The Mirrorcal Cure

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. In the brief moment I was allowed to look, I saw not my fragmented face, but familiar people and objects. The healer immediately rehung the cloth to cover the surface.

I turned away from the old man with the telescopic eyeglasses. I couldn’t bear to have him look at me. It felt like he could see more of me than I knew about myself. I didn’t like him. I regretted down to a cellular level that I’d listened to Margaret.

“Janie, you have to fight this thing. I know you don’t believe in the supernatural or healers or psychics, but what do you have to lose at this point? I know of a man who has the power to heal. Even what you’ve got. If you’re going to do this, you have to do it while you can still get around on your own.”

What I’ve got. According to my doctor, I’ve got a future of deterioration. My muscles would get weaker. I’d lose my ability to walk, to eat, to get to the bathroom, to speak, to do everything we do in life. I would eventually wait to die, encased in a body that serves no function. Well, what do I have to lose? If Margaret’s “healer” couldn’t help, he sure couldn’t make things worse. Already I was tripping over my own feet, having trouble getting out of bed, taking half an hour to button a shirt, slurring my words. It seemed like every day I was a little less able than the day before. What use will I ever be again? Michael will have to raise Brendan and Mia on his own and have me to deal with besides. I wouldn’t be able to work, to cook for my family, or even help my sister with Mom.

Before leaving work last Friday, I told Margaret she could make an appointment with the “witch doctor”. She hugged me in relief, but somehow, I felt worse. The following Wednesday I called out of work and drove to the address Margaret had given me. My appointment with Mr. Wikkersome was to take place at 10:00. I drove for over an hour to an isolated house down a country lane. The road seemed to have been forgotten since the time it was built. I parked on the patch of crushed rock that served as a driveway. There was no lawn, no garden or shrubbery- just a little one story house that might more accurately be called a shack. It may have once been white. Now it was nondescript old. I swung my left leg out of the car and used the heels of my hands to guide the right leg to follow suit. Grabbing my cane from the passenger seat, I pushed myself to a standing position. One day soon I would be unable to operate the gas and brake pedals. I made my way to the door and knocked. An ancient man opened it immediately. He had to be in his 90’s. Leathery skin with prickly vestiges of hair. Patches of brown pigment against pasty white wrinkles. He stepped aside for me to enter. His hazy blue eyes conveyed a knowing gloom that spoke directly to my soul. I followed him into his kitchen and sat on the chair he indicated with a gnarled finger.

“Jamie Davis. You are very sick and heading to a slow and agonizing death. I can heal you. You will change your fate. Your illness will disappear. In exchange, you will give me your happiness and joy.”

I chuckled. “I have little happiness and joy to give. I also don’t have much money. What does your service cost?”

The man shook his head in what looked like disapproval. “I do not seek your money. I seek your happiness and joy. I will take what little, or abundance, you have.”

“What do you do exactly? How long will it take for me to get better?”

Mr. Wikkersome indicated what looked like a picture hanging on the wall with a piece of blue material covering it.

“If you agree to this transaction, you will look into the mirror beneath the cloth. You will strike the mirror with a mallet. The mirror will crack into pieces. The number of fragments is the number of days you will take to be healed.

“And it will cost me no money at all?”

“No money. At all. But understand this. Once you break the mirror, the deal is done. Your good health will be restored. Your malady will be completely gone, forever. Your body will proceed as if your illness never was.”

“It sounds too good to be true. What’s the catch?”

“I have already explained. All I ask is your happiness and joy.”

Mr. Wikkersome removed the cloth from the mirror hanging at face level. It looked like any other mirror, a flat rectangle a little over a foot long and a little shorter from side to side. It had a beveled edge. I looked at my reflection. I noticed a small coffee drip on my collar from breakfast. Eating was becoming a sloppy event. My head was tilted to the right, somewhat more than it had been. I would get worse. Soon I’d need someone to feed me, and after I lost my ability to swallow, I’d require a feeding tube. I’d live my life in a wheelchair.

“I’ll take the mallet, Mr. Wikkersome.”

“It’s on the floor in front of you.” I leaned my cane against the wall and picked up the mallet, which required both hands. If I didn’t do this now, I might not be able to do it at all. I looked at the frail Mr. Wikkersome. If he lifted this mallet, it would take him down. I hoped it wouldn’t take me down.

