The Man in the Mirror

Willa peeks one eye out from behind the door frame, clandestinely watching mama layer on concealer to hide the night-colored bags under her eyes, their indentations becoming more permanent by the day. She admires the way Mama’s black dress outlines her delicate frame, revealing sunken collar bones and slender shoulders. One by one, she slips flesh colored Spanx over her dainty legs, resembling the incense sticks centered on the dining-room table. Willa knows that the Spanx are Papa’s idea. 

She learned three days ago, as she stood on her tiptoes peering through the kitchen window as Mama and Papa had one of their private conversations. Mama’s figure looked small and meek under her lavender yoga shirt, as she leaned against the kitchen counter. An arm’s distance away, Papa’s navy button-up pulled tight against his back, drawing attention to his broad frame and perfectly upright posture, nearly shading Mama from view. Through a series of whispers, Willa was able to make out Papa’s rugged voice complaining that Mama was not taking advantage of the gym membership he so generously bought her. He raised his upper lip and scrunched his nose, no longer trying to whisper. Willa watched as he wiped his nose with a paper towel, and then shook his hand in front of Mama; the napkin inches from her face. He said that he works hard for his money and hates to see it wasted; he should’ve just bought her Spanx instead, it would have saved money and gotten the job done. Mama’s lips barely moved and when they did, her hushed voice was quickly masked by Papa’s. 

Willa tilted her head and squinted her eyes, trying to figure out why Papa was angry. She loved Mama’s jiggle. She remembers laying her head down in the middle of it and feeling the gentle skin adjust to the shape of her face, as Mama stroked her mousy hair and her irises danced with adoration. It was Willa’s own tempurpedic pillow and when she lifted her head the shape would remain for several seconds before slowly fading. 

When Mama is done putting on the Spanx, Willa, from underneath the door frame, rests her arms on the wall, cautious not to move from the left side of the door frame, afraid the floorboards will creak. Her eyes follow Mama as she scans the half-empty perfume bottles scattered on her desk, choosing the rose colored one Papa gifted her after a business trip years ago, spraying each wrist only once. He had given Willa a smaller version of the same perfume, to match that of Mama’s. After he had handed it to her, he rested his hand on her shoulder, looked her in the eye and said “you know I would never forget to buy you something too.” Willa looked into her father’s stormy, grey eyes and nodded with a type of endearment only a child could possess, “I know, Papa”.

For months afterward, Willa looked in the mirror just as Mama had and sprayed her wrist only once and they would walk down the wooden stairs, bringing with them the scent of an entire flower garden. But after the next business trip, Papa bought Mama a new fragrance and the old one sat on her desk and began collecting dust with all the other half empty bottles that were past their prime. This time he had forgotten to buy Willa a matching scent, but it wasn’t the only time.

The familiar, floral smell wafts into the hall where Willa remains unmoved. She closes her eyes and breathes in slowly, inhaling the essence of spring that used to flood the kitchen, while September echoed throughout the room. She places her hands on her stomach, and remembers the feeling of Mama’s arms around her waist, lifting her from the floor with such ease. Willa imagined her feet dangling and her back pressed against Mama’s chest, as her body moved like wind on a summer’s night. The mauve nightgown did little to cover up Mama’s breasts, which spilled out on every downbeat, illuminating the flames of her ballet dancing past. 

Willa opens her eyelids, returning to the sight of a woman staring into the mirror who is unrecognizable to the one she used to dance with in the kitchen. This woman’s body looks like it was tossed into the wash and shrunk in the dryer. Her hips have lost pace to the rhythm they once had memorized, and her arms are surely too frail to whirl Willa. Mama scrunches her forehead, forming lines between her brows as she dabs at her nose with powder. She dabs, and dabs, until she is more powder than she is woman. 

 Mama slides her perfectly manicured finger up her thigh, tracing a vein that protrudes like the root of a tree trunk. She had always let Willa trace the purple veins adorned with brown spots decorating both arms and explained that her body was like a road map. Every new place Mama visited would get etched into her skin, and the vein that was a little brighter than the rest signified the road that led to the hospital where Willa was born. But Mama doesn’t say that anymore. She doesn’t let anyone touch her veins. Now she flinches if they’re mentioned.

