The Reflection on the Other Side

I caught them. I caught them making love in the basement and when I did, I got inside my car and murdered my daughter's cat. Now, I am in my bedroom staring down at my French pedicure, and wondering if I should make tea. There is a woman across the room in the mirror above the makeup drawer. She is my reflection. She is saying something. She is saying that I make her:

"Sick!"

She says, "This whole world is just topsy-turvy and screwed up on top! My husband is cheating on me in the basement with a co-worker we both invited over for dinner, right now! I mean, they are really going at it like dogs in heat!" My reflection sighs sarcastically to annoy me and then she continues:

"And yet, all I can think about is poor, flattened, furry little Fluffles, now deceased before the ripe old age of one full cat year. What am I doing? What have I done?"

I answer: "I have done it all, baby! I've been the gullible supporting wife, the doting mother, and up until now, the only sex my husband has had since last week! I think."

She quips, "And now, all I can think about, as I sit and stare at my meaningless, pink frosted pedicure, is the look on my five year old's face when I tell her that Mommy killed Fluffles because when she opened the side door in the garage, and walked into the sanctity of our home, she heard Daddy banging a 'friend' on the carpet downstairs?"

I say, "Well, what do you want me to do? I have been to therapy, and I have taken every stupid pill imaginable. I mean come on! Am I having a breakdown? Am I finally cracking up? You are only my reflection for goodness sake! You are not me!"

"Yes I am!," she shouted. "I am you! I am the real you, and I am hurting. I am positively livid with that man and you!"

"Why?," she has the nerve to ask. "Why are you mad at me?"

"You don't care about me; you don't care about him! And you don't even care about your own daughter!," says she. "I wish you could think about someone other than yourself, Sheila!"

"All right, then. Well, would it be impolite of me to stop the Penthouse/Hustler moment my husband is having with his 'friend' downstairs and have them help me clean up the cat?," I ask trying to sound self supporting.

My reflection just sobs and after a minute she shakes her head and says, "I don't know anymore! I just don't know!"

But, I knew. I will acknowledge that much. And, I also always hated that damn cat, too.

So, I am sliding my toes back into my patented leather open-toed mules, and now I am walking out of the master bedroom. I am now on the second floor landing and I can still here them panting in the basement. I say to myself, "One more step, lady. Let him have his fun and I'll just keep walking."

I step purposefully down those Berber carpeted stairs, and in my mind I am telling DeMille I am ready for my close-up while my reflection obediently follows sobbing behind me. There is no turning back and she knows that. They are still screwing and I am still walking.

I am passing through the dining room. My reflection is reminding me that my Mom's crystal always looked awesome with my in-laws china. She is in my mind now walking with me and fighting back a decade worth of tears. We are walking hand in hand now, she and I. We walk into the kitchen. The backdoor to the garage is still open. We close it and lock it quietly.

Over to the left of the fridge and next to the pantry is the basement door. It is still wide open and we could give a damn. This is still our house, and we are still the wife. We step quietly down the stairs and the wooden boards give a little under our weight like plunk, plunk, plunk. They are still at it and we are walking toward them.

Our husband is still cramming this strange woman's hips into his groin and they both are moaning loudly with pleasure. We simply tap him on the shoulder. He turns toward us with a grin that in the blink of an eye fades into shock.

"Sheila," he says. "Oh My GOD!"

The Good me, the one I see in the mirror, still wanted to smack him and make him cry. She still wanted an answer. I didn't want to hear it! I puckered my lips and touched my index finger to them and exhaled a soft blow like, "Shhh!"

And then I said, "Roger, there is a mess in the garage and when you are finished, I am going to need your help cleaning it up."

We go upstairs and leave him with her. The office 'friend' says nothing.

In the kitchen, I remove my shoes and put them by the welcome mat. Still inside our home, the good one inside of me felt no need to hurry. She let me put on a kettle and I brewed some black tea. I put honey and mint in mine, arsenic and sugar for Roger's and for the "co-worker", laxative with lemon.

The table is set with jam and crackers for tea time. It is only 5:30 pm and dinner is being delivered at six.

I am hearing the wood on the stairs give as they make their way upstairs. Plunk, plunk, plunk.

"I sure hope they want seconds," says my reflection in my tea cup. Me too, I think. Me too.