Sisters Seeing Glass

"She wears short skirts, I wear t-shirts, she's cheer captain and I'm on the bleachers!"

I fumbled in the dark for my phone to turn off the stupid song that marked the rock bottom of my youth's pop culture. With my parents gone to Guatemala to 'infuse themselves with culture,' it was up to me to wake myself so I wouldn't miss any shifts at work.

I hummed the annoying tune to myself as I grabbed my duck-printed towel from the hall closet. It was an embarrassing gift from my tenth birthday party and I didn't have the heart to tell my mom that I wanted to chuck it. I turned on the shower and pulled off my silk nightie. Ugh. Cheetos stains, the smell of week-old sweat and a new hole near my belly-button—it really needed a wash. I yawned, turning towards the mirror as I let the shower heat up. That's when I saw it—saw her.

Yelping, I wrapped my towel around me, twisting around the room in fear. I was alone. I must've been imagining things—the rest of the room was reflected normally, but instead of seeing my own green eyes and acne covered skin, I saw brown eyes and pale, clear skin. She looked equally as frightened as I, around my age and height. She also had a towel wrapped around her.

She ran from the room noiselessly.

I tore through my house, but I couldn't find her. When I returned to the bathroom, so had my reflection. Blaming myself for going to bed at three a.m., I locked the door and showered.

At work, my manager at the clothing store yelled at me for zoning out, but he was always a prick. Other than the morning incident, my day was pretty ordinary. I considered telling my parents about the girl, but dismissed that idea almost immediately. I could have been hallucinating, and the last thing I wanted to do was make my parents worry about me during their trip. They needed a break from the grief that Cathy's return to the hospital had caused.

The next day, I completely avoided the shower. I was lucky enough to have my summer break completely free, save three work days a week. Ugh. I hated retail. I spent most of my free time researching universities to attend, opening up a Word document, staring at it for ten minutes, then closing it again. Anxiety pitted itself in my stomach, reminding me that though my marks were high, I played no sports, did no extracurricular activities, and wasn't involved in any of my school's clubs or teams. I had been too depressed to do much lately. No scholarships were given to someone like me.

I grabbed my worn runners from the hall closet, locked up, and went for a walk through Dale's Park. It was a little muddy from having rained the night before, with ducks paddling in small puddles and children splashing about in boots.

I smiled to myself, looking forward to when I would be a mother. It was rewarding to see a child's adorable grin after being praised for doing something clever. Little kids' innocent nature often made their simple statements even more humourous. Besides that brat on the swings—Miles. He was known for being a bully to kids and a terror to adults. Maybe today wasn't the best day to come to the park.

"Squish-Squash!" he yelled gleefully upon seeing me. He jumped off the swing and ran over.

I groaned internally. He had given me that nickname while I was baby-sitting him. I was now more careful about showing what got on my nerves. "Yes, Miles?" I said with as much pleasantness as I could muster.

"Do you like pie?" He smiled wickedly.

I frowned. "What kind of pie?"

"Mud pie!" Miles lobbed a gob of goo at me, then ran away, cackling.

I swiped the cold mud from my face, too tired to chase after him. Besides, his mother had already grabbed him by the wrist with a vice-like grip, her French manicure cutting into his freckled skin. His bones seemed to rattle as she shook and scolded him. He dropped the mud from his hand and cowered beneath his mother's angry words.

She pointed at his untied laces that were caked with muck, then pulled him by his red shirtsleeve, pinching his arm. He turned his face away, cheeks flushed with humiliation. Or was it fear?

I scowled, kicking at the pebbles lodged in the dirt. I didn't live in a very beautiful town. Tied sneakers hung from telephone lines, broken condoms inhabited parking lots and beer can tabs cut bare feet. But I didn't leave my house to take pictures. I needed air.

The sun began to settle inside the treetops, and by the time I found the house keys in the dirt of our dying geranium, our streetlights had flickered on.

"Hello?" I called to the empty house, stepping inside. No reply. Good. I reached up to scratch my nose, my fingers brushing over my muddied cheek. I turned on the bathroom sink and ran hot water under my hands. Glancing up to wipe off the mud, I found myself nose to nose with the girl.

