In the Mirror

         







         Steve found that the best way to avoid drinking is to avoid glass. Plastic was his new ally in sobriety. Every glass cup, ashtray, even his cologne bottles, were thrown away and forgotten. He was Steve Zahn, resident of his own plastic biosphere. He had realized this method the last time he fucked up (Steve never liked the phrase ‘fell off the wagon.’ Seemed like a euphemism.) He had been visiting his 4-year-old daughter, a young victim a bloody divorce that Steve had more or less lost, if you’re keeping score by dollars.

His ex-wife’s home was resplendent with light that seemed to saturate the fresh, unstained white carpet. This place had made his head hurt more than once when recovering from an all-night bender, but today, believe it or not, he was starting to feel okay with the fact that Karen had won custody of young Brianna. Growing up here, his innocent daughter would not have to come to grips with brown carpeting stained with beer, or empty Dixie cups filled with cigarette butts, or a father who slurred the words to her favorite bedtime story. She would grow in a world full of light and cleanliness, a world where she knew where to put the dish when she was done, and a world where the garbage never overflowed. And with that notion, Steve began to think that with some time, he might be able to join her more and more. His head would clear away the skewed reality of double-shots and jukeboxes, and he may become a welcome visitor to this world of light and love.

         The ‘acceptance’ portion of his AA meetings was, as warned, the most difficult step. It’s very painful for a man to reexamine past situations from another’s point of view. But after a long struggle with his ego, the last string being his desperate attempt to hold onto his dignity, he realized that sometimes the only way to salvage your dignity is to lose it.

         But Steve only realized this after. While in this pleasant mood of speculation, lying on the immaculate living room floor and playing catch with his daughter; he had forgotten a very important lesson.

         “Remember folks, this is a long tunnel we’re in. If I can convince you of one thing, it’s that. Realizing that you’re a drunk, being ashamed that you’re a drunk, and even being positive that you will never again take a drink, those things do not make you any less of an alcoholic!” The Reverend Pollick, and former alcoholic and drug abuser, preached, “I must warn you against kidding yourselves. Yes, these meetings are meant to be a positive reinforcement, but I do not mean to sugarcoat your recovery! Be mindful of being sure!”

         And while Steve lay on his ex-wife’s floor, he was indeed having premature thoughts of the good life and the quick recovery. That was when Rhonda, the cleaning lady, began to dust the vases.

         The slight clicking of the matching brown vases from Pier One instantly fired off a terribly sweet mental image in Steve’s mind. He could clearly see two shot glasses held in his faithful bartender Crease’s weathered palm, a few remnant drops of Jim Beam wading in the bottom like amber pools. A click of the billiard balls in the corner, the few empty beer bottles on Janice’s tray wobbling with the addition of another, and the registered sound of a requested ashtray. Steve could taste the whiskey in his salivation, could almost feel the specks of ash on his tongue, and the sweet-pungent smell of the honky-tonk unisex bathroom.

         He had told himself No! Not now! Never again! But he only followed one of his three responses, and not now ended early that evening, not one block away from the corner liquor store.

         But as most recovering alcoholics realize, you learn as you go. “Everyone’s different,” they’d say at the meetings, “Not all of you drink for the same reasons, so one approach will not work for everyone!”

         Steve disagreed with the first part. Everyone sitting in that damned meeting hall drank for the same reason: to get drunk. And for the most part, the call for alcohol did not stem from an abusive father, a broken heart or unfulfilled dreams anymore. He felt quite confident that every person sitting on those chairs wanted a drink because it felt unnatural to be sober, and even more unnatural not to be doing something about it.

         But with his new awareness of his psychological deterrents, he felt an increasing strength fortifying his resolve against the bottle. Being conscious in the am was beginning to feel routine. He was glad to be shedding the drunk jet lag, where breakfast food seems tempting at 1:00pm and the dark comes so quickly the light seemed like only a hiccup. It was Wednesday, 8:29am.

