The Dickens Mirror (5 page)

He is balanced, in midair, on … nothing.

3

THIS IS NUTS
.
There
has
to be something here. A person can’t be in
nothing
, much less
on
it.
But maybe that’s why it’s so dark
. Nothing
would be that way. Limbo would be like this
.

And he’s just died. Okay, yeah, in a dream … but maybe at the end of your life, that’s what dying’s like.

No, my heart’s beating
. But it wasn’t there five seconds ago; he had to think it into existence, didn’t he?
No, I’m breathing. I’m
thinking.
I feel
. As if seconding this, his heart gives his ribs a good hard kick.
See? Relax
. All he has to do is turn on a light. But … wait a second …

Is there a lamp in this room?

He has no idea. None. Zip. Zilch. But that’s crazy.
What does my room look like?
He knows that he shared it with Matt, before his brother went off to the Marines, but—

Oh God
. He can feel himself trying to cringe away from this train of thought, but he can’t unthink it now. Like
lamp
and
sheets
and
heart
and
room
, the name
Matt
holds no real meaning.
Matt
=
brother
, but that’s all. No image splashes across the movie screen of his mind: no face, no true memories.
Matt
is just a word, and that’s nuts.
Why can’t I remember?
He
knows
he has a dying mother, and a pastor-dad always on him about getting right with God, implying that because he
isn’t
; because he’s one sick, ungrateful, unrepentant son of a bitch, and God punishes the wicked … say no more. Look no further. QED: your mom’s rotting from the inside out, and it’s your
fault
.

Yet he can’t find his parents’ faces in the file cabinet of his memory either. In fact, he can’t find … 
oh
. He feels his heart curl on itself.
No. No, that’s not right; that’s just …
But he’s had the thought now, and it won’t be denied.

He can’t find the face of a mom or dad or brother—any more than he can his own.

4

THIS CAN’T BE
right.

Of course I’ve got a face. I’m breathing; I
hear
my breath. I’m … I’m …

Oh. Oh shit. What
I? Who
am
I?
He can’t stop shaking.
What’s my name?

Nothing happens in his head. Because he. Doesn’t.
Know
.

Stop
, stop.
Calm down. Stop trying so hard, it’ll come to you
. Better to get in a rhythm, like a song:
I am okay. I am fine. I have a brother. His name is Matt. He’s in the Marines.…
As he chants this to himself, he feels his mind tiptoeing to the edge of a big black hole where his memories must swim like koi in an inky pool. All he has to do is net the right memory as it glides by.
And Matt is gone, so this place
 … And it’s a room, it
is
; he just hasn’t found it quite yet.…
It’s my room now, and this room is in a house, and that’s in … iiinnn …
A blank moment as the bottom of his mind drops out, and then the name comes:
Merit
.

That’s right
. He is so relieved he wants to weep.
I live in Merit, Wisconsin, and my address is …
His mind blunders again as if it’s stubbed a toe.
My address is …
He doesn’t know. Because he hasn’t one?

No, I am real
. But then what’s his name? Where does he live? What does he look like? What …

All of a sudden, his hands move. He hasn’t thought it, didn’t plan this, but it doesn’t seem to matter. His hands float toward the space where his face should be … no, where his face is,
is
. He thinks his hands are right in front of his eyes, but he can’t be sure. His eyes, though … 
Please. Please, God, they have to be here. I
feel
them
. I’m
not nothing
.

He’s still in the dream. That’s got to be it. There’s a name for this, too, but it flits away with a silvery snap of its tail before he can capture it. His hands come closer and closer, the fingers wiggling like antennae.
God, they could be tentacles for all I know, just like that thing in the dream … No!
He slams down on that.
Think only of your face … your face …
His fingertips skim … something. Something smooth, smooth as

(ice)

glass, as

(ice)

perfectly unblemished marble.

No lips. He has no mouth. There is a shelf that must be his chin, but nothing else, and no whisper of air on his fingers either. He has no nose. No cheekbones. His palms graze where the hollows of his eyes, his sockets, ought to be, but when he blinks, and he
thinks
he’s blinking, there is no flutter of eyelashes against either palm.