“Pull it up to your shoulder and aim for the center. You don’t have to hit too hard, just hard enough to break the glass into a few pieces,” he advised.

I lurched forward and saw the glass crack. At first I saw my fragmented face. Then the reflection changed. The individual pieces became pictures from my life. It was almost like looking in a scrapbook, but as I was trying to focus on the individual pictures, Mr. Wikkersome replaced the cloth.

“When you broke the mirror, your reflection changed to show what’s important to you. It reflects the treasures of your heart, the people and things that comprise and empower you. The glass shows who you are beyond the face and body that encases you.”

He handed me my cane.

“Take this and go. But you won’t be needing it much longer.”

He linked his ancient arm in mine and escorted me to the door. His resolve to get me out of his house was unmistakable.

“Now what?” I asked.

“Now you go back to your life. The mirror splintered into six pieces. Starting this very day your body will heal. Now go.”

He closed the door, and I could hear the deadbolt lock as I stood on the cement pad. I leaned on my cane and carefully made my way to the car. I got in clumsily as usual, trying not to tip over onto the passenger seat. Physically I felt no different than when I’d arrived. Yet I sensed a change I couldn’t quite define.

I drove straight home and pulled into the driveway. I sat there a second before opening the door. Something was wrong. Missing. I got out and looked at my front yard. The roses that grew against the trellis were gone, as was the trellis. The daylilies under the dogwood were also gone. How was this even possible? I checked the house number to make sure I was indeed home. Number 52. I walked through the garage, through the laundry room, and straight to the back door. Barney, our basset hound, jumped down from his nap on our bed to greet me. I opened the door and stepped through. The lawn dominated the yard that this morning had held beds of newly planted vegetables, herbs, strawberries, and marigolds. I needed call Margaret.

Margaret answered. “How did it go? Tell me everything.”

“Let me tell you something weird first. I just got home. All the gardens and landscaping are gone.”

“What? What are you talking about, Janie?”

“When I pulled into the driveway, all the flowers against the house and under the tree were gone. The backyard is nothing more than a big rectangular lawn. It looks like my vegetable garden never existed.”

“Oh my God, Janie. Say that again.”

“It looks like my vegetable garden never existed.”

“You’re not making sense, but do you hear your voice?”

I wasn’t slurring my words. There was no effort to talk. “Oh my God, you’re right. I sound like myself. But what do you mean I’m not making sense?”

“Janie, you don’t have a vegetable garden or flowers. I’ve never seen you or Michael do yardwork in your lives. You don’t even mow your own lawn.”

“Margaret, I have to go. I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

“Wait! What about Mr. Wikkersome? Tell me everything.”

I told her about my appointment as quickly as I could. I had to go think. Maybe I should take a long nap. When I hung up, that’s exactly what I did. I set the alarm on my phone so I would be awake before Brandon and Mia got home from school.

When I woke up I went to the front window, and then to Mia’s room with a view of the back window. Still grass and only grass. I heard the school bus and within seconds the kids came bursting through the door.

“Hey guys?” I kissed them both on the forehead. “How was school?”

Brandon answered first. “It was boring. We spent all morning getting ready for a math test and then we took the test. It was really long.”

“How did you do on that really long test?”

Mia interrupted. “Mommy, your voice is fixed.”

“Yeah, Mom,” Brandon agreed. “How did that happen? You sound like you again.”

“Honestly, I don’t know. I made a phone call earlier today and I could talk again. I can’t explain it. But can I ask you a question? Did the front yard look normal to you when you came home?”

They answered together, “Yeah. Why?”

I smiled at them. “It’s nothing. What do you think about planting some flowers?”

Brandon stuffed a cookie in his mouth. “I guess so. I didn’t know you knew how to do that.”

I said no more. The kids did their homework and watched TV while I folded laundry and heated up a frozen lasagna. When Michael came home, he said nothing about the missing landscaping, but immediately picked up on my speech.

“Janie, your voice! It’s back to normal.”

“I know. I don’t know how to explain it.”