         

         Steve rolled out of bed briskly and already felt like fixing the bed. The morning light drifted through the white shades of his bedroom and invited him to the new day. His answering machine bulb was flashing, signifying three new messages. And since Steve turned the ringer off at ten nowadays, he had no qualms about deleting the messages without listening to them. Some of his closer drinking buddies had shown a sincere, if not somewhat forced, respect for his goal of sobriety. But there were others who panicked at the thought that Steve would quit sharing their vice, and decided nightly to remind him of his folly. He felt bad about his friends, he knew he would miss the dart games and skirt watching, he would miss the way they laughed, but he had resolved to make those sacrifices.

         Steve opened his bathroom door and rubbed his eyes. After a quick swig of the plastic water-bottle on his sink, he looked up into the mirror. If the bottle had been glass, it would have shattered.

         That unmistakable childhood terror clutched him instantly as if he was four again. His hands grasped the porcelain sink to keep himself from falling back. He tried to look away, but his eyes betrayed him. For minutes, Steve stood and stared at the reflection in the mirror, his mind unable to grasp what it beheld.

         Staring back at him, clear as day and real as death, was the face of a young Mexican teenager. His expression was blank and unassuming. Steve did not yet register the fact that this apparition's eyelids blinked occasionally, and the muscles in the cheeks would twitch ever so faintly. What he was seeing was not a picture of a man, or a lifeless copy of a person, but a person entire. His hair was black and cropped short, his skin tan and clean. His eyes were dark brown and piercing. The boy was handsome and healthy. His skinny body (stopping at the bottom of the mirror near his waist) was sensuous and unblemished.

         After what seemed an eternity, Steve backed away from the sink. He half-expected the figure to copy his movements, but the boy stood still. His gaze followed Steve’s, but neither his eyes nor his body ever moved. Steve tested this by moving briskly from side to side to no avail.

         “Oh my God…” he said, pushing his face into his hands in fear, “What is happening to me….Karen, oh what is this?”

         He kept his eyes concentrated on the floor. While his unbridled fear and panic swirled about in his gut, he tried to focus his thoughts on something real.

         “Okay, just concentrate, Steve. This…this is a lapse, some sort of withdrawal induced hallucination,” he slapped himself in the forehead, “Think through this dammit, get past it. Maybe the Old Fart upstairs is trying to tell ya something. Come on, think! Something in your brain just clicked the wrong way is all. You’ve been doing some damage to that particular organ for years now, right? Now just…click it back! Think about….think about Brianna.”

         He envisioned his daughter sitting on her new trike; giggling and watching him smile. She had no intention of even trying to ride it, she was just as content sitting on it and watching him. She had sat by his side the entire time he assembled it, and now that it was finished, his darling Brianna sat upon it as if her only concern was to make Steve glad he had finished it.

         “You did it Daddy!” she exclaimed with her arms raised.

         “You like it Br’er bear?”

         “You did it! You did it!”

         Steve began to sob in his hands, his nostalgia overwhelmed by his terror.

“Nothing’s going to take me away from you baby,” Steve said wiping his eyes, “Not the bottle, and not this. Just help me baby, help me remember good things and forget the bad things. Please Bri, hold Daddy’s hand in this bathroom, and help me make it go away!”

He closed his eyes and stood up straight. After a deep breath, he opened them.

         Staring back at him unaffected was the boy. It may have just been his own imagination, Steve thought later on, but the Mexican’s expression seemed the slightest bit amused. The feeling went as quickly as it came, but he could’ve sworn the he saw a small flicker of enjoyment on the Mexican’s face.

         Steve ran out of the bathroom, leaped into his bed, and buried his face into his pillow.



         After a few minutes of hiding, he quickly shot up, grabbed his coat, and walked out of his apartment. He never even considered looking into the mirror again. He knew it was still there.



The local parish was old and still clung to the appreciation of the past, although the large wooden cross on the door had been recently refinished. Steve pushed it with his hand without regard and ran inside the empty chapel.

         A few sisters were attending to the potted flowers hung by the stained glass windows. They stopped instantly but calmly. They made their way to the middle row between the pews and walked slowly towards Steve, who was almost running.

         “Is there something you need?” the black nun asked. Her voice resonated a conditioned reassurance and peace.

         “Umm…yes, yes, thank you sister. Is Father Pollick in?” Steve replied, catching his breath. His hands were trembling.

