Is the Mirror Not Our Reflection?

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. It was leaning against the wall on a shelf at “Antiquités, etc.,” an antique shop that I visited every couple of weeks to see if anything interesting appeared that might be worth buying. I was examining a tiny porcelain mouse, about the size of half of my pinky finger, that was missing its tail but was otherwise in good shape. I was wondering if I could fashion a tail for it out of a leather string or something. It would match the other tiny porcelain objects I like to display on one of my living room windowsills. I now had so many that I had to swap them out once in a while. Every time I got bored with the display of tiny things, it was fun to go “shopping” in the box in the closet where I stored the porcelain and other small, thought-provoking items. I always tried to figure out a theme when I picked out new items to display, like “animals” or “pink things” or whatever matched my mood and each other. I couldn’t always figure out a theme for a display, so sometimes it would just be “hodge-podge.” But the hodge-podge displays never lasted long. The untidy mismatch of items made me stressful and headachy.

Now, as I held the little mouse in my hand, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to give it a tail. As I replaced it on the shelf, I glanced over into the mirror leaning against the wall next to it. I don’t like looking at my reflection on purpose and if I ever see myself in a mirror by accident, I am always immediately surprised to see someone I recognize for a half-second. After the initial minor shock, I then look away, realizing it is just the same old me and I don’t want to know anything more about her than what is absolutely necessary. This time, however, even though I experienced the half-second shock of seeing a reflection of someone familiar, I didn’t transition to looking away. At least not immediately.

Although I clearly recognized myself, there was something off about how I looked. Maybe it was the gloomy, brownish atmosphere of the antique shop. Although the sun was usually shining when I arrived, somehow the rays either didn’t penetrate properly through the big display windows or they got tarnished somehow once they found their way into the shop. It was always gloomy in here, with a slightly moldy, used-up smell. But all the items in the antique shop probably were moldy and most definitely used up. Used up and discarded or sold by their previous owners. But as the new owner of the things I had purchased over the years, I found that once I got my carefully selected items home, they could lose their odor of mold and uselessness and become bright eyecatchers in a display.

I stepped closer to the mirror to touch its frame. It was made of dark wood, covered with chipped, dull, dirty gold paint. It was ornately carved, but there was nothing symmetrical about the carvings on it. There was a delicate rose carved into the center of the right side of the frame, but a lion with its mouth open in a roar on the opposite side. None of the other carvings matched each other. In fact, I realized, this frame was sort of a hodge-podge of carvings, and looking at it was starting to give me a headache. The frame had a long, vertically oval shape, but the mirror somehow didn’t quite fit inside of it. It was narrower at the top and bottom than the frame and it seemed to be wider in the middle. I confirmed that the mirror was not meant for this frame, or vice versa, when I pulled the mirror gently away from the wall and turned it around to look at the back. The two sides of the mirror extended all the way to the right and left edges of the frame, and the top and bottom of the mirror left small openings between it and the frame.

The mirror was glued to the back of the frame. Wasn’t a frame supposed to embrace – well, frame – the object it was framing? Why didn’t this mirror belong in this frame? Or why didn’t someone make or buy a frame to fit the mirror? Wondering about these questions was something I found myself doing to avoid looking in the mirror again. But I was drawn to look at myself again. I turned the mirror back to face me and held it away from the wall, closer to my face. Yes, definitely, there was something “not me” about my reflection. I saw the same thin, long face, pale olive skin, light-colored eyes and dark circles in the skin below them, a narrow nose with a tiny bump toward the top, where I had been hit with a baseball once as a child, black eyebrows, all framed by black straight hair, curving around my cheeks to almost meet underneath my chin. Wait. What color are my eyes? The eyes looking back at me in the mirror were hazel. I know my eyes can look different in different lighting, if I wear dark or light-colored clothes, or just depending on my mood. But my eyes are blue. They almost look black in darkness or if my photo is taken and I am not looking directly into the camera.

But the eyes of the me in the mirror were hazel. And behind me – what was that behind me? I squinted, trying to make out what sort of furniture item or statue or something was behind me in the mirror, but it was too dark in there to see it clearly.