His face is a blank.

5

NO
.
THE SCREAM
he has worked to hold back so long balloons in a mouth and on a tongue that are not there.
No no no! Please, God, help me help me, letmeoutletme
—

All at once, there is some seismic shift within himself, an almost indescribable sensation of something worming to life. From the space where his mouth is not, lips suddenly pillow. The ridge of his nose thrusts into being. His eyes bud like tiny mushrooms: first as nubbins and then as flowering caps. The dead space in his mouth clenches as the moist snail of his tongue curls from the deep cavity that is the shell of his throat, and now he is screaming on a tidal wave of terror blacker even than the nightmare; he is shrieking, the word exploding from his throat:
“NOOO NOOO NOOO—”

Boy in a Box

TONY SUCKS IN
a breath.

Everything has changed. Now he stands, towel around his waist and toothbrush in hand, before a bathroom mirror fogged with condensation because he’s just stepped out of a hot shower. Michael Jackson’s tinny falsetto splutters about how he might be trying to scream from a piece-of-crap Sony transistor, while from beyond the bathroom door comes the ceaseless, monotonous one-note song that is his mother:
kak-kak-kak
.

I’m back
. There has been no transition, no snap to wakefulness, no
ka-BANG
and bolt of bright yellow light, shattering the darkness, because his father—hair standing in corkscrews, and sleep crumbs like snow in the purple hollows under his eyes—has come bursting in to see why his son’s screaming his lungs out. He is just suddenly awake, like he’s been dreaming standing up and with his eyes open.

And I’ve been here before
. Déjà vu of the worst kind blasts through his body. On his electric toothbrush—which would be totally boss, if it wasn’t for the fact that this is a little kid’s
Snoopy set (red-roofed doghouse and everything) that his pastor-dad unearthed at Goodwill—a bloated green worm of mint Crest oozes on bristles so worn they splay like the tired legs of dead tarantulas.
I’m getting ready for school
. His eyes flick to the mirror, where his face is an oval blur behind scummy moisture.
In ten minutes, I’ll go downstairs and flush the oatmeal glop Dad’s left, because he just doesn’t get that I hate that stuff. I’ll brush my teeth again, because Mom will want a kiss. I’ll drive my piece-of-shit Camry to school. I’m where I belong, and everything is as it’s always been
.

This should make him feel better, but only for a second. Sure, of course, he’s doing a lot of the same
things
. But not
everything
is exactly the same now as it was, say, yesterday or last week, is it? No, that would be crazy. His eyes fall to a
Twisted Tales
that he really likes. The comic book’s open to his favorite story, about these soldiers and their lieutenant, a guy named Hacker, who suspects that he and his men have been hunkering in their foxholes forever. Then his gaze slides right to the paperback of
Our Mutual Friend
he’s supposed to be reading instead of his comic. (God, what a snooze, and Dickens was popular? The whole river rat thing—fishing bodies out of the Thames—is okay, but there are so many characters, and trying to keep track of that John Harmon guy and all his disguises and alter egos and who the dude’s supposed to be
now
only gives Tony a headache. And he’s got to cough up a ten-page paper comparing and contrasting Dickens’s use of doubles in this monster with either
Great Expectations
or that story … 
The Haunted Man and the Ghost’s Bargain
? Gag him with a spoon. At least
Haunted Man
is short, the last Christmas book Dickens published, and anyone with half a brain can see that Evil Genius is really Redlaw. Thank God, they’re going on to Sherlock Holmes next.
Hound of the Baskervilles
—now
that’s
a story. That black dog
gives him the shivers. He wonders if he can talk the teacher into trying Lovecraft after that. Talk about spooky.)

But how long have I been reading this stupid book?
He can’t remember. He starts to reach a hand to the Dickens he’s placed facedown to mark his place … then hesitates.
Think
. Where, exactly,
is
he in the book? He knows the name John Harmon and the thing about river rats—what else can he recall about the story?
Jesus, why can’t I remember?
He tries to dredge up some more facts, scenes,
names
of other characters—and can’t. It is almost as if this is all the information he’s
allowed
to know.