         “Father Pollick will be in shortly,” the elderly one said, “Come and sit down. Be comfortable. You’re safe here, our Lord welcomes the troubled with open arms and a kind heart, didn’t you know? Now here, come and sit here. Joanna, bring our guest a drink of water.”

         “Thank you sisters,” Steve said, and sat in the front pew, “I need to speak with Father Pollick. I need to speak with him.”

         A younger nun slid her hand over his. “You’re trembling sir. Are you all right?”

         “Umm, yeah, yeah,” Steve replied. He had almost said he wanted a drink. The words quite literally were forming on his mouth. He was suddenly very grateful, and perhaps a little proud, that he had ran here instinctively rather than Crease’s pub, “Thank God, huh?”

         The nun smiled, “Indeed. Now is there anything we can do for you before Father Pollick arrives? He should be here soon, maybe fifteen minutes.”

         Whiskey. Beer. Whiskey.

         “No, the water’ll just about do it, thanks. M-maybe I need to pray?”

         The nun clenched his hand gently. “We all do, my friend. And why not now, why not always? Our Lord awaits our words with an attentive ear. Shouldn’t we also do the same for His, hmm?” She patted his hand and stood up, “I’m going to go grab a broom and continue my service! But don’t worry, just because my hands will be tending to the dirt, that doesn’t mean I won’t join you in your prayer. Father Pollick will be in soon, God’s love on you.”

         The nun floated away. Another brought Steve a Dixie cup full of cool water, and left him. For a moment Steve though about praying, but gave up. He didn’t know how. He knew how to bow his head and listen to the audible prayers he so frequently heard these days, but when his face hit the pillow at night, he couldn’t figure out how it was done.

         After ten minutes or so of blank speculation, Father Pollick’s figure protruded around the corner of the front altar. He regarded Steve with a small smile.

         “Hello Steven. Glad you could drop by!” he exclaimed. Roy Pollick was a big, boisterous man. Steve sometimes wondered how he had gained his title in the Church. His sermons were loud and very to the point. He had a hearty laugh and a tight embrace. His tenderness and love toward his flock were almost equal to his forceful and completely deliberate honesty.

         “Hi Father. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

         “Course. Follow me to my office. Unload your burden on me there, I’ll take it from you with open arms.”

         Steve sometimes wondered if Father Pollick was making fun of people when he said things like that. Or was he being honest? A mixture of both, perhaps.

         “Right behind you. Thanks.”



“So, how's the fight going son? Fighting the good one?”

         “Well, yeah really for the most part. I mean, I won’t be able to say ‘I haven’t had a drink for six months’ until four months from now, but no lapses, no,” Steve said.

         “Good, good. Long, hard fight there, Steve-o. You have my support every step of the way, you know. Like I’ve said before, there isn’t a devil in the bottle, no, there’s a devil in you, and he’s very thirsty. You have to learn to enjoy killing that devil, you have to love to see him beg!” 

         “Yes, yes I know. But Father…I didn’t come here because I got loaded and screwed the pooch last night or anything. I came here…well…because…”

         “Because you’re terrified.”

         “Yes.”

         “That seems pretty clear Steven. Ha! From the way the sisters accosted me when I came in, I almost thought someone had ran inside and screamed ‘sanctuary!’ But please believe me son, you don’t need to be afraid anymore. And no topic is taboo. I take confessions, remember? Whoo!”

         Steve had to grin in spite of himself.

“Now,” Father Pollick resumed, “Please, tell me what’s bothering you.”

         Steve said and leaned forward. “I saw something.”

         Father Pollick’s eyebrow raised a bit but he did not interrupt.

         “In my mirror. Not half an hour ago,” Steve said. He stopped, not knowing what to say next. Father Pollick sat patiently with his hands folded, “I mean, I suppose hallucinations are common when you’re dealing with an addiction, right? But Father, this was…”

         “Tell me what you saw, Steve-o. We’ll start with that ok? One step at a time.”

         “It was a boy. A teenager. Staring back at me from where my reflection was supposed to be.”

         Father Pollick leaned back in his chair. “Did he speak to you?”

         “No. No words, no movements of any kind, even when I moved. But he was alive, Father. He was there, he was looking at me.”

         “How was he looking?”