I turned around and saw only the shelf of old things behind me. No furniture. No statue. No real darkness, just the usual brownish gloom of the shop. Just a shelf unit behind me with junk displayed on it. When I turned back to the mirror, something else had replaced the furniture or statue in the darkness behind my reflection. And it was no longer dark behind me. There was a beautiful Tiffany floor lamp, with its bulbs turned on, shining soft but bright light through the stained-glass pieces of its lamp shade. There was no other furniture or fixtures in the room in the mirror that I could see except this lamp standing behind me – well, behind my reflection. There was only a wooden staircase leading up into gray darkness. I could see its ornate banister and a painting or photograph hanging on the wall of the staircase, next to the floor lamp. The picture on the wall had the same kind of oval frame as the mirror I was looking into, with dull, dirty gold paint covering the same kind of unmatching, intricate carvings as on the frame of the mirror.

Suddenly I felt scared. No longer wondering or intrigued. Just scared. Was this not me – not my reflection in the mirror I was holding? Was it someone else, somewhere else? Was it even a mirror? Was it possible it wasn’t a mirror at all, but some kind of strange painting or photograph? I looked more closely into the glass inside the frame. No, it was definitely a mirror. Not a painting, not a photograph. Not a simple piece of framed glass. It was a mirror, quite an old one, with small areas where the silvering had worn away and it looked black. This was an old mirror and that was my reflection in there. But the background behind me had changed again. The Tiffany lamp, staircase and picture on the wall had disappeared. Now there was a huge window behind me, showcasing a gorgeous sunny meadow with millions of wildflowers and long grass waving softly in a breeze.

The sharp intake of my breath as I noticed the change in the background behind my reflection was the only sound in the shop. I was, as usual on a Tuesday afternoon, the only shopper. And as usual, the owner of the shop – a short smiling old man who never really talked to me but trusted me not to steal anything – was in his little office behind the check-out counter, doing antique shop owner office stuff. I decided to buy something. Not the tailless mouse, but this mirror. I had to have this mirror.

I hate mirrors. In my house, the only mirror allowed to live with me is the one in the bathroom above the sink. And I only ever glance at it to make sure there’s no food stuck in my teeth or that my hair isn’t all wonky and weird looking. I don’t wear makeup so there’s no need to make funny mascara application faces or ensure my eyeliner isn’t wandering off on a trail of its own, away from my eyes. No need to check if a pink blush matches my skin tone. If I don’t use makeup, it’s less likely that I will need to look in a mirror. It’s also less likely people will look at me. So, there’s no need for another mirror in my house. But I can already picture the exact spot for this mirror. Hung at eye level on the staircase wall. I would take down the small painting of wildflowers and grasses hanging there now and replace it with this mirror.

I took the mirror over to the check-out counter and after I paid the ten dollars shown on the yellowed sticker on the back of it, the smiling shop owner wrapped it in several sheets of newspaper before putting it into a large plastic bag and handing it to me.

“Enjoy that,” he said softly as he turned away to go back into his office. He never spoke to me, except to say thank you after I paid him for a purchase. What did he mean by “enjoy that,” I wondered. Oh well, whatever.

The subway car was more crowded than usual and it was hard to keep the bag with the mirror close to me and safe. It felt like the train was lurching around every curve, and the conductor was slamming on the brakes as we arrived at each stop. It felt like the bag with the mirror was trying its best to get away from me at every turn and screeching stop. But I held onto it. I could have gotten off the subway before my stop and walked the remaining blocks to my house to avoid any more lurching and screeching, but I wanted to get home as soon as possible. It felt urgent that I hang this mirror up in my house soon.

A tall, thin man wearing a black leather coat got off at my stop and followed too closely behind me as I walked up the stairs to the sidewalk. The mirror was starting to feel very heavy, and I found it was misting rain as soon as I reached the sidewalk. The man tapped my shoulder before I could step out from under the roof of the subway entryway.

“Excuse me, miss,” he said, in an accent that sounded German. I stopped reluctantly and looked at him. Blond hair tied back in a short ponytail, green eyes, a short and neatly trimmed beard. Beautiful straight white teeth as he smiled at me.

“Ehm, I hate to bother you, especially in the rain, but I am sort of lost.” He smiled again and tilted his head, as if to gauge whether I would be patient and help him, or turn and take off, ignoring him.