She leapt backwards, stumbling down to the floor. I blinked, stepping away from the mirror. I kept my eyes on her and she stared back, wearing an elegant dress and a perturbed expression. Feeling curious, I waved to her.

She was still for a few moments, then waved back. She got up cautiously, keeping her eyes on mine. The hot water had started to steam up the bathroom and the mirror had gotten foggy, blurring her details. A moment passed, and she drew her finger down the length of the mirror. She was drawing—no, writing—symbols that I couldn't quite recognize. They weren't English... it looked like Russian. Really? A language barrier?

Taking my chances, I wrote back, 'Hi,' then realized that she saw the reverse of my word. Carefully, I traced the letters backwards, then added, 'I'm Faith.'

'Parlez vous Français?' she wrote back, crossing out what she had written in Russian.

I nodded exuberantly. 'Je vis à Calgary, Alberta.' The writing process was slow, and the water was beginning to drip down my hand. 'Un moment, SVP.' I turned off the taps and raced into my room. I overturned my calculus textbook in my search for a pen, wondering why I was so desperate to speak to this supernatural figment of my imagination. Because she had to be, right? Maybe some of Cathy's LSD had slipped into my system. Or my parents' departure had rendered me into a zombie of my own loneliness, causing me to revert to my six-year old habit of talking to imaginary people. 

My fingers grasped a felt-tipped pen and I snatched the nearest piece of paper—a three year old bank receipt. For now, I would keep living in this dreamland, because it was a welcome distraction from my reality. 

By the time I had returned, the girl had written her name, 'Vera Orlova,' and that she lived just south of Moscow. I considered what to write, settling on asking if she knew what was going on.  I held up the receipt. She immediately shook her head, frowning. 

She used the last foot of mirror to ask if a recent change had happened in my life. I considered, then explained my parents' departure. She laughed—or at least, she seemed to, her soundless figure smiling, eyes closed. She left the bathroom and returned with a large journal, clean stitching binding the ragged pages together, grasping a gold fountain pen in the other hand. The journal looked old, but purposefully so, like the thirty dollar ones that you could pick up at the book store, before putting back and buying the cheap one you could actually afford.

Vera flipped through the pages, past neat Russian writing onto a clean, black-lined page. She spelt out in practiced cursive that her situation was the exact opposite, and that this week all of her grandparents, cousins, and in-laws had come to visit her. 

She swept her dark hair over the back of her shoulders and yawned. It occurred to me that it would be much later at night where she lived. I asked her why she was awake so late and she shrugged.

'A family dinner,' she responded in clearly written French, 'I went to a party afterwards and was just getting ready for bed. Hopefully I don't wake my parents up. They're a bit stricter than some.'

We exchanged some details about our evening. I felt sheepish that she had had a fun night with her friends drinking and dancing, while I had traipsed through litter infested streets. She wished me goodnight, and motioned towards my face, indicating that I had still had dirt on it. 

When I finished washing up, she had gone and my imperfect complexion returned. I fell onto my bed, resting my head in the crevice of my pillow. My heart was beating rapidly and nerves coursed through my body. Was she truly as calm as she seemed? I felt as though I had had a very odd video call. My mind sifted through the possibilities, and I decided that I would tell Cathy about it when I visited her the next day. 

I was decidedly depressed after seeing Cathy's condition, and my mind kept replaying her broken smile as I drove home. I heated some leftover beef pho soup, hoping that the steam would clear my stuffy nose. While I was blowing my nose with toilet paper, Vera waved from the other side of the glass. I turned my head away, but she had already written something on her notepad.

'Ça va?' I smiled slightly to tell her that I was fine, but she wasn't having any of that. She scribbled furiously, giving me time to compose myself. Vera demanded to know what was wrong.

'It's nothing,' I wrote in French, 'I just saw a sad movie. Bambi? Do you watch Disney?'

She wouldn't let me change the subject, and continued berating me with questions, filling her notebook with question marks and finally piercing me with a concerned, yet assertive gaze. I caved. Normally, it would be easier to blubber my feelings away, but writing allowed me to transpose my thoughts clearly, albeit covered with scribbles and crossed-out words. My French slipped here and there, and I worried that she wouldn't understand what I was trying to say.