         “Well, sort of a blank stare I suppose. But I swear he, he regarded me somehow. He was looking at me.”

         “Hmm, okay, no attempts to converse. Did he appear to have an intention?”

         Steve pondered the question. “I don’t know. I haven’t really had time to think about that. But…no, I don’t think he wanted anything, is that what you mean?”

         “You obviously didn’t recognize him.”

         “No, nothing like that. Which is weird, Father. If this was some hallucination or waking dream or something, wouldn’t it come from me somehow? From inside my head?”

         “Well, haven’t you ever seen a person in a dream that you didn’t recognize?”

         “Yeah, but this wasn’t like some distorted face, this was a person. As real as if I had bumped into him on the street! Oh, and he was Mexican I think.”

         “You think?” Father Pollick asked.

         “No, he was.”

         Father Pollick leaned forward again; the leather of his desk chair creaked with the motion. “What was your reaction?”

         “What the hell do you think my reaction was!” Steve yelled, his hand beginning to tremble again.

         “Fear, I would assume,” Pollick replied, unfazed by Steve’s outburst.

         “Yes fear. Terror, panic, pick one. I froze, just staring at him. God! His face is so clear in my head,” Steve said, “Do you believe me?”

         “I believe you saw something, yes. But we’ll get to that. I want to hear exactly what happened. How long did you look at him? Did you try to speak to the young man? Please Steven, if I’m scaring you with these questions, I understand. But let’s go back over it, whaddya say?”

          “Ok. Sorry Father.” Steve took a deep breath and sighed, “Man I need…”

         Father Pollick slammed his hand on the table. “No you don’t. You never did. Now we’re gonna  move one. Tell me what happened next.”

         “Ok, well I finally broke away from his eyes and just looked at the floor.”

         “Steven, did you pray?”

         “Yes. Well, no. I started to speak to my daughter.”

         “Mm-hmm. This calmed you?”

         “It just got me together a little bit, I think. I always seem to think about her when I’m afraid, or when I’m feeling that guilt we always talk about. I don’t use my daughter as a crutch or a method or anything, it just helps to remember the one…the one good thing I have,” Steve said.

         “Ok, and after you got yourself together again, you looked back into the mirror. And he was still there.”

         “Yes. Still there.”

         “Ok then, now…”

         “There was something else.”

         “Yes?”

         “I don’t know…maybe not, but the boy’s face, he looked a little smug. Like he was trying not to laugh or something. Could’ve been nothing, I don’t know. It was only for a second.”

         Pollick slid back in his chair and stood up. He paced toward his open window, and tapped his chin with his forefinger.

         “He looked like he was trying not to laugh…after you got done thinking about your daughter. Trying to use her to calm yourself down,” Pollick said. Steve started up a bit at this, but Pollick stopped him before he could speak, “Think about what you said earlier. If this apparition, this vision, whatever it was (we’re not going to get into labeling yet), maybe it did come from you. If this young man found satisfaction in your attempt to think of your daughter to calm yourself, then maybe that came from you.”

         “Yeah, but I’m not even sure I saw it. Maybe I only imagined it, and that came from my head, not him.”

         “Ok,” Pollick replied, “We may be getting ahead of ourselves. I’m no psychiatrist; I just found it interesting. Ok then, now, is it safe to say that was all of it?”

         “Yeah. I ran out of the bathroom, hid under the covers like a scared little girl, then ran down here.”

         “And here you are, Stevie,” Pollick said.

The two of them looked at each other for a moment. Steve was still unsure what Pollick had made of this so far. But they were past the interrogation Q’s and A’s. Now onto the I’m going to say as politely as possible that I think you’re crazy part of the program.

“All right,” Father Pollick started, “Let’s do this then. What do you think it was?”

“Do I think it was a hallucination? Or who do I think he was?”

“Answer any way you like.”

“Ok. I’m obviously going to comfort myself with the thought it was a hallucination, possibly set on somehow by my stopping drinking. But his face was so vivid, Father. So real. Deep down, I don’t know that I can convince myself that it was just my imagination. I could see the damn imperfections in his skin!” Steve sighed, “Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. And pardon me Father, but it scared the shit out of me. I am absolutely terrified of looking in the mirror.”

