1
Last week I had
a mirror wall installed in my bedroom. Call me a narcissist, but watching
myself full scale in a mirror feels pretty great. I can check the results of my
Pilates classes and the effort is certainly paying off. Just look at those legs!
I’m still
getting used to the mirror, though. It doubles the size of my room, and
although I love the fake sense of space, it seems overly…empty. Well, ‘lonely’
is the better word. This might sound weird, but sometimes I have the feeling of
being watched from beyond the mirror, that it’s not just me and loneliness
around. But it only lasts a second.
Complete
nonsense. I’m sure this will stop once Craig and I become more intimate and he
starts coming over.
Craig is a cute
Wall Street broker I’ve been going out with—wait, just ‘cute’ isn’t right.
Craig looks like a freaking Adonis, with perfectly defined muscles and a
flowing black mane suited for a shampoo commercial. We’ve had two dates so far,
but things are looking good.
Not to sound
like an obnoxious, self-absorbed ass, but I’ve earned the right to a guy like
Craig, and the mirror wall, and my fancy apartment near Times Square. When
you’re one of the biggest criminal lawyers in New York, you deserve the sweet
cosmopolitan lifestyle that comes with the package.
It’s not all
fun and money, though.
Last week, I
won three pro bonos that made some families in need very happy. I didn’t get a
dime, but that’s okay. Giving back to society is enough. A part of me wonders
if that’s because I’ve wronged it so many times…but it doesn’t matter.
No one cares.
After checking
out my perfectly Pilates-shaped body one last time, I drop over my bed. It’s
been a hard day’s work, like any other.
I spread my
hands over the silky purple sheets, and my reflection does the same: that
honey-eyed beauty with black hair tied into a long braid that cascades over her
chest.
Seeing myself
in a T-shirt and sloppy shorts is unnatural, though. I spend so much time at
the office that anything other than business clothes feels out of place. But
something else is wrong…
Something is
off with my reflection. She stares directly at me, but I’m not staring directly
at her. She widens a long smile and adrenaline shoots through my body, because
my reflection just smiled. I didn’t.
The woman in
the mirror keeps staring at me with a crooked smile that isn’t mine.
What the hell is going on?
I’m alone. With
her. Cold sweat beads on my forehead. The muscles in my legs tighten, but I
shouldn’t run. This is a hallucination, it has to be. I raise my hand and arch
an eyebrow. My reflection follows my actions, as it should. She doesn’t smile,
because I’m not smiling.
Obviously.
That was
weird…I must be too tired; anyone would be if they worked a twelve-hour day. I
should spend less time at the office.
Seeing things
in the mirror can’t be a good sign.
Perhaps a good
night’s sleep is all I need. Falling over the comfortable sheets and wrapping
them around my body, I doze off as easy as counting one, two, three…
“Santana
Banana, wake up.” The whisper cuts through the darkness, but I ignore it.
“Banana,” it
insists.
Banana?
My best friend
Barbie used to call me Banana. As kids, teens, and then Ivy Leaguers, we were
inseparable. But when she slept with my boyfriend five days before graduation,
well, that was it. We never spoke again.
I blink at the
mirror. My reflection stands, but I’m pretty sure I’m lying in bed.
Rubbing my
eyes, I mumble, “What on earth?”
“You know, I
really like dreams,” she says with my voice. “People are less rational when
they dream.”
“What do you
mean?” I sit up straight.
“You’re talking
to your reflection. Doesn’t that seem strange?”
“Huh?”
“My point
exactly.” She giggles. “You’re less resistant, less aware.”
I try to
understand what she means and what’s happening, but I can’t think straight,
like there’s this wall in my brain and I can’t climb it. “You mean I’m
dreaming? Right now?”
She nods, eyes
shining with excitement.
I scratch the
top of my head. “Was I dreaming before? When you smiled?”