He remarked about my voice several times throughout the evening. I didn’t tell him about my visit with Mr. Wikkersome. Michael once said that if we were all party foods, Margaret would be the dip. Anything she suggested would certainly be way out in left field, by his reckoning. Even though we were best friends and co-workers at the insurance office, I knew Michael was basically right. Crystals, psychics, tarot readings, and faith healers were all Margaret’s idea of science. When she first told me about Mr. Wikkersome, I just rolled my eyes. She heard about him from her yoga teacher’s sister-in-law’s reiki healer’s herbalist. There’s a word of mouth recommendation I wasn’t going to follow up on. Then I toppled off my chair at the office during a meeting. What did I have to lose? The whole idea of a supernatural healer was ludicrous, and when it didn’t work no one would even know I had been chasing unicorns. I didn’t even tell Michael I wasn’t going to work. Was my voice really be healed by the old man? Was there a connection to my missing gardens?

I went to bed after putting the laundry away. As usual, I laid tomorrow’s clothes on top of my dresser- underwear, bra, blue socks, black sneakers, my most comfortable jeans, a belt, and a black button-down shirt. Despite the turmoil of the day still swirling in my head, I fell into a restful sleep.

My phone alarm went off at 6 and I carefully got out of bed, leaning on my night table. I grabbed my cane and went into the bathroom. As I brushed my teeth, I caught my reflection and froze. holding my breath in shock. My head was perfectly erect. The change had been gradual, but I hadn’t seen myself like this in several months. Was I dreaming? Michael would be up soon. Would he notice the change? I went back into the bedroom to get dressed. My jeans were gone. Now I was definitely hallucinating. I put those pants on my dresser, right under my shirt.

I opened my pants drawer. They weren’t there. I decided to wear the exact same jeans in light wash. They weren’t there either. The dark wash jeans were gone too. I must have made some sort of sound. Michael rolled over sat up in bed as he reached for his eyeglasses.

“What’s the matter? Are you okay?” He came over to me.

“I can’t find any of my jeans. I put a pair right here last night with the rest of my clothes. It’s gone. What the hell?”

Michael gently took hold of my shoulders. “I don’t know what happened to your jeans. It doesn’t even matter. Just wear something else. He took out a pair of dress pants. Here. We’re not going to stress over… Janie, you’re head is straight. Turn to the right.”

I did. Then I turned to the left. The motion was smooth and effortless.

He sank down on the end of the bed. “This is crazy. Excellent, but crazy.”

When I got to work everyone noticed my head and my voice. Some wanted to know what medication I was on. Others thanked the Lord for my healing. I smiled a lot and tried to get some work done. As happy as I was at my physical improvement, I was troubled by my missing plants and pants. Margaret kept looking at me from her nearby desk. We locked eyes a few times. I shrugged. She smiled. I didn’t say more because I was starting to think my physical disability was being traded for a mental issue.

The next day was Saturday, the morning I always reserved for sitting on the porch with my coffee and a book, tracking the sun as it rose higher in the sky, and watching my flowers grow. I went to the kitchen to make my coffee, but my cup was gone. Every Saturday I had my coffee in the cup that my father had given me as a gift on my first Mother's Day. It was a sky blue mug with a bicycle whose basket was full of flowers. It said “enjoy the ride”. It wasn’t in the cupboard. I checked the dishwasher in case someone else had used it and the garbage in case someone had broken it. As I moved the other mugs in my search, it dawned on me how easily I was moving my hands. I was grabbing mug handles, the dishwasher latch, and the pull on the garbage cabinet with precision and ease. I looked at my hands. Where the middle fingers had been stiff and sticking together, this morning they were supple. I picked up a pen and opened the notebook Brendan had left on the counter. I wrote my name. I drew a daisy. I took the notebook to the porch and wrote the alphabet in calligraphy. How could this miracle be? I wondered if I should tell Michael about Mr. Wikkersome. Would he believe me? Would he scoff? What would he say when I sat up straight and told him in my normal voice that I could write again?

I heard him moving around in the bedroom. “Michael, can you come here?”

He came right away. “Need something?”

I held up my pen and started writing. Michael and Janie Davis forever. I looked up at him. He was crying.

“This really is a miracle, isn’t it?” My own eyes teared and I nodded.

On Sunday morning I heard Michael on the phone with his parents. “And she’s able to write! We went out to dinner last night and she signed the receipt, just because she could. I can’t believe this is happening."

I got dressed in sweats and realized how easy it was to put on clothes. I walked across the bedroom without my cane. I carefully marched in place in front of the full-length mirror. I kicked. I jumped. I balanced on one foot and then on the other. My legs were working. I wanted to tell Michael. I wanted to go pouncing out of the bedroom without my cane. But I felt guilty about not telling him about Mr. Wikkersome and it seemed insane to think that an old man could heal me because I broke a mirror.

