Appetite

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. Not in my current state. Not in my current room. My fingers reached for my dry translucent skin but watched them find a sun-kissed freckle-splattered face framed by long auburn hair. Emerald eyes gleamed back at me and no longer clung to hope; they glistened with triumph. Surrounded by a range of trees in an empty forest, my reflection reminded me to look forward to the future.

"What do you think?"

"It’s really great, Stacie, thanks,” I said and turned to face my foster mom. Since my diagnosis, she’d gone out of her way to ensure I knew she wouldn’t have me rehomed. But, even still, somewhere along my deterioration, I’d forgotten the confidence I used to radiate, what I strived to return to.

“You’re welcome,” she smiled. Then, with one foot out the door, she continued, “this is why you never pass up a yard sale. You never know what you might find.” She paused long enough to welcome a response but closed the silence to prevent awkwardness, “dinner will be ready in a half hour. Do you want to help me finish it?”

“I’m not sure I’m up for it right now. I might take a nap.”

“Okay, see you at dinner,” Stacie flicked off my light and closed the door.

I pulled away from my reflection and laid back on the bed. Fingers intertwined behind my head, I stared at the now empty forest. My eyes dried out over and over. Then, in the depth of the forest, a single branch began to sway, followed by another. The wave sped up in the direction of the frame. I squeezed my eyes shut to reset my sight and end the delusion. A breeze tickled my ear, and caused a chill to reach the base of my spine at the same time my eyes flew open. I shook it away and regained warmth beneath my blanket. The jolt of energy ended like a sugar crash, and I was out.

Twenty minutes later, Stacie rapped on my door, “do you think you’re going to make it out, Clare?” She opened the door a crack and peeked in.

“I’m starving,” I replied through a yawn, “I’ll be there in a minute.” I hoisted myself into a seated position and rested against the headboard. Stacie nodded in acceptance of the sign that I wouldn’t fall back asleep and closed the door.

I heard her footsteps squeak down the hall toward the kitchen and gathered the energy to swing my legs out of bed. Once upright, I took in the sight of who I used to be again. I reached one hand back to my cheek and the other forward to lay against the smooth, cool glass.

“Clare!” I jumped when Stacie called.

“I’m coming.” I lingered for another moment. I couldn’t break eye contact. Then my reflection winked by itself and applied pressure against my fingertips. I jumped back and struggled to examine my physical hand against the darkened room. I reached the door faster than normal and entered the hallway.

Onions, garlic, tomatoes, and herbs from Stacie’s homemade ratatouille engulfed me. My stomach lurched away any thoughts of the mirror and carried my feet to the table.

“There she is!” Stacie announced.

“Thanks for joining us,” Mr. Jones said as his fork made the first cut through perfect hand-sliced veggies.

I smiled, “looks great, Stacie.”

“Bon appetit,” she kissed her fingers and shook her hand in the air to combine Italian and French culture. Mr. Jones chuckled and shook his head between bites.

A half-hour later, my full belly plastered a smile on my face.

“I can clear the table tonight, Clare,” Mr. Jones said, and he reached for my plate. “You go get some rest if you want.”

“Thanks,” I accepted and got to my feet.

The warmth in my stomach reached the ends of my toes and made each step grow heavier than the last. Finally, I entered my room, pushed off the door to close it, and fell face down onto my twin-sized bed. My eyes closed, and I rolled onto my side to wait for the door latch to catch. A floorboard creaked, and the door got over the last hump with assistance. I peeked through half-closed lids into a pitch-black room, unable to see a shadow under the door. I lost the battle with exhaustion and drifted asleep before footsteps creaked away.

The clock read 2:00 am, and I laid still to mull over why I’d awoken. I sensed darkness throughout the whole house, but a faint patterned hum polluted the normal stillness.

An energy I hadn’t experienced in months surged through me and fueled my curiosity to investigate further. I opened my door and focused my ears on the sound to determine which direction to go. The deeper into the dark hallway I stared, the louder the hum grew—from behind me. I braced the door for support and turned my head as far as possible. I paused before my feet finished the 180 and left me staring back into the darkness of my room. With a skeptical glance back over my shoulder, I tried to put the sound anywhere else in the house. Unnerved, I flicked on the light and took a few staggered steps. I felt around until I was beside my bed, and my eyes were adjusted.

I locked eyes with my freckled self and confirmed where the hum originated. I bridged the distance between us, and my mirrored past reflection mimicked every move. We scanned the edge of the frame together. I looked for a gap in the construction to explain away the noise. Instead, it continued to rise and drop in a self-developed tempo. I backed away and looked to the mirror’s center to capture the full image. But my former face was already there. I fell to the ground with a frightful gasp, and my reflection disappeared.