“Nah. I figured
it would be better to do this through a dream. It wouldn’t freak you out as
much.” She rests her hands over her hips. “Bad thing about dreams is that you
usually forget them. Could you try to remember something?”
“I guess?”
“Catch me if
you can.”
She starts
running through her room like a manic bee. I jump from the bed and try to fetch
her, following her moves as if her world and mine are one. I’m giggling like a
six-year-old, because I’m Peter Pan, chasing his shadow in Wendy’s room.
“I can’t catch
you, silly! I’m on the other side of the mirror!”
“Catch me,
Banana!” my reflection says.
The scent of
wet grass fills my nostrils and sunlight floods the room. Suddenly, I’m running
through the backyard of my first home. I’m six, maybe seven.
“Catch me!”
Barbie says as we play tag.
My tiny fingers
almost reach her golden locks that shine under the sun, but she speeds up,
adding distance between us.
This whole
situation is so familiar…
Mother soaks us
with the hose as we run around the yard in our flowered bikinis, but I barely
notice her. I need to catch Barbie!
“Stay still,
Barbiiiie!” I stop to suck in some air, but soon I’m running again.
Grown-ups grill
burgers and chat in the background, the sun blessing them. The smell of grilled
meat wrestles with the scent of wet grass and wins. My best memories have these
glorious summer weekends as scenery.
“Come on,
Bananita!” Barbie shakes her bottom mockingly in front of me. The lace of her
pink bikini swings left to right. “Or else I’ll be gone baby, gone!”
I stop and
squint at her. This is nothing new; it’s a memory.
Shaking my
head, I’m back in my grown-up body, standing in my room and peering at my
reflection. Her bright blue eyes stare back at me as if they’re deciphering my
thoughts. But I don’t have blue eyes. Barbie does.
“Catch me,” she
says in a voice that’s not really mine. Then she speeds to the mirror and
stamps her hands against the glass with a rascal smile.
I wake up
gasping for air. I’m in bed, heart beating in my ears. I free myself from the
duvet and step toward the mirror. Sliding two fingers down my cheek, I watch
Mirror-me do the same. I show my tongue and so does she. Of course. It’s only
my reflection.
It was a silly
dream, that’s all.
Calming down, I
study the room in the mirror. There’s nothing different between her room and
mine. Dark brown dressers match perfectly with the dark brown bed frame and
stylish wardrobe behind me, all contrasting with the white from the walls.
Flawless. It didn’t come cheap, of course. My designer is one of the best in
Manhattan.
The alarm clock
over the mirror-dresser shows 00:L0? Shit, it’s seven a.m.!
I run to
Pilates, finish at eight, shower, and after bumping into five people to catch
my train—which I almost missed—I arrive at work at nine. My hair is messed up
like a cuckoo’s nest, but after five minutes in the bathroom, Santana Jones,
junior partner and rising star, is ready for another day.
Five seconds
after I enter my office, my intern, a guy who could be handsome if he didn’t
look fifteen, knocks on the door and lets himself in.
“Morning, Miss
Jones. Mr. Baker has requested you to review the file on Chase Mayhew.”
Checking the
papers on my desk I say, “Already did, Jim. Not taking the case.”
“But…”
One raised
eyebrow, that’s all it takes, a silent message saying, I’ll deal with Mr. Baker. “Anything else, Jim?”
“Of course, I
apologize, sorry,” he stutters, then clears his throat. “Bob from Bingham
Associates called. He’s offering seven thousand.”
“Oh really?” I
pick up the phone and dial. “Hi Bob, Santana Jones.”
“Morning,
Santana.” He’s gloating, I can tell from his tone. “Did you hear about my
offer?”
“Yes, I did.”
My red nail polish is chipping, so I add a mental note to schedule a manicure.
He lets out a
happy victory laugh. “You’d have to be crazy to refuse it, huh?”
“Well Bob, your
client accused my client of theft and battery, when all he tried to do was
help. Now my client has been proven innocent and your client is filthy rich.”
