Ariel Mitchell Williams
Her Reflection
To my mom, on the 5th anniversary of her death
To my mom, on the 5th anniversary of her death
Her eyes smile at the corners. Her whole face is a smile. Even at rest, she exudes joy. Contentment. Comfort in her own skin. Her fingers expertly search the counter for deodorant, toothpaste, a hairbrush. These are the items she uses daily, quickly, to prepare to face another day. She’s half dressed, leaving her shirt until the last preparations have been finished. Almost imperceptibly, she takes the smallest moment to check her appearance in the mirror. Her eyes dart from her brushed out wave of curls to her chest where a long maroon scar peeks from her bra. In one fluid movement she pulls her shirt over her head and leaves the space swirling. The strange stillness a distant memory erased by the nonstop momentum that will fill her day.
...
She lies down on a surgical table. Her right breast carefully placed and compressed through an opening under her. She holds her breath as they take picture after picture, making completely sure she is in perfect position. Her face is turned to the plain white wall. Her eyes are closed. She imagines herself lying on a warm towel in the soft sand, the relentless comfort of ocean waves greeting her ears as the medical aide allows her to hear the device that will shoot the tiny titanium clip into the place in her breast that could be cancerous. So she won't be surprised or scared. It’s like the plosive scoff of a petulant child. She is not alone. She allows the tears to fall onto the table that cradles her face and prays for herself. For her children.
...
“You look just like your mom.” She studies the face in the profile picture. A face framed by defined curls, a painted ocean wave in the background. Spurred by one typed comment, she searches the picture for the familiar face of comfort in her own. The smile of the eyes, the mouth, her whole face. But all she sees is the tired pull of time and loneliness, her face lifted in a grin that doesn’t know its own happiness. She sees the similarities in the slope of the nose, the length of the hair, but mostly she sees the commenter’s desire for her to be the woman who isn't. The woman they no longer can see because she’s passed on. Who they need her to be. How can she be? She is herself.
...
They will leave in the clip if it’s benign. It won’t be. It can’t be. Not with her family history. Just like her mom. She’s convinced of the result before the doctors conclude the biopsy. Her grief stricken resignation is contagious. They allow the tears to fall as she dresses and leaves, carrying the burden of her life and fears alone. They move on to another cameo in another patient's story. She sits in the airy hospital lobby. The sunshine streams in. Every corner of the room is filled with life and people living: a caregiver helping an elderly patient to her seat; a man pushing quickly through the people only to have to wait for his Uber; another man sits at a makeshift cafe table office talking on the phone about the intricacies of the constitution. All the time people flow in and out, like dust on the air. She waits for her ride too. Nearby, a pianist glories in the music she makes. Sound amplifies the space with the echoes, bouncing from window to window. The tune is mysterious, familiar, then known. “It is well with my soul. It is well. It is well with my soul.”
...
She enters her room like a sigh. What has been held in is now released as she is greeted by familiar surroundings. Her bed. Her pillow. Her safety. She is alone. She allows herself to cry. She wills it. She needs to free the empty, gasping sobs, compressing her heart and lungs. She lays still. Time passes. After eternity she stands. She’s not wearing the right bra. Zero to one hundred, she sweeps into constant movement. Her comfort now is taking care of what needs doing. As she goes about her business, her shoulders reluctantly raise towards her ears. She goes to the mirror and carefully investigates the damage. She looks at her reflection. Unsupported. Unprotected. Unencumbered. Face splotchy, hair frizzed, she looks directly into her own eyes. Her gaze drops. She allows her focus to rest on her wound. She sees her mother’s scar, long and maroon. She remembers. She sees the same invisible pause, the same flurry of action, the same sudden awareness of her mortal flaw. She carefully dons the sports bra and goes to the kitchen for an ice pack.
Days later the bandages will come off and she will see clearer. Her wound is small, a centimeter long scar, red purple almost invisible, camouflaged by the bruises that surround it. She’ll look up at her own face. The lips pursed in worry, the lined forehead, the soft searching eyes. The curls framing her face. The sloping nose. This body is not her mother’s. She looks at herself. She allows herself to be. to imagine her own scar: one speck healing, an unobtrusive mark on otherwise healthy, aging, calcifying breast flesh. She imagines living years with her family. She imagines watching them grow and growing with them. She imagines doing. Being. Living. The scar is proof. She knows in that moment that her life is hers. She looks into her own eyes. Her reflection.
Whatever time is left for her, she will live it.
Days later the bandages will come off and she will see clearer. Her wound is small, a centimeter long scar, red purple almost invisible, camouflaged by the bruises that surround it. She’ll look up at her own face. The lips pursed in worry, the lined forehead, the soft searching eyes. The curls framing her face. The sloping nose. This body is not her mother’s. She looks at herself. She allows herself to be. to imagine her own scar: one speck healing, an unobtrusive mark on otherwise healthy, aging, calcifying breast flesh. She imagines living years with her family. She imagines watching them grow and growing with them. She imagines doing. Being. Living. The scar is proof. She knows in that moment that her life is hers. She looks into her own eyes. Her reflection.
Whatever time is left for her, she will live it.
Ariel Mitchell, playwright, hails from an island in the Chesapeake. BYU and NYU alumnus, New Musical Inc. 2017 New Voices Project Finalist, Dramatists Guild 2017 Baltimore Footlights Reading Series Feature, and storyteller to two inquisitive sons. Other plays include A Second Birth (THML Theatre Company 2019 NYC Premiere, Harold and Mimi Steinberg 2013 National Student Playwriting Award, 2013 David Mark Cohen Award, Samuel French publication), about an Afghan girl who was raised as a boy, and The Shower Principle (2018 NY Winterfest), a two-person experiment in the isolating existence that is new parenthood. For more see https://www.arielmitchellwriter.com.