forty days were almost up, but which price do I pay? Ellen reached for the ice, and I stepped away from the mirror.

I lifted the cup and placed a sliver of ice on her tongue. When I glanced back at the mirror, I saw her there, laboring for breath, yet smiling faintly as her hand closed weakly around mine.

She slipped away shortly after midnight.

I cannot say whether I lost her twice, or if I was gifted memories as real as life itself. Curse or blessing. I do not know.