Exactly three months ago, the Alrices had their first family breakfast in years and also their last one to date. Willa reached over her cinnamon French Toast to feel Mama’s veins, which looked especially purple, as if pulsating with amethysts. Mama held onto Willa’s hand and looked deeply into her eyes, enchanted by the hazel cloud of innocence speckled with gray. She brought her hand to Willa’s face, mesmerized by the radiance of in her eyes, an untarnished radiance she forgot existed. 

The silence was short-lived as Papa folded the newspaper he had been reading from and stood up abruptly from across the table, signaling that family breakfast was disbanded. “I have an important meeting tomorrow and need my grey suit, you know the one with the two buttons. Has it been picked up yet?” He wiped his face and tossed his napkin into the center of the table, where it grazed Willa’s French Toast, the corner of it slowly submerging into her puddle of syrup. “‘I’ll pick it up today,” Mama said, keeping her eyes on the table. There was something in her voice that Willa could not quite put her finger on. The words sounded flat, empty of their usual sing-song quality. Willa had only heard Mama use this voice when she was misbehaving.  She placed her hand on Mama’s hand under the table. Mama took Willa’s hand in her own, interlocked their fingers and squeezed gently. 

 “The sun’s pretty strong today,” Papa said.  He peered out of the stain glass window in the front of the house, then down at Mama’s arms resting on either side of the plate. “You know what they say about the sun and aging skin.” Papa looked expectantly at Mama, whose gaze remained fixed on slicing grapefruit. Willa looked over at Mama, and then at Papa. She leaned forward in her chair, the frills from her sweatshirt dangling dangerously over the puddle of syrup, “Mama once told me the sun can do bad things to my skin, and if I wear the lotion that makes me sticky I can stop it from doing bad things.” 

“You got it Willa. Mama’s right. The sun can make it look like someone drew polka dots on your arms with a brown crayon, giving you spots that never go away.” Papa loosened his tie ever so slightly and placed The Wall Street Journal in his messenger bag sprawled on the table. Mama lowered her eyes and folded her arms on her lap, hiding them beneath the table. Willa put down her fork and knife to look at her own unblemished arms, and scrunched her forehead, trying to figure out what exactly she was looking for. When she couldn’t figure it out, she too remained silent and placed her arms under the table, hiding them from sight. 

Papa walked around the table and took Mama’s hand in his own as they made their way to the door. He moved his hand to her waist, pulling her body into his and kissed her, right on the lips. Willa looked away, her ponytail whipping her in the face. When she thought they were done, she turned back and saw Papa’s lips pulling out of the kiss. Mama was still leaning in, her eyes still closed and her lips still pursed, as if Papa’s lips were still there. But they weren't, and Mama was just kissing air.

Willa had always thought that Mama’s brown spots were like the spots on a Dalmatian, each one highlighted against her porcelain skin. She thought her pale, hairless arms were boring in comparison to Mama’s whose were like multicolored webs infused with shades of brown and purple. Once when Willa asked Papa if she could get a dog, he quickly shut down the idea. She decided that because Papa did not like dogs, he also didn’t like the spots on Mama’s arms.

When Mama picked up Willa from school that day three months ago, Papa’s dry cleaning hung in the car, positioned so that it would not wrinkle. Willa slipped into the car noting a Kiehl’s shopping bag in the front seat, with a lengthy receipt peeking out of the top. 

“Mama, what’s in the bag?” Willa asked, trying to peer over the seat belt made for someone twice her size. Mama shifted her gaze from the sun-visor mirror to meet Willa’s eyes, powder compact in hand,“Just some bottles of lotion that will bring me back to the days I looked like you”. She remembers asking grandma that same question once and receiving an almost identical answer. “But what will happen if I use them?,” Willa asked. “Oh Wil, you have years to go before you have to start worrying about that.” Willa sunk back into the seat, trying to imagine all the possible colors the lotion could be.

As per usual, at 7:30 that night Willa heard the Cadillac pull up in the driveway and rushed to meet Papa at the door, followed by Mama. “Papa, today in school I glued cotton balls to a piece of paper in the shape of heart and put it on your bed. I wanted to surprise you but I didn’t want you to not like it and throw it out”; excitement dripped from every word.