Oh, that is crazy
. It’s because the book is so boring he’d rather set his hair on fire, that’s all. But come on, he
must
know what he’s read so far, right? After all, he knows about John Harmon and doubles, and isn’t there a girl?
Important girl … what’s her name?
Prying the information from his brain is like worrying a piece of meat from between his teeth that’s wedged in so tight he needs a toothpick to dig it out …

“Lizzie.”
The name comes in an explosive hiss. He should feel a blast of relief—but all he gets is a jolt in his chest. Like the name
Lizzie
is totally bad news. But that
is
the girl’s name in
Our Mutual Friend
: Lizzie, short for Elizabeth, and she … 
sheeeee
 … 
Christ
. The fine hairs spike along his neck. That’s all he knows about the chick. The name, and that’s it.
This is like my nightmare, when I couldn’t remember where I lived, when I didn’t have a face …

“Screw it. Not important.” The words ride a dry croak. “Who the hell cares? All I have to do is look and then I’ll know what page I’m on.” But he’s afraid to check. He has the funniest feeling: flip that book over … and everything will be a blur. Or blank. That the book is just a prop, like in a movie.

“This is nuts,” he says as, on the radio, Jackson’s wailing to
some girl that she better hope this is her imagination.
Got that right
. The song grates. He doesn’t particularly love Michael Jackson, but anything’s better than listening to his mother
kak-kak-kakking
.

Only … 
is
she out there?

Of course; you just heard her. Don’t be dumb
. Just that nightmare or daymare or whatever the hell he’d just had—of him as a blank-faced mannequin floating in midair—still eating at him.

On the other hand … is there anything beyond this bathroom? Trying to place details is like trying to remember scenes from that Dickens novel. All he has to do is open the door and check; pick up the book, scan a page, and he’ll know. But that all feels too weird.

On the radio, Jackson has decided the girl hasn’t got a snowball’s chance in hell against something with forty eyes—and man, is that close to his nightmare or what? Spooked, he switches off the radio, Michael
urping
out before he can tell him that they—the monsters, the demons, these creepy zombies—will possess him, too.

“You have to calm down, Tony.” He’s tired; his mom’s dying; his preacher-dad’s wearing out his knees praying to thin air. If Tony’s not careful, he’ll wind up like Jack Nicholson in that movie a few years ago, which he’d never have seen if Matt hadn’t worked the theater’s ticket office. (Honestly, if he had to put up with Shelley Duvall, he’d go after her with an ax, too.) The little kid was okay. Come to think of it, wasn’t that kid’s imaginary friend named Tony? Was that in the movie or the book? Both? He can’t remember, and no, he is
not
imaginary.

“Why are you even
thinking
about all this, you moron?” His eyes tick back to the fogged bathroom mirror where his reflection
is nothing but a shimmering blob. Because of the nightmare he knows he’s had but can’t really remember anymore?

There is a sodden little
splot
. His gaze falls to the sink, where a light green glob of toothpaste shimmers wetly, like exotic bird shit, on porcelain.
Come on. You’ll be late for school
. Turning on the tap, he uses a forefinger to edge the slick glop from the porcelain and down the drain. He shudders at the feel. Like a squirmy slug, like snot. Cranking on the hot water full blast, he rinses his finger and lets out a little
ugh
at the sudden burn.
God, stop it already
. He studies the angry red scald. Be lucky if that doesn’t blister.
It’s just toothpaste, you dope
.

Squishing out another rope of green goop, he lifts the brush to his mouth, then hesitates. Behind its watery film, his reflection patiently waits. He feels its eyes trying to bore through that mist—but for a split second, he has the eeriest feeling:
I don’t know what you look like
. Which means he’s not sure what
he
looks like either, just like that moment in his dream when he reached for his face and …

“Stop it.” Yet … has he
ever
seen his face in this mirror? With his free hand, he skims the hollow under his left eye. In the mirror, the blob shifts, and its arm mimics his move, of course, of
course
, because that is just a reflection. But what color
are
his eyes? He waits for the answer to slot into his brain. Nothing comes.
Okay, what about the color of my hair?
No answer surfaces from the well of his brain; nothing drifts from the dark to settle on his tongue. Total blank.