I decided to smile back and replied, “It’s fine. Wo wollen Sie hingehen?” I usually completely avoided interrupting people in their conversations if I heard them speaking a language I spoke because I am too shy. I would actually love the opportunity to meet people who are here from other countries if I speak their language because I love to and really need to practice remain fluent. Also, it can be a way to engage more with the world, as Jen always tells me. “You need to engage more with the world,” she says, smiling at me, already certain I will never willingly speak to strangers.

Mr. Black Coat’s eyes opened wide in surprise and his smile spread wider. “Oh, Sie sprechen deutsch? Toll!” He stopped speaking, as if it was too surprising that an American woman would be fluent in German. But then he continued.

“Ach, ja, ich wollte die Moma besuchen, aber ich finde sie nicht. Es steht hier im GPS dass sie nur ein paar blocks weg ist, aber—.“ He stopped speaking and showed me his smartphone, where a map of the city displayed the corner we were on but with no little red upside-down teardrop to show where the Moma was. I decided to switch to English because it’s easier to give directions for things in New York if most of the words will be in English anyway.

“Ja, jetzt auf englisch… The Moma is not that far from here. You just have to go straight up this street for a couple of blocks, turn right at the second light, then… But wait, I am going in that direction anyway. I can walk with you and get you most of the way.”

“Oh ja, dass wäre super!“ he replied. He then opened a huge black umbrella that covered us both. After a few steps, he realized it wasn’t raining very hard, so he folded the umbrella back up and silently took my now very heavy bag with the mirror to carry it for me. I smiled nervously up at him, but he was too busy holding the bag up to his chest and trying to avoid running into people on the crowded sidewalk. After a couple of blocks of swerving through the crowds, we arrived at the right turn to get to the Moma. I stopped under a storefront near the corner.

“Okay, Sie müssen nur ein halb-block weiter gehen – dahin.“ I pointed to the right and he took a look at the map on his smartphone, which now showed the telltale red upside-down teardrop with “MOMA” next to it.

“Toll, vielen Dank. Hier, ich gebe Ihnen Ihr Packet wieder.“ He handed me the bag with the mirror and then continued speaking, this time in English, as if he wanted to be sure I understood.

“Yes, ehm, I was wondering if maybe you might like to join me for a dinner or a drink sometime?" He smiled nervously and bit his lip, once again tilting his head as if to determine if he might be stepping outside the boundaries of propriety.

“Well, yes, I would like to,” I said and then felt myself starting to blush. I never say yes to guys who ask me out. I don’t want to go out. With anyone. Well, sometimes with Jen but I’ve been friends with her for over ten years. She knows everything about me, including why I never say yes to guys… But this guy. I love Germans, especially tall, blond German men. This guy reminds me of Dieter a little. Mr. Black Coat is taller and thinner, and he has green eyes instead of blue. But they both have naturally blond hair and… Wait. Did I just say I would like to see this guy again? Why? I never say yes… But his smile had gotten bigger, and he put my bag down on the ground between us for a second to give me a hug. A hug?! Why? I never let anyone hug me. But I found myself lifting my arms to put them on his shoulders as he hugged me lightly around the waist and continued smiling down at me. How did I know he was smiling down at me? Because my face was turned up and smiling up at him. Will wonders never cease?

“Toll, super!” he said and then continued, “Ehm, my name is Lukas and I am living in a sublet – is that the correct word? Well, I am temporarily renting an apartment for the summer in Brooklyn. So. I can come to get you any evening – shall we say this Friday at sieben Uhr?”

I smiled at his slip into German for “seven o’clock” and nodded.

“Yes, that will be fine. My cell number is…” I gave him my number and then saved his number in my phone after he texted me. I didn’t yet tell him where I lived, that my house was actually not very far from where we were at that moment, because I could still back out of this date by simply texting him an “I’m sorry” note.

“So, okay, ja, so then I go now to the Moma to get lost…but this time on purpose. I want to get lost there!” His smile turned slightly crooked and there was that tilt of his head again. I smiled back and replied, “Yes, it’s so fun to get lost in art. I hope you have a good time and so…um…well, goodbye!”

I picked up the bag with my mirror and turned left to walk the couple of blocks home. I didn’t look back to see if Lukas was following me. I hoped not. I hoped so. I didn’t know what I hoped. But the mirror was heavy and it was starting to rain harder. I needed to get home, unpack the mirror, take down the meadow painting, hang the mirror in its place, and see what I could see.