Instead I picked up the phone and called my own mother. Some days she recognized my voice and had a good conversation. Other days she thought I was a salesperson. On occasion she wouldn’t answer. Today was one of those days. I kept my cane with me. I would tell Michael later, or tomorrow. I tried calling my mother again later. She still didn’t answer. It was just as well, I told myself. How do I explain a miracle cure to a woman who may or may not remember her daughter was dying? I called my sister Delia instead.

“Hey, Kiddo. Mom’s not answering her phone. Have you heard from her lately?”

“I spoke to her last night. She’s fine. She said she’s going to something at the senior center today. I’m taking her to the hair salon in the morning so I’ll see her soon.”

“Oh, okay. You never know with her. Sometimes she just doesn’t answer because she’s watching TV. But how do I know she didn’t fall or something?”

“Not to worry. How are you doing?”

“Actually, Delia, I’m feeling pretty good. My hands are doing better.”

“You sound great! I didn’t even recognize your voice.” I didn’t want to get into any more details so I told her the kids were fighting and I had to go investigate.

I got to work early on Monday. I’d gotten up at the usual time. But without having to dress painstakingly, work laboriously at getting breakfast, and lumber carefully to the car, I was ready to go before the kids left for the bus stop. I took the opportunity to try calling my mother again, but she still wasn’t answering. I played a game on my phone, thrilled to be able to point wherever I wanted on the screen, and waited for Margaret to get to the office. When she got there I told her everything- my miracle cure and the missing things.

“Janie, I can’t believe this is happening. I am so happy for you. I’ve always believed in miracles, but this is beyond my wildest dreams.

Johan and Carl came in together and waved in our direction. I waved back and went to my desk. I wanted to end the conversation before they could overhear anything. I dialed my mom again. I called my sister. Delia was the type to take the phone into the bathroom and would definitely step out of the shower to answer. I panicked.

“Margaret, there’s something I have to do. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Tell Jeff I didn’t feel well and went to see my doctor. Please.”

“Of course. Where are you going?”

“I think my mother's in trouble. She didn’t answer the phone all day yesterday or this morning. Now Delia’s not answering, and she always takes my calls.”

I dashed out to my car, no cane in hand. The only remnant of my illness was a little stiffness in my back and sides. The dread over my mother made me forget how great I felt. I drove half an hour to my mother’s house. I knocked on the door, peering in through the sidelights. A small boy in a Superman shirt looked back at me. A pretty blonde woman holding an infant made her way to the door.

“Yes?” she asked as she cracked the door open enough to show her face.

“I’m sorry to bother you. I must be in the wrong place. I’m looking for Sharon Blanchard.” This was the house I’d grown up in, yet it looked wrong. The tiled floor had been replaced by vinyl wood planks and the pale yellow my mother favored was painted bright white. The family photos going up the stairs held the faces of different people in different frames.

“Sorry. You have the wrong house.” She closed the door and ushered the boy back to the kitchen.

I sat in the car looking at the house. It was Mom’s house, except that it wasn’t. I forced myself to keep breathing as I sped down the road towards my sister’s house.

As soon as I pulled up to the curb I knew that this was going to go wrong. My sister had gotten new siding on her house last month. This house had the old siding. The decorative well on the lawn was gone. Her white curtains in every window weren’t there. I still had to try. I rang the doorbell. No one answered. I used my key. I called my sister's name and was answered by silence. Delia didn’t own a piano. She didn’t have a fish tank. She had a collection of books that took up an entire wall in the family room. This family room had all sorts of sports memorabilia. I dialed her number again. No answer.

I went back to work. Margaret’s desk was gone. I asked Jeff where Margaret was.

“Jamie, have you been drinking?”

“Of course not. Jeff, where is Margaret?”

“Who’s Margaret?”

“Jeff, I have to go home. I don’t feel well.”

“I think that’s a good idea. Take a few days if you need to. You look great, but something’s off with you. Take some time and get yourself together.”

