IN THE MIRROR
WILLOW
For a moment, I’m confused.
The last time I saw Mr. Z and his Elisabeth was about two weeks ago.
They brought a basket of food, extra sheets, and a second potted cactus that had me sputtering apologetically when I had to admit I killed the first one.
I killed the second one, too, thinking that it was safe on the kitchen windowsill.
Spoiler alert: it wasn’t, and I hope the Zs aren’t on the way over now because I don’t want to inevitably explain what happened to Elisabeth’s second gift in the time between visits.
During the last one, I sat with the gorgeous brunette with a pair of eyes like diamonds, watching her watch Mr. Z as he inspected a loose cabinet hinge in the kitchen.
Us girls—because Elisabeth, despite her snooty attitude, looks to be a couple of years younger than me—sipped iced tea at the small kitchen table while he checked out the state of the apartment.
In his charming way, Mr. Z asked about my plans for the summer and after, and I mentioned that I was still torn on whether I was heading back to New York for September.
Was that all I mentioned?
“You told us that you missed being outside. That you were hoping to find yourself in some sort of adventure this summer. And that’s when I asked you if you believe in magic.”
That’s right. I remember now. I thought it was such a strange segue.
I was hoping to go on a hike or a mountain getaway, something where it could just be me by myself in the outdoors for a couple of days, and though I was confessing that to Elisabeth, Mr. Z was the one who asked me if I believe in magic, of all things.
I giggled and said sure because, well, I do. All kinds of magic, too. I believe in wishes and dreams, and everything that has Daphne rolling her eyes and calling me childish, but I like to think that my kids have just kept me young at heart.
Mr. Z nodded, then returned his attention to tightening the screw on the hinge. That was the end of that conversation, and I have no idea what that has to do with anything until my landlord says, “What about fate, Willow? Do you believe in fate?”
Do I?
“Yeah. I guess.”
Do I believe that my parents were meant to develop the same sickness and die within weeks of each other? I don’t want to. But do I believe that things happen for a reason regardless, and now I’m standing on the precipice of making a decision that will change my life forever?
That I’m at the crossroads, and I need to go ahead and choose?
I think of that email that’s gone unanswered, and the job listings that I bookmarked.
Is that fate?
I don’t know, but Mr. Z’s tone is chiding as he says, “Don’t guess, my girl. Be sure.”
I open my mouth, flounder a bit, and pause when I hear Elisabeth’s throaty voice on the other side of the phone.
“Husband. Don’t tease her. We need someone to come watch the grounds for us while we go away for the week. She wants to commune with nature. It’s a simple arrangement. I don’t see why you must complicate everything.”
“That’s just my nature,” Mr. Z says, his voice softening as he addresses his wife.
I can’t help myself. “I’m still here, in case you’re wondering.”
“Of course, Willow, dear. And my beautiful bride is right. What would you say about a camping trip?”
My ears prick up. Mr. Z and his wife own this apartment, but it’s not their only property.
They live in the more secluded part of the state, on an estate with a large mansion and rolling grounds.
Mr. Z showed it to me on his phone, boasting about the flowers in the garden that his wife tends to.
I remember being jealous of its beauty, and the amount of land they owned.
He continues, “We have a rustic cabin on our grounds for those who need to find a little peace sometimes. If you’d do us the favor of making sure the estate is unbothered while my wife and I go on a little trip, you can stay as long as you like.
I’ll even come and pick you up to bring you here so you don’t get lost, and when you’re ready to return to the condo, I’ll arrange for your ride home. ”
If my cousin was given such an offer, she’d say it was suspicious. That it was too good to be true. She’d decline for multiple reasons, and not only because Daphne hates the outdoors.
But I don’t. And unlike my ball-busting cousin, I like to think people are intrinsically good, and that Mr. Z’s offer to let me camp in his cabin is a fair trade for a little off-hands housesitting.
“When do you need me to be ready?”
Turns out, my landlord and his wife are as impulsive as I am.
That, or they had a housesitter who backed out on them last minute and now they’re stuck with me.
Either way, I’m slightly stunned to hear that he will pick me up first thing in the morning and bring me to his grounds so I can have my own camping adventure.
The cabin has running water. It has electricity.
It has air conditioning installed in the bedroom window.
Mr. Z wants to assure me that, while I’ll be closer to nature than I am living in a condo in the New Jersey suburbs, I won’t be roughing it.
I guess, when he looks at me, he doesn’t see someone who’s willing to give up all the amenities.
In a way, he’s right.
I’m a girly girl. Always have been. I don’t like to get dirt under my nails, and I freak out when I see a bug.