It started pouring rain as soon as I turned down my block, but luckily I only had to go halfway down it. It seemed to take forever to get my key into the front door lock, holding the bag with the mirror awkwardly in my left hand, and fumbling with the wet key in my right. Finally, the key turned, the door opened, and I stumbled in, almost dropping the mirror. I put it down to lean against the wall next to the cabinet in the front hallway and took off my wet shoes and socks. My jacket was soaked through, as was my blouse. So much rain in just a few blocks! I went upstairs to get a towel to dry my hair and to change my clothes. I found myself hurrying, impatient. It felt like the mirror wanted to be unwrapped and hung up. What?! Why was I thinking weird thoughts like that?

I hurried back downstairs with my hair wrapped in the towel and a dry blouse and jeans on. I unpacked the mirror and looked in it for a second. Yep, the tiny shock of someone I know, then the acknowledgment that it must be me. Right? Okay, no time to spare. I needed to get it on the wall to look into it properly. I took the meadow painting down and set it on the small table behind me. I looked at the nail that the painting had been hanging from and decided it would be strong and stable enough to hold the mirror. But there was no hook or anything on the back of the mirror or its frame to hang it on the nail. So, I removed the tacks and wire from the back of the meadow painting, and then stuck the tacks into the back of the mirror frame, with the wire hanging tautly between them. Then finally, finally, I was able to hang the mirror where it belonged. On the wall of my staircase. But I had no Tiffany floor lamp to put next to it. I did have a floor lamp in the living room, with a plain beige shade. Not a Tiffany with stained-glass pieces for the light to shine through, but it would allow me to see into the mirror and that was enough.

I carried the floor lamp from the living room, plugged it into the socket in the wall of the staircase and turned it on. Finally. Finally, I was able to look into the mirror again. I removed the towel and shook out my hair. This time, instead of the tiny shock of recognition of the face in the mirror, I felt a huge shock. The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. It wasn’t me. Not even close. Okay, yes, there was the same face – my face – looking back at me. But almost everything about it was slightly different from the real me. This face was rounder, not as thin; the skin color was lighter, not olive-toned; the nose had no bump and was a bit wider; and the eyes, well, the eyes weren’t even blue anymore. They were hazel. Not green, not blue, not brown, not black. Hazel. These were not my eyes. But it was me in that mirror. Every bit of my personality was shining back at me from that mirror – just not in the right shapes, shades and colors. I looked to the right and left of the reflection of the person in the mirror and felt another huge jolt. That was not the wall of the front hallway of my house behind me. That was not the small table behind me that I had put the meadow painting on.

Instead, the mirror showed a gigantic picture window, with a beautiful meadow full of wildflowers and long grass, with a gentle breeze blowing. It looked like the meadow in my small painting, but it wasn’t a painting. It was a window. I turned my head slowly, hoping and not hoping I would simply see the wall in my house with the small table and the meadow painting lying on it. Instead, I saw a huge picture window, with the wildflower and grasses outside of it. I turned around completely and stepped over to what should be the wall but was a window. I put out my hand to touch the window and at that moment, the doorbell rang.

I screamed a little and jumped. I found myself saying, “Coming – I’ll be right there,” before stopping to look in the mirror again. There I was. There was me. The real me. And behind the real me was once again the wall of the front hallway in my house, with the small table and the meadow painting lying on it. I hurried to the front door and peered through the peephole to see who it was. A tall man, too tall for me to see his face. But he was wearing a wet black leather coat, and I could see the bottom of a blond beard. I opened the door slowly but didn’t remove the chain lock.

“Ehm, hallo nochmal,” said Lukas. He was trying to smile but he was so wet and miserable-looking that the smile dropped after a second or two. “I am so sorry, but the Moma was closed today.” Oh yeah, it’s not open on Tuesdays. A dumb day to not be open. Why not Mondays? But no matter. The real question was what in the world was Lukas doing at my house? How did he find out where I live?

“Oh, yeah, I should have remembered it’s closed on Tuesdays. I’m sorry, but—” He interrupted me, with a sheepish look on his face.

“Yes, no matter. I will go another day. But you are wondering how I know where you live?” The sheepish look disappeared from his face and was replaced by a smile, though a rather tiny one.