I got back into the car and went home. At least that was intact. I curled up into a ball on the couch. How could I feel so good and so bad at the same time? I cried. I cried because I couldn’t find my mother and my sister, and because I had lost all sense of reality. Then I realized something that terrified me even more. I sat bolt upright, screaming “Barney! Barney!” The dog never greeted me when I came home. I had to pull myself together. What time was it? The kids would be home in ten minutes. I washed and dried my face, looking at the glow of good health and a morbid emptiness simultaneously staring back at me. I sat by the window. The school bus was coming. It stopped. Four kids got off- JJ Perkins from next door, Bobby and Kristen Daily from across the street, and their neighbor Becky. No Brandon. No Mia. I called the school, praying that they had missed the bus or had some afterschool activity that I’d forgotten about.

“Brookside School,” the secretary answered.

“Hi. This is Jamie Davis. The bus just came but my kids weren’t on it. Brandon and Mia Davis.”

“What grades are they in?"

"Brandon is in fourth grade, Mrs. Boggio’s class. Mia is in second, Ms. Cole’s class.”

“Ms. Davis, we have no record of a Brandon or Mia Davis in either of those classes. Could you have the wrong number? This is Brookside Elementary School.” I hung up the phone. My heart wanted to break out of my chest.

I knew what was going to happen when I called Michael. He would not answer. I tried anyway.

“Hello?” said a male voice that did not belong to my husband.

“Michael? Is that you?”

“I’m sorry. You must have the wrong number."

I curled back up on the couch. All I could do was gasp for breath and sob. There was no one to call. I eventually fell asleep because what else do you do when you’ve lost everything and there’s no one to call? It was morning when I woke to a woman screaming for her husband.

“Jim! Jim! Come down here. Oh my God!”

As I opened my eyes a man in shorts came running into the family room.

“Who the hell are you? Get out of this house!”

The woman grabbed a broom and poked me with the pole end hard in the ribs. “Up and out, right now. Get out of my house!”

“This is my house,” I yelled back. But I looked around and quickly realized that there was nothing familiar here. AI big brown mutt barked at me.

“I don’t know how I got here. I swear it.”

The woman reached into her pocket and started dialing. “I’m calling the police.”

I ran out the front door. My car was gone. I felt my pocket, but I had no keys. I did have a phone. I started running and kept going without knowing where. I heard sirens and slipped between two houses. I hid behind a tree and slumped to the ground exhausted. Even the stiffness in my back was gone. I could talk, run, use my fingers, and do everything I did before my illness. But I had nothing and no one and was totally lost and miserable. I thought about going to the police. I thought about calling my doctor. Then I opened my Uber app.

A driver picked me up in a blue Elantra. I sat in silence as he brought me to the beginning of my problems. We pulled up to Mr. Wikkersome’s house. The door opened before I knocked. A young man with a broad smile welcomed me in.

“I’ve been expecting you.”

“You’ve been expecting me? I’m looking for Mr. Wikkersome. Your father, or grandfather, I suppose.”

“I’m the only Mr. Wikkersome here. I’m glad to see that you are well. Quite well, from what I can see.”

“I’m not well at all.” I started to recount my story, but he put his hand up to stop me.

“I know how your story goes. I have a similar one. But now the transaction is complete. You have been completely healed, as promised, and I have all your joy and happiness. I will be leaving shortly, and you will be staying here. This will be your home as you will be bound to it for the foreseeable future. Once you get someone else’s joy and happiness you will be free to leave and start a new life. Feel free to spruce the place up. You might be here awhile.

“A new life? I want my family back. Where are they?”

“They no longer exist. You see, all the things, and people, who gave you joy have been exchanged for your now excellent health. You feel destitute at this point. I know I did. I came here to find great financial success. Oh, yes, I am very wealthy indeed, and I have set you up with a very adequate bank account to sustain you now and to help you get on your feet once you are emancipated. My happiness and joy came from my good looks, good health, my youth, and my social standing. I was a very popular man. And, well, you saw what I became. Like you, I was stuck here. I had to take your life to gain my own. Now you will take my place. Once someone with a desperate problem comes to you and breaks the mirror, you will have their energy to go forward. I wish you luck. All the information you need is in the top desk drawer.”

The rejuvenated Mr. Wikkersome left through a side door and pulled a bright yellow sports car out of the dilapidated garage. He drove off leaving me miserable and alone. I opened the front door. I stepped forward with my right foot. It disappeared but materialized as soon as I pulled it back. I didn’t exist beyond this house, and I would never exist as myself again. I had my healthy body, but nothing else. I took my phone out of my pocket. My accounts were dead, like me. Dead and waiting.