What do you see when you look in the mirror? A sheet of glass that has captured your likeness perfectly—or imperfectly, depending on its quality. Sometimes you’ll see a smile, shined brightly back at you when you’re getting ready for that third date and you’re starting to think he might be the one. Sometimes you’ll get frustration, or even tears, because they turned down your résumé and you really needed that job.  Sometimes you’ll laugh at something your friend said to you on the phone as you hurry to put the finishing touches on your hair before you run downstairs to head to the football game. And sometimes you’ll get raw, utter anguish as you stare into your own eyes and wonder why you’re alive.

People used to cover mirrors after someone in the house died. They feared that the deceased’s soul would get trapped in the glass and never be able to rest peacefully. But there was something else they feared even more than the prospect of their husbands or daughters or brothers getting trapped in a mirror for eternity—they feared the unexplained guest that would appear during the funeral, the man or woman standing in the corner that no one knew and no one had invited, the person who never spoke or offered condolences to the family. They simply watched.

And so the mirrors were covered.

We aren’t allowed to talk, usually, or interfere in any way. The mirror’s pull is powerful—irresistible, actually. We don’t see our own faces; we see theirs. We see the smiles and the laughs, the tears and the torment. And if we look into their eyes, as we cannot help but do, we find ourselves transported to their world, whether they lived a hundred years ago or gazed at their own reflection on the street five minutes ago.

And sometimes, when it really matters, we are allowed to speak.

***

“John!” I yell as I set the china dishes aside gingerly. The house is littered with boxes, some of the stacks taller than I am, and even though it will take months to get everything in order, I intend to make a sizeable dent tonight.

“What?” he yells back from upstairs. Lord knows what he’s doing up there, probably making sure his guitar survived the trip in the moving truck. That’s the thing about being married to a musician—the instruments are their babies, whether real babies exist or not. But I knew what I was signing up for, and we’re still married two years later, so I guess it’s all good.

“I’m almost finished with this box; I need your knife to open the other one!” I tell him, and a minute later, I hear John tramping down the polished stairs. Carrying the dishes carefully to the kitchen counter, I set them down out of the way and dust my hands off as he comes into the kitchen. John almost trips over the box I need him to open—which is hopelessly secured with rivers of tape—and he catches himself on the island counter before face-planting.

He exclaims, “Sheesh! You can hardly walk for all the boxes! Which one did you want my knife for?”

“That one.” I nod at the box next to his shins. “I have no idea what’s in it. But I just want to check and make sure there’s nothing that goes in the kitchen inside it.”

“Okay.” John gets down on one knee next to the box and starts cutting through the thick layers of tape that secure the box—it looks pretty old, so I’m assuming it was one we had in storage while we lived in the apartment. In fact, it must be his, because I don’t recognize it. Craning my neck as he pulls back the tattered flaps, I try to see what’s inside.

He takes out a few hefty books and then laughs. “Oh, hey, it’s some of my old college stuff!” John says, perking up as he digs through the box’s contents. “Gosh, I haven’t seen this stuff in years …” It’s mostly books he kept, and a few mementoes from the track team, so I redirect my attention to the dishes behind me while he looks through his things.

“Anything from the Europe trip?” I inquire. “I forgot what we bought while we were over there.”

“Mm …” He rifles through the objects in the box for another moment while he seeks an answer to my question. “Doesn’t look like it. That would probably be in a different box, anyway. This is just stuff from the track team and my dorm.” Then John’s voice changes when he adds more quietly, “Oh … I’d forgotten about this.”

That’s when I hear it.

A whisper at first, now growing louder as I stop cold and stand transfixed by the sound—it’s like a hunger deep in my gut, a bottomless chasm of insatiability, the way you feel when you’ve gone without food all day long. Compelled, I turn and stare down at the small mirror John holds in his hands; he studies it for a moment and then puts it aside, but my eyes latch to it and will not turn away.

I have time to say “oh, crap,” and then all I hear is the sound of a shattering china plate as the mirror whisks me away.

***

I’m standing in front of the art gallery, across from the School of Music, and the boulevard separating the two buildings is quiet while the moon hangs high overheard. My head throbs, and I stumble backwards, as though I’ve just stepped onto solid ground after running on a treadmill for an hour. John must have been the last person to look in that mirror, or perhaps his roommate—that’s why I am here at Clear Valley University, though I have no idea what day or year I’ve appeared in.

I know where I am, so my first order of business is figuring out when I am.

The library, which is adjacent to the art gallery, still looks open, so I jog down the sidewalk and head inside. There are only a few people milling around the shelves, so I head to a computer, trying to look as normal as possible, and sit down in front of a desktop computer. After shaking the mouse a few times to wake up the machine, the screen blinks to life and informs me that I have been transported to October 4th, 2013.