 The top of her head barely grazed his chest, and it was as if her words bounced right off his stomach.“Okay, Willa,” Papa said, waving his hand in the air, as if to brush her away. He leaned in to kiss Mama, grazing her face before pulling away, his gaze meeting her chest. He slowly scanned her up and down, as if he were studying an insect under a microscope, gathering a list of observations.

 Placing his hands on the thin straps of her white and yellow striped sundress, he yanked, lifting the top of the dress. Mama looked up startled, but didn’t speak. This dress was one of Willa’s favorites and she thought Mama resembled all that was good about spring when she wore it. Willa looked down at her own peach sundress, and began pulling up the front so that the top brushed her collarbones, “Papa, does my dress hang too low?” Papa lifted his eyebrows and looked at Willa, as if he had just remembered she was in the room. He got down on a knee besides Willa and placed his briefcase to the side. He wrapped his arm around Willa, guiding her onto his knee. “No Willa, your dress is not too low at all. It’s beautiful and you my darling,” he kissed her nose, “look beautiful.” Mama ran her fingers through Willa’s hair, “Your dress is beautiful Willa, and you do look so pretty in it. Willa smiled, smoothed down her dress, and ran up the stairs to get the cotton ball heart she made, so that she could hand it to him in person.

Underneath the door frame outside of Mama’s room, the buzzing of a mosquito echoes in Willa’s ears. She remains motionless, unwilling to disrupt the silence. The unwanted insect holds off on its quest for blood. Instead it encircles her head fully aware of her powerlessness, further taunting her with each revolution. Willa focuses all of her attention on Mama in an unsuccessful attempt to ignore the hum. Mama rotates her body and turns her head to look at the back of her dress in the mirror. Her dainty fingers look out of place as she fights with the straps, mercilessly tugging on each adjustment clip, trying to mask her breasts. The hissing of the mosquito amplifies the ticking of the pendulum clock perched on Mama’s dresser, making Willa restless and antsy to leave. 

As Mama leans in to get a closer look at her necklace, she meets Willa’s eyes in the corner of the frame. Willa clasps her lips and holds her breath. The silence grows louder, muting both the mosquito and the clock. The silence takes on a character of its own, beseeching one of them to speak. As a car slowly drives by, the faint echo of Tiny Dancer sneaks through a crack in the window. Mama’s eyes light up ever so slightly, the way they used to when they would dance in the kitchen. Willa watches as Mama slowly turns around, leaving the mirror behind her, to meet Willa’s eyes directly. Willa walks over to Mama and wraps her arms around her stomach, “Where’s the jiggle Mama? You aren’t mushy anymore.” Mama steps away from Willa and reaches both hands underneath her dress and takes off the Spanx.

“Feel now, Willa.”

Willa places her hand on Mama’s stomach and feels as it is absorbed by the waves of skin beneath her dress. She presses her face to it, allowing her nose to slowly sink in. Willa breathes in, inhaling the floral scent that clings to Mama’s dress. She breathes in again, this time more deeply than the first time and recognizes another scent, a scent trapped beneath the black dress and the aura of flower beds. Willa knows that this scent doesn’t come from a bottle. It’s the smell of Mama. It smells sweet, but not too sweet. It smells clean, but not like soap. It smells like Mama, and it is Willa’s favorite scent.

Standing under the door frame, Mama intertwines her fingers with Willa’s and they sway together to the sound of the silence that has replaced the music of the passing car.

“I love you so much, Wil, so so much.” Willa looks up at Mama and leans into her. “Do you wanna go wait downstairs? I’ll be done getting ready in five.” 

“Okay, you get five minutes, no more. I’m gonna start counting...now,” Willa said. She bounced out of the room and down the stairs, her hair flopping with every stride.

Willa sits on the couch, waiting to kiss Mama goodbye. When she hears the floorboards starting to creak, she runs to the bottom of the steps. One heel in front of the other, Mama slowly teeters down the steps. “Goodnight honey, Papa and I will be home after you’re asleep. Be good to grandma.” Mama leans down to kiss Willa, who wraps her arms around Mama’s waist. She presses her head into Mama’s stomach and the waves of skin are gone; her stomach is once again firm.