I scampered to my bed, pulled the covers up to my chin, and watched the next 15 minutes roll by. By 3:17, my eyes were closed, and without another thought, I drifted off.

“Where did you say the mirror came from?” I asked Stacie the next morning in between bites of scrambled eggs. She poured her coffee into a thermos and looked for her keys to leave for work.

“Yard sale I spotted on my way home from that meeting in Atlanta,” she responded without suspicion.

Reminded of how hard she worked to provide for me, I decided it was best to keep my paranoia about the gift to myself.

“Are you going to school today?” she asked while she screwed on the lid and took a sip.

“You know what, I think so.” I welcomed the idea even though we knew the nurse would call her by lunch. “I’ll catch the bus,” I reassured her as she checked her watch.

“Are you sure?”

I nodded. Stacie squeezed my shoulder and kissed my head on her way to the door.

“Call me if you need anything. Have a great day.” The screen door landed with a soft slam.

“Might as well get a move on,” I said out loud. So, I put my plate in the sink and trekked off to get changed.

I stood naked in front of the mirror and became aware of what else had changed since the disease took over. It was nice to see my old athletic build again. I watched my muscles painfully respond with each flex. The trees swayed and blew, and I reached out to recreate the sensation I’d experienced the day earlier. I didn’t remember to blink until I hallucinated a hiccup in mirrored movements. My freckled face just smiled and looked back at me.

My door flew open and slammed into the wall. I jumped. I hadn’t heard Stacie's approach but could tell with her quick breaths that she’d arrived in a hurry. We both stared at each other. Then realizing I was still naked, I dove for a blanket.

“I thought you were going to school?” she questioned.

“I have to get changed first,” I heard the harsh attitude in my voice and saw her confusion.

“Clare. It’s one in the afternoon. I got concerned when I didn’t get a call from the nurse. So I called the school, and they said you didn’t show up today.” She stared at me and waited for an answer. When I didn’t give her one, she glanced back and forth between me and the mirror taking in my entire room for the first time. “What happened here?” Stacie scrunched her nose.

“Wh…,” I rubbed my eyes and tried to understand what she was saying. “I…” I could feel the warm drip running down my arm and stiffness from where the trail had dried over on my leg.

Stacie whipped off my blanket, disregarding my privacy.

“Clare!”

“I swear, I have no idea..” I looked down and found rivers of red running from the muscles I’d been idolizing minutes, or hours, before.

“What have you been doing all day?”

“I must have dozed off after breakfast without realizing,” my hand pushed on my head, and I tried to put together a logical response, “and then woke up and just started getting ready, unknowing I’d been out for hours.”

Stacie looked terrified. There were too many holes in my fictional story. Even I didn’t believe it.

“And the cuts?” she said with hesitation.

She had me there, I had no good explanation, and she watched my every move confirming it. Her fury tenderized, and she left to grab a towel. When she returned, she sat me down on the bed and began tending to my wounds.

“I really don’t know,” was all I could say when she finished.

“I’m going to work from home the rest of the day. I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.” She kissed me on the head and began to leave. “Get some rest.”

Nights passed in hums with the room lit up, followed by days behind my closed door. Envy grew with every minute I took in the physique I starved to have again someday.

“We need to do something,” I heard Stacie whisper to her husband one night as I went to join them for dinner. “She hasn’t been to school in almost two weeks. She used to try, at least. And dinner, when was the last time you knew her to miss this many dinners in a row?”

I cleared my throat to announce my presence and stepped into the room. Silence engulfed all of us for a moment.

“Hey!” Mr. Jones broke first. “Thanks for joining us,” he added with a playful wink. We locked eyes. He looked for confirmation that he was right and that Stacie was overreacting. But, instead, his wishful glare turned painful, and he squeezed Stacie’s hand to concede.

“Clare,” Stacie jumped up and hurried to pull out my chair across from her. Even after my prolonged absence, they had still set a third plate. “I made your favorite. Stuffed meatloaf.”

“Thanks,” I forced as much excitement into one word as possible. “How were your days?” I asked to prompt a change in conversation.

“Mine was good!” Stacie exclaimed and looked at her husband.

“Yeah, mine was good too. So what did you do today, Clare?” He added.

Between the silence and their stares, I knew we’d gone full circle. But my stomach protested when I considered retiring back to bed without eating.

“Not much,” I looked for a lie. “Tried to do some schoolwork, slept, you know.”

Mr. Jones nodded, happy to accept the deceit. But Stacie refused, “I’ve made you a doctor’s appointment for tomorrow morning.” She glared and waited for my response.