Father Pollick leaned over his desk and looked Steve in the eyes. “Think that might have been the problem to begin with?”



Steve left the chapel with a Bible and a psychiatrist’s number in the same hand. He could almost hear the two of them arguing.

Father Pollick had assured him this was only the first of their discussions about the incident, and that he was intent on figuring it out with him. But he admitted it was his first responsibility to get Steve the right care. This problem may very well be a mental one, and he must seek the help of a mental professional.

“But be wise, Steve. We live in a world where believing something unproven is a fool’s wish. I want you to speak with this man, Dr. Gheric, and listen to what he says. But keep this kernel in the back of your mind. For every thing we know, there are at least two things we don’t. These PH.D folks know more about the world than I’ll ever know, but on the flip side what I believe is more than they could ever find. Get help, I won’t go against what they say, just remember. There are things we can’t see, and there are reasons why they’re there.

Keep that devil wanting. Kick him in the teeth. Don’t give that worthless creature a drop. Good luck my boy, call me soon!”



He had to walk past the liquor store to get to his car. He hadn’t even noticed it on the way to the church, but walking past it now was unbearable. His hand holding the Bible and slip of paper began to tremble. The devil Father Pollick had spoken of began to speak: Forget the overpaid mental chemist, and toss that tattered Jesus catalogue to the street, Stevie! Inside there is the medicine you need! Go see Dr. Jack. Healing does not come from listening, it comes from tasting…swallowing…tasting…

Steve bit down on his tongue, hard. He quickened his pace, and his body began to involuntarily jerk every few seconds. If there were any spectators, they would obviously assume he was a nut.

“No, they’d assume I was a drunk. Keep moving!” Steve said to himself, and turned the corner onto his street.

         He knew where he was going even before he closed the car door. He wanted something right now just as much as that devil wanted that drink. He wanted to hold his Brianna.



Karen Caprice felt safe. Vincent’s arm hung over her shoulder. He was snoring beautifully, if that was possible. She could hear the faint sound of cartoons emanating from the living room, and an occasional giggle from Bri. The late morning light streamed through the windows, like always. She loved the light here; it was so much brighter now. The windows were exactly the same when she was with Steve, the sun still hung around in the morning while Steve slept one off, an empty bourbon bottle propped up against the nightstand lamp. The outside was the same as well, she supposed, but the sunlight only hit a dark hole back then.

She had never realized how much she had missed sleep. Why did it take her so long to see it? The memories locked back in her mind of lying on the pillow, wide awake, worrying Steve would stumble in from a night’s work and go into Bri’s room before she could get there. He’d never hurt her intentionally, she knew that much. It was one of the reasons she hadn’t shut him off completely from seeing her daughter. Steve loved her so much, and goddammit Brianna loved her daddy too. But what if he dropped her, what if some ash from his cigarette fell into her eyes, what if he knocked over the crib?

Those memories were finally beginning to fade, thank God.

And Vince. He really was something. She had never met a more unassuming man. He had kept his distance early on, and hadn’t even been warned to do so. Here was a man that understood she was in a precarious situation. Still relatively freshly divorced, raising a small girl, and scared to death of men. But he knew just how to handle her. Offering a shoulder without forcing it on her. Watching his phone call frequency, showing her a nice time when they did go out, always making her laugh, and listening, oh God, the man listened! Call Oprah, ladies, we found one!

His hand began to stroke her neck slowly, but he was still snoring.

“Oh Vince baby,” Karen whispered, “You make me feel good even when you’re asleep. What are we gonna do with you?”

Vince smiled without opening his eyes.

The front door opened suddenly. Karen shot up; she already knew who it was. That old stress that had been such a part of her began to reform and thicken. She heard a deep muffled voice, and her daughter saying over and over Daddy! Daddy!

She swung out of bed and ran to the bedroom door before she could register what Vince was beginning to say.

“Steve!”

Her ex-husband’s head shot up. His expression was terrifying and sad. There were tears in his eyes, and he was holding Bri. He stood there silent, but his body language was clear with his arms around their little girl: Please. Please Karen. Don’t take her. Please.

“Why are you hear? Why the f…Brianna, go to your room for a minute.”

“Mommy! It’s Daddy! He’s scared! Lemme help Mommy!” Brianna cried.