Minutes passed. Vera's eyes reread my words diligently as I sniffled and wiped my nose. Then she looked up, tilted her head to the side, and pressed both hands to the mirror. Feeling cheesy, I matched my hands to hers. I blushed, but it was comforting. She pressed her forehead to the glass. I followed suit, closing my eyes. We remained in this awkward, cold but comforting embrace for several minutes, until my tears had finally dried and we pulled away. 

The next day, I showered and hovered around my bathroom for the rest of the day, impatient for Vera's return. I sat on the edge of my tub, scrolling through my Twitter feed while I waited. Cathy posted something and my heart jumped—but it was an update from her nurse. I set down my phone and started organizing my drawers, bored. A hair elastic here, an old retainer case there, loose dental floss (yech—probably dad's), my missing paintbrush earring, and a used pantyliner (even more disgusting—hopefully my own). 

I was greeted with a smile and a page that read, 'Je dois faire mon maquillage.' I smiled back, content to watch her apply foundation, blush, mascara, and a smokey eye that made her look about five years older.

'You're going to a party?' I wrote in our shared language.

'Yes, I need to escape my parents. How do I look?'

'Gorgeous. Sexy.'

She smiled and flipped her hair back. 'My girlfriend and I are going out for a couple of drinks and a nice night.'

'Tu as une copaine?' 

She seemed confused. 'Comme chum.'

Oh. Right, friend, amie, amiga. I waved away my disappointment and told her to have a great night. She hesitated. 'What's wrong?' I wrote.

She bit her lip, and her dark red lipstick stained her teeth. 'I look fine, right?'

I frowned and studied her closer. I bent my head to write the affirmative, but did a double take once I noticed the purple bruise blooming at her temple. 'What's that?'

She took a long time writing back, but held a short line to the mirror. 'Sometimes Russians don't like who I am. My parents included.' I felt my tears welling up again. I wanted to take her in my arms, comfort her as she had for me. I wanted her to know that she was loved, and secretly, I wanted to hear the same.  

The next day, I received a call from the hospital, then another from my parents as I drove over. I woke up in the middle of the night, slumped in the hospital room, Cathy's limp hand clasped in my own, my mother stroking my hair and my dad crying quietly in the corner. They drove me back home and the three of us huddled on their bed, passing out from exhaustion. 

A week later, my mom pointed out the lipstick kiss on my mirror. "I can't clean it off," she said, "it's almost like it's behind the glass."

A month later, I was going for a walk, admiring the sleek feathers of the crows, the secret pleasure I took in the smell of manure, and how ticklish the grass felt against my naked toes. Miles was on the slide, and he perked up when he saw, immediately running over and screaming, "Squish-Squash! Squish-Squash!" 

I caught him before he could kick my shins and I hoisted him into the air. He was a small kid, and no matter how much he flailed his fists and feet, he couldn't reach me. "Miles," I said calmly, "do you want a piggyback ride?"

He stopped swinging his limbs and scrunched up his eyes. "Yes!" he screamed. I let him climb onto my back. He laced his pudgy hands around my throat, pulling far tighter than necessary. I ran around with him on my back until I was too tired to continue. "Run, slave, run!" he shrieked, kicking my side.

I pulled him off gently, and turned him to face me. "You're a good kid, Miles. Don't let anyone tell you differently."

He covered his face with his hands in the shy way that little kids did. After a moment, he chirped, "Whatever!" and ran back towards the swings.

I thought about Vera as I walked past the yellow dandelions that infested Mrs. Harper's lawn every Spring, past the chipped white fence that Mr. Thorton kept promising Mrs. Thorton that he would fix. If she was real, would she, too, be waving back to a Ms. Brody as she painted her pet goose, or skip through the hopscotch court that the Lee twins had drawn in lilac chalk? Perhaps, even, she was thinking about her friend on the other side of the mirror. Faith.

There was only one way to find out. When I got home, I opened my web browser and loaded the search engine. My index finger hovered over the keys uncertainly. My eyes travelled to the picture of Cathy on my desk. I took a breath and typed, 'Vera Orlova.'