Still, I crave that peace I’m searching for, and I like the idea of having a few days to myself.
No cars driving down the street behind my condo’s kitchen window.
No radios blaring in the parking lot. I think my young downstairs neighbor, Mona, is the sweetest thing, but she’s become obsessed with this summer’s big radio hit and through the thin walls separating our apartments, I hear her singing her heart out before her parents put her to bed.
More than that, I can escape the expectations put on me for a little while. I’ll have to let Daph know I’ll be out of reach for a few days—who knows what cell service will be like on the Zs private land—and I might even miss another brunch with the girls, but that’s okay. I’ll make it up to them.
Besides, it’s not like I don’t know they all think of me as the flaky, scatterbrained one of our group anyway.
I’ve spent years trying to prove otherwise. Eventually, I gave up. I like who I am, even when I’m being this wishy-washy and indecisive, and if I distract myself by packing for my trip and loading my car up rather than get in touch with any of my friends in the city… oh, well.
Mr. Z offered to pick me up. No, thanks.
I didn’t spend the money to keep my car in a paid parking lot beneath my apartment in Manhattan only to not drive it now that I have a reason to.
Besides, even if he assures me that it’ll be difficult to find his home, I’m determined to prove that I can at least follow a GPS.
Luckily, he agreed, and I made arrangements with my landlord and his wife to meet up with them tomorrow at ten.
For now, I packed, then I finally got that pizza I was craving.
Feeling both excited and a little nervous, I spent the rest of the night binging a series I started last week.
Without any TV or any stable internet at the cabin, I might as well finish up this latest season before I go to bed.
It’s pretty late when I finally call it quits.
Definitely dark out, and I finally closed the windows hours ago so I don’t have to waste my time after I turn the television off.
I just grab my phone, telling myself I should charge it so it’s full for my trip in the morning—and I should probably double-check that I packed a charger since I so often forget to plug the darn thing in—as I head toward my bedroom.
For the second time today, I jolt when the phone buzzes against my palm.
I know it’s way too late for it to be Mr. Z—unless he’s calling tomorrow off—but when I see Daphne’s name on the screen, I don’t know if I want to smile or wince that I completely forgot to tell her about my plans for the rest of the week.
It doesn’t help that her text basically calls me out for ignoring her the last few days.
Daph
Proof of life?
I resist the urge to pull a Daph myself and roll my eyes.
My cousin has been doing this since I moved out of New York and into the condo.
In New York, at least, we were only a subway ride away from each other.
She knew my roommates, and if I wasn’t answering, she’d just call one of them to get me on the line.
Now that I’m a state away? Because she considers me incapable of surviving alone without periodic verification, I get texts like this.
I mean, to be fair, I did once lock myself out of my old apartment while barefoot and carrying a bowl of cereal.
None of my roommates were home that Saturday, and I had to call Daphne to use the spare key I gave her to let me in.
For the same reason, I gave her one to the condo just in case, but you think she’d give me a little more credit.
In the last year, I feel like I’ve grown up more than ever. And, even so, she still treats me like I’m her child.
I type a quick message:
I’m still alive, Daph
Before I send it, I have second thoughts. Then I erase it. A flippant message like that won’t be enough to assuage my overprotective cousin. For all I know, she’ll accuse me of being an intruder who broke into the condo and stole my phone or something.
Walking into the bedroom, I flip the lightswitch on at the same time as I open the camera app. I pause in front of the tall standing mirror, smiling for Daphne as I snap a selfie.
Then, because I’m secretly as vain as my cousin, I open up my photos to make sure my proof of life pic doesn’t show me with a big zit on my nose or some basil in my teeth.
My hair’s a little flat from where I was curled up on the couch, and my daytime clothes—a soft yellow t-shirt and denim shorts—are a far cry from the pajamas I’m about to change into, but I think I look pretty—
Hang on.
Wait a second…
Scrunching my forehead, I zoom in. Not on my face, though. Nope. I see something strange near my feet, and I enlarge the photo to get a better look at it.
It’s…
It’s…
It’s…
“A puppy?” I say out loud.
Because that’s what it is. A small brown puppy with orange eyes is in the picture, down by my white house slippers.
“Puppy?” I say again, looking at the floor. I don’t see anything, and I spin around, keeping my eyes cast toward the carpet. “Where are you, puppy? Sir? Where did you go, little sir?”
A small yip is the only answer I get—and then I get another one that has my mouth falling open, my fingers flexing, and my forgotten phone falling to the floor.
Where is the puppy?
In the freaking mirror.