In other words, ten years ago.

Well, the only way to get back is to find the mirror that brought me here, so I shut down the computer and leave the library; at this hour, the dorms would probably be my best shot of finding John. Unless he’s at a concert … or a game … or downtown. Sighing, I come to a stop on the sidewalk. He always did talk about how much he loved exploring Morgantown—it’ll be just my luck if he’s out driving around with friends on this Friday night.

Well, he probably would not understand at this point in time, anyway. It’s likely best I just look for the mirror. So I set off for the dorms and pray the mirror is there.

***

I catch the door before it closes as one of the students heads into Kennedy Hall. Looking over my shoulder to make sure no one can see me, I slip inside and try to remember which of the five floors John used to live on. The fourth? No … maybe the third. Or possibly the second. Yes, I think it was the second floor. There are not many people in the lounge area, so there is no one to see the door open and close, and I take the stairs as calmly as possible in case someone happens to pass me. One girl does, and my heart skips a beat, but she does not pay any attention to me.

The door to the second-floor hall is cracked open. A quick glance inside informs me that the hallway is clear; it’s probably too late for many of the residents to be wandering around, anyway. I push the door open carefully so it does not squeak and try to figure out which room is John’s. It does not take me long—the RAs have written the occupants’ names on tags outside their respective doors, and I find John’s name next to the numbers 209. Light shines from the crack under the door, so I hesitate to go inside, but I have to find that mirror if I don’t want to spend the rest of my night here at Clear Valley.

There is one way I can get inside undetected, of course. It will weaken me, but if the mirror is inside, it will not matter. And I should have plenty of energy from the transportation to handle the temporary drain. Shutting my eyes, I whisper a few words into the air but stop suddenly when I hear the sound of my own voice.

That’s not supposed to happen. It shouldn’t, not here. Speaking is only allowed when something must be changed, when a fateful event must be prevented or guided to completion …

I stare at John’s door with new eyes and hastily finish my sentence. Invisible now to everyone but myself, I cautiously ease the door open, so slowly you might think it was being pushed open by a draft. No one comes to shut it immediately, nor do I hear anyone speak. Perhaps the light was left on by accident and no one is home—that would make things much easier on me.

The door creaks suddenly.

“Daniel?” a voice asks.

Crap. I freeze when John pokes his head out of the bathroom; even though it looks like he’s staring right at me, there is no reaction on his face, and he shrugs, going to close the door and then ducking back inside. The bathroom door remains open when he disappears into it again.

But the rattle of what sounds like pills distracts me. Walking over to the bathroom, I stand just outside and watch as John pops open a bottle full of pills and dumps out half of them into his cupped hand. He wets his lips and looks down at them for a long minute; his face is pale, and he shifts back and forth as he examines the white discs in his hand. The mirror hangs on the wall, and John gives his face a long look in it.

Then he starts swallowing the pills, two at a time.

I jolt and grab my phone from my pocket. Dialing his number, I rush back into the hallway and silently urge him to pick up. “C’mon, c’mon …” I whisper. He never told me about this. I can’t believe he never told me about this … and now his life is completely in my hands.

My heart almost stops when the line connects and he says, “Hello?”

“John? Hey! I tried messaging you on Facebook but you didn’t answer,” I reply, trying not to sound like the panicked wife I am. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, um … It’s good, but can I call you back? I’m working on a paper, and it’s due tomorrow. But I’ll get back to you tomorrow, okay?” he says. I resolve to slap him for lying to me when I get back to my own time.

I can speak here, and I will make the most of that ability whether he likes it or not. So I try again: “It won’t take long. Promise. I just … I didn’t see you at graduation, so I just wanted to tell you that I’m really gonna miss you this year. I wish we had more time to hang out over the summer. You’re a really great guy, and, well ... the world needs more people like you. That’s all I wanted to say, so …” I try to laugh. “Have a good night, okay? Good luck on your paper. Bye, John.”

Breathless, I hurry back to the bathroom and watch him lower the phone from his ear. John toys with the phone for a minute, then sets it aside. He looks down at the remaining pills in his hand. I do too, wanting to snatch them and throw them out the window.

Then he crams them back in the bottle and snaps the lid shut.

The mirror begins to whisper to me, and my gaze is drawn to it instinctively. He’s safe now. He’ll live. And it’s time to go home.

***

“Anna! Hey.”

John is leaning over me when I wake up on the kitchen floor, concern swimming in his brown eyes. I blink up at him, momentarily dazed by the return trip, and then I throw my arms around his neck.

He chuckles a little in confusion. “You all right?”
​
“Yeah,” I tell him, hugging him hard. “I am now.”

*Disclaimer: artwork not mine