“Well, yeah, um, how do you know where I live? Did you follow me here?” I asked. There was no chance a smile was going to appear on my face. What the fuck was going on?

“No, no, no. Oh please don’t think that. I can see how…but I really did go to the Moma and I did not follow you here. I am sorry. I should have explained immediately.” Lukas smiled that tiny smile again and tilted his head. A questioning look appeared in his eyes, and he continued speaking.

“You see, your friend Jen told me to visit you if ever I was in Manhattan, and she is the one who gave me your address. She said I could probably find you at the “Antiquités, etc.” shop on Tuesday afternoons, so I have been going there every Tuesday now for the past weeks and finally today you were there.”

What? Jen? She told Lukas where I live and that I go shopping at the antique store on some Tuesdays? Why? Who is this Lukas? How does he know Jen? Why didn’t she tell me? All these questions must have been reflected on my face because Lukas continued speaking, though rather nervously now.

“I am so sorry. I thought Jen told you, but I can see that she didn’t. You see, I met Jen around fifteen years ago when she was studying at the University of Heidelberg during college. We kept in touch once in a while over the years and when I told her I was coming to New York for the summer, she immediately thought of you. Well, she said that you also speak German and—”

Yes, it was true that Jen and I have German fluency in common. In fact, that’s how we met – at a German conversation group meeting shortly after I moved into the house my aunt left me here. She had also left me enough money to not be forced to work in this insane city and I loved redecorating this beautiful house. But back to the subject at hand. Why would Jen not tell me this Lukas guy was going to come looking for me? Well, probably because she knew I would immediately say no and not let her speak any further about the subject. And she would have been right. But now here was Lukas at my door, getting soaked in the still pouring rain.

“Well, um, would you like to come in?” I took the chain out of its hole and opened the door wider.

“Yes, thank you so much.” He stepped through the door and took off his coat, shoes, and socks. “Is it okay to leave these here?” He pointed to the cabinet where my wet stuff was hanging, with my shoes on the shelf, and I nodded yes. I then stepped into the hallway and started to turn left to go into the living room. But I heard him give a sharp intake of breath behind me. I turned around and he was looking into the mirror. I went over to stand next to him to look in and see what I could see.

He was staring at his reflection as if he didn’t recognize it, while I saw that mine was again the strange me-but-not-me woman with the hazel eyes. I looked over at him in the mirror and his features had also changed. His hair was black, and his skin now had an olive tone to it. He still had the beard but it was black with some gray hairs in it. His eyes were no longer green, but hazel, the same color as mine in my reflection in the mirror. We both turned at the same time and looked at each other in reality. No, no changes. We were still us. I gave a small sigh of relief – his eyes were still green – and hoped that my eyes had gone back their usual blue color. He spoke first.

“What is this mirror? Was ist los mit ihm? Warum...Why does it change how we look?” He tilted his head as he spoke, but there was no smile forthcoming.

“I don’t know. I – well, I saw it at the antique shop and I felt like I had to buy it. It, well, it’s weird. It changes me, my reflection. And it changes the background behind me. I don’t know what you saw in the background–”

He interrupted me to say, “Yes, that wall and table behind us here are not there in the mirror. Instead, there is a very large window opening onto a huge – how do you say – Wiese? Meadow, I think? With lots of flowers and grasses. Right? Do you see that also?”

“Yes,” I replied and looked back into the mirror. The huge window and meadow were still there. Lukas looked with me and then we turned to look at each other. The sound of the rain had disappeared and the light in the hallway looked brighter somehow, like there was more light coming from somewhere than just the floor lamp next to us.

I walked over to the front door and opened it. It had stopped raining and the sun was shining brightly. Even though it was around six o’clock and it should have been dusk outside, it was as if we had entered a different day or time. Or both. I turned to look back at Lukas and found him standing close behind me. I took him by the hand to walk back to the mirror.

“Do you want to—?” But I was not sure what I wanted to ask him. He looked down at me and smiled.

“Yes, I do, if you want to—” he said. My hand was still in his as we turned to gaze into the mirror again. We watched as the light in the meadow slowly dissipated and darkened to dusk. We watched as the flowers closed their blossoms and the wind stopped blowing. We looked into each other’s eyes in the mirror – hazel eyes, beautiful hazel eyes – and smiled, as if we knew everything there is to know about each other. And then we stepped into the meadow in the mirror world.