He’s silent for
a second. “Let’s not get carried away now, I think—”
“I smell
countersuit here, Bob, and I know I’ll get more than seven thousand if I go
ahead. So save us the trouble and give me an offer I can consider.”
He waits for a
while.
“Fine. Ten
thousand.”
“Oh, that’s
very generous. Fuck you, Bob.” I slam down the phone.
My intern
stares at me.
“What?” I ask,
but the phone rings before he can tell me. It’s Bob’s number. “Santana Jones
here.”
“This is a pro
bono for Christ’s sake!” he barks from the other side. “What’s in it for you?”
“I’m still
going to fight for my client even though he can’t afford me.”
Bob is silent
for a while. “Fifteen thousand, that’s the last of it.”
“Let me check
with my client. Send my regards to Jill.” I hang up.
I turn to my
intern and wonder for a second if baby face could ever grow a beard. Probably
not.
“Jim, tell Mr.
Trotter that we got three thousand more than we had discussed. I think he’ll be
very happy.”
Jim nods, but
before he leaves he turns back to me, mouth half-open. He wants to say
something but for the life of him, he can’t.
“Yes?”
“Nothing Miss
Jones.”
I like Jim.
He’s always ready to help and eager to learn, but he’s scared of everything. He
has zero self-confidence. It puzzles me how a guy like him manages to survive
in the concrete jungle.
“Jim, you can
ask me.”
“W-was it wise
to curse at another attorney?”
A snicker comes
out. “Definitely not.”
“Then why did
you do it?”
“Because I know
Bob is a gentlemen’s club kind of guy. He likes his whiskey dry, his cigars
Cuban, and his women in the kitchen. He won’t respect or fear me unless he sees
me as one of his peers.”
Jim’s lips
shape an ‘O.’ “Meaning you know how he ticks?”
I wink at him.
“A fine skill for a lawyer, Jimmy-boy.”
He glances at
the ground, a tiny smile curling on the left side of his face. “Mr. Baker said
you can read anyone like a book in only two minutes.”
“Not nearly as
fast as Mr. Baker himself.”
Jim nods and
excuses himself before going for the door, leaving me alone.
He looks up to
me and I wish he didn’t. I’m clearly not the best role model. Then again, it’s
not my fault that two psychopaths walked. The system was built to protect my
peace of mind: The judge ruled the sentence, the evidence was lacking, but the
lawyer? She was doing her job, that’s all. She’s not freeing scumbags back into
society. The system is.
So why does the
idea of someone looking up to me sound so wrong?
I shake my head, sending the thoughts away,
but they land somewhere else: the phone, its keypad, and Barbie. I was chasing
her in my backyard, and I was chasing her in my room. In that crazy dream,
Barbie was my reflection.
What does that
tell me?
I lean back in
my chair, and a tiny part of my brain that hasn’t fully evolved yet, tells me
that there must be a reason for the dream. Even though that’s nonsense, my
right hand hovers over the phone.
I know we all make
mistakes, God as my witness —wherever He is, if He is— but Barbie’s was
catastrophically big. Ending our friendship felt like cutting off my right arm,
literally and metaphorically, but what was I supposed to do? Best friends don’t
sleep with each other’s boyfriends. Besides, what would I say after all this
time? Hey, had a dream about you
yesterday, and, um, yeah…that’s it?
Perhaps I’m
overthinking it. Maybe calling her will shut up this irrational little voice
that tells me it’s the right thing to do.
I pick up the
phone and dial the numbers I’ll always know by heart. I’m faced with eternal
ringing, then a perky voice says, “Hi, you’ve reached Barbara Townsend. Leave
your messa―” I hang up.
There. She’s
not home. I did my share of the bargain.
Three seconds
later the phone rings and my heart stops.
“Santana
Jones.”
It’s a work
call about a case that will hopefully increase my quarterly bonus by ten
percent: a famous football player caught selling cocaine. I forget all about
Barbie for the rest of the day.