“What, why? I’m not supposed to go back for another month.”

“You’ve lost more weight in the past week than I am comfortable with. I should have scheduled you something after the incident the other week.”

“No, I haven’t,” I interrupted her. “I told you, I don’t remember what happened that day. I’m fine.”

“When was the last time you looked in a mirror other than the one in your room?”

I looked down at my hand and tried to imagine the reflection I’d see. Stacie took my silence as an answer.

“Right. Tomorrow. 8:30 am. I’ll drive you.”

And with that, they spent the remainder of dinner in silence except for the clank of silverware against ceramic.

“Well, Clare, your tests have come back unchanged,” Dr. Loke gestured to my full body, “it’s obvious something is going on, though. Any more thoughts of suicide?” He began feverishly scribbling on my chart.

“No, I just want to beat this and be healthy again,” I mumbled.

“So much so she won’t stop staring in the mirror.” Stacie chimed in.

“Okay?” Dr. Loke probed for an answer.

“It’s a different type of mirror,” Stacie continued, “I found it at a yard sale. Standing in front of it, you find yourself amongst all these beautiful tall trees. And your reflection is pristine. I thought it would help her remember who she used to be and work to get back there. But, instead, she’s become all-consuming, and she’s deteriorating faster.”

“I think you know the solution, Stacie,” Dr. Loke responded.

“I do. I just needed to make sure nothing medically was going wrong,” she sighed.

Dr. Loke nodded and headed toward the door ”of course,” he paused, “take care of yourself, Clare.”

“Yes, sir,” I whispered and got to my feet to follow them out of the room.

I glanced in the mirror above the doctor’s sink. I shuttered at the contrast to what I’d seen at home. My face alone looked to have lost five pounds. There were bags around my eyes which I felt grateful for since they added color to my face. Even my hair looked dull and thin compared to what it used to be.

I could see why Stacie panicked and brought me in.

When we got home, Stacie dismounted and removed the mirror before anything else. I crawled into my bed, and she leaned around the door to say, “this is for your own good.”

I wasn’t ready to concede, but I gave her a nod and pulled the covers over my face. The weight of the morning washed over me, forced my eyes closed, and I melted between my mattress and comforter.

I awoke with my ears first, followed by my eyes. Between the food Stacie left on the bedside table, and the minimal sunlight on the blinds, I figured I’d slept most of my day away.

There was an emptiness I’d never felt, and it twinged in my heart when I stared at the vacant space on my wall. My shaky hand pushed on the bed to brace myself and get to my feet. I was weaker than I’d ever been. I fell backward and surrendered. Propped against the headboard, I ate the sandwich provided for me.

With each bite, I felt nutrients enter my system and fly off in the directions that screamed to get fed. I spun between weightless and heavy in a dizzy rotation. Finally, I disintegrated the last bite between my teeth and found myself back in a horizontal position, ready for another bout of rest.

The hum started loud. I shook awake and looked at the wall, but the mirror was still not there. My clock read 2:15 am when I staggered to my feet and stumbled to the door. I threw it open to meet Stacie and her husband in the hallway, but there was no one. So, I covered my ears and headed down the hall. Halfway to the living room, the hum caused such a vibration that I lost my balance and fell into the wall.

I looked up to find myself beneath the attic. The mirror called for me and gave me the strength to reach up and pull the single braided rope. There was little resistance, and the board began to open. The metal ladder slid out fast, caught resistance halfway down, and slowed to a soft stop on the floor.

Even before my diagnosis, I didn’t go into the attic. The spiderwebs, loose boards, and lack of light had always creeped me out. The hum pulled me to the right at the top of the steps and softened the closer I got. After several wide paces, I sat cross-legged on the floor, one hand on the mirror and the other on my physical face.

My fingers tapped the glass in unison with my healthy reflection—thumb, pointer, middle, ring, pinky, and back. Over and over. My freckled face smiled back at me. I glanced around the glass and noticed a new tree growing among the old ones swaying in the wind. My reflection winked.

“Clare!” Stacie’s sudden shrill caused me to jump and throw a dusty blanket over the mirror.

“What are you doing?!”

“I...”

She reached for my upper arm and pulled me to my feet.

“Ouch!”

She maintained her hold and led me back to the mouth of the attic. By her force, I descend the stairs first. Four rungs down, I turned to look in the direction of the mirror one last time.

“Go!” Stacie demanded.

I lowered my foot to the next rung but missed. My weak arms were defenseless against gravity. They lost grip, and I landed with a thud. I collapsed at the bottom of the steps and screamed while pain spread up my leg into my stomach and caused me to vomit.

“Paul!” I heard Stacie call her husband. “Get the keys.” She jumped the final few steps and landed with a soft thud near my head. My eyes remained shut, and she checked for a pulse.

With a set of hands on either side of me, Mr. Jones said, “Three, two, one...” a rush of wind threw off any stabilization I had left, and I plummeted even deeper into darkness until I heard silence.

It could have been five minutes, five hours, or five days. My ability to determine how much time had passed became lost among nearby beeps. I flickered my eyes and waited for them to adjust to the hospital room's fluorescent lights. Stacie came into view, cuddled up in the chair beside me; she watched the news, unaware I was awake.

“Hey,” I tried to say.

Stacie looked in my direction.

“Good morning!” She said. She scootched the chair over and began to rub my hand. “How are you feeling?”

I licked my mouth to lather the words but was stopped by sandpaper lips.

“Hold on,” she reached for a glass, “sip this.”

“Thanks,” I got out after a long drag on the straw. “How long have I been here?”

Stacie sat back, “a day.” She refused to break eye contact with me, “why would you go up there?”

I thought back to what led me up there, in the middle of the night, in my condition. There was no good answer. They hadn’t heard the hum. I started to wonder if it was a hallucination.

“They want to run a few more tests,” Stacie interrupted my thought process. “But then we should be good to go home. They think you’ll be in a cast for at least six weeks. The bruise shouldn’t take as long, though.”

At the news, I tried to wiggle my toes on both feet. The left moved just fine, but on the right, there was a twinge of pain in the effort. I rolled my head to the side and caught the perfect handprint wrapped around my right upper arm where she’d grabbed me.

We looked at the bruise and then at each other without a word. Stacie hadn’t meant to do it. I knew that.

A few hours later, I hobbled to the car with the assistance of Stacie and my new pair of crutches.

“Are you hungry?” Stacie asked while she held the door to the house for me to limp through.

“A little. Could I eat in my room, though?”

“Sure, I’ll bring it down in a minute.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I paused at my doorway and squeezed under my armpits, where the crutches had already started to rub raw. I leaned against the door but met resistance. I repositioned my crutch and added additional pressure until the door flew open. My crutch swung ahead and caught me just in time to not land on the floor.

My light was already on, and I called for Stacie. She ran into the room and came to a halt with a gasp behind me. We both stood silent and stared at the returned mirror on my wall.

“Why would you do this?” I asked her.

“Believe me, I didn’t,” she stepped around me to examine it closer. The glass was held by more than the frame now. Aligned with the trees in the forest, roots protruded out of the bottom.

“Maybe you should sleep in the living room for now,” Stacie suggested, “we can get rid of this all together tomorrow.”

“No, I’ll be fine,” I said to my own surprise. “Leave the light on for now, though, please.”

Stacie nodded and also left the door ajar. She returned to the kitchen to finish my dinner, and I sat on the bed and stared back at my healthy reflection. She smiled and waved at me. She looked proud of herself for finding a way to stay in the room. Then silently, she requested my hand against the glass, to which I said out loud, “no.”

I laid back, unscrewed the cap of my prescription, and shook one pill out. I took a sip of water, swallowed it, and closed my eyes.

Stacie screamed. I sat up drowsy and hit my head on something hard. She dropped the plate, and what I could see of my room came into focus. I peered through gaps in the roots, noting that they intertwined around me like a cocoon. Stacie wasn’t alone. My healthy reflection stood there, solid as myself, in the middle of the room.

The scream distracted her, but she continued to hold the roots like reins. She smiled at Stacie and jumped back through the glass without a word. Her grasp on the roots forced them to tighten around me. I flung into the air like a toy in a sack. Stacie screamed for her husband, who wasn’t home, and dove for the roots. She managed to hold on and also get dragged into the forest's depths.

A year later, Mr. Jones stood in the front yard and looked at the house he used to call home. The cops gave up on him as a suspect; the case went cold. No one had seen Stacie or Clare since they’d left the hospital after the accident. Once the cops cleared his name, he knew he needed to move.

Mr. Jones hammered a Free to A Good Home sign below his updated Missing Person poster for his wife and foster daughter. Then with one last long gaze, he closed the trunk of his car and got into the driver’s seat. Heading down the road, he stole another glance in the rearview mirror. All the possessions that couldn’t fit in his vehicle sat out on the lawn for pickers.

Clare’s mirror leaned against the kitchen table, and even at this distance, Mr. Jones could see the forest that had stolen Clare’s time. A glare reflected off the smooth surface in his direction and forced his eyes back on the road in front of him. Mr. Jones gripped the steering wheel, applied pressure to the gas pedal, and kept driving until no one knew his name.