“Brianna Caprice, you march right back to your room. Daddy and I need to have grown-up talk.”

“Karen…” Steve started.

“Shut up! Bri…now!”

Brianna pulled away from her father’s arms, and walked out of the living room. Before she disappeared into the hallway, she turned and looked at Steve.

“Don’t worry Daddy, I’ll make it go away,” she said, and left.

Steve watched his daughter walk around the corner.  He couldn’t ignore the gravity of which his daughter had spoken. Did she know? She couldn’t.

“Steven,” Karen whispered.

“ Karen,” he replied, but his eyes hadn’t left the hallway.

Karen stared at her ex-lover and instinctively sniffed the air. His eyes were wet but not bloodshot or heavy. She had smelled liquor at first, but she had to admit to herself that it was probably self-induced. Steve wasn’t drunk, as much as she pined to believe he was. For the first time she actually wished he was, her angered would have been justified. Vince came around the corner.

“What can we do for you, Steven,” he said. He was calm and direct, with his arm around Karen.

Steven stared at the man who was fucking his wife. He had had his alterations with this man before. Nothing ever became violent, or even hot-tempered, but the two men did not like one another, and words had passed between them before. Steve felt no fight within him, just fear swilling around in his stomach. He finally stood up.

“I haven’t been drinking. Karen, I see you trying to hide your flaring nostrils, not that I blame you, but I haven’t had a drink.  I apologize for bursting in like this, I don’t mean to be a bother…”

“Steve, I was just starting to feel comfortable about our little arrangement, you seemed to be on the mend.  I will not apologize for sniffing the air, but I know you’re not drunk.  But that doesn’t mean I’m not worried here. You wanna stop and see Bri?  Fine, you call. You straighten it out with me first.  What you don’t do is bust into my house with no warning and grab her like that,” Karen said.

Steve did not like that phrase grab her like that.  He and Karen both knew he would never hurt Brianna, Steve wondered if she was trying to provoke Prince Vince here.  He also took note of the fact she referred to it as her house.  Whose goddamn name was on the mortgage? No point making a big deal out if it, though.  He was done with that foolishness.

“ Karen, I know, but listen, you don’t…”

“ Steve, I don’t like this situation here buddy,” Vince interjected, and began pacing the room with his hand on his chain. “ I thought you and I had an understanding. I thought we had an accord. I told you I would involve myself as little as possible in your domestic issues with Karen, but I gotta tell you Stevie…”

“ Stay outta this Vince.  Shut up and get some coffee,” Steve looked at his ex, “ Babe, let me explain….”

“ Let’s step outside Steve,” Vince said, “ We’ll have a talk.”

Vince stepped forward with an understated aggressiveness. Steve was game.

“Fine buddy. Let’s go outside.”

Steve stood up and locked eyes with him.

“ The two of you stop it. Now,” Karen said, and ran her fingers through her matted morning hair, “ Just cut it out. Vince, Steve’s right, can you go make some coffee? I’ll take care of it.”

Those phrases never ceased to make Steve cringe.  When you give up your dignity and admit to a problem, you must be prepared to overlook such phrases as Will you be okay on your own  and Make sure you call me before you go to bed.  It wasn’t I’ll take care of him, it was I’ll take care of it.

“Honey…”

“Please Vince, I’ll talk to him. But thanks.”

Vince walked out of the room towards the kitchen, but turned around first and remarked, “One of these days Steve, if you don’t cut the shit around here, we’re gonna have that talk.”  He walked out of the room before Steve could retort.

He looked at Karen, aware of how desperate his face must look. He also noted Karen’s expression, a mixture of anger and pity. The pity was worse. They stared at each other for a full ten seconds before Steve began.

“So…the roses look nice out there. Especially since certain tramps have stopped passing out on them.”

Karen smiled in spite of herself. She lit a cigarrette, a habit she rarely turned to these days.

“Okay Steve, okay. Now what’s wrong?”

Steve sighed. He had no idea how much he was going to be willing to tell her. His gut told him not too much.

“ I-I don’t know exactly babe. I am so sorry for scaring you like this, and you’re right, things have been going well recently and I’m very happy about that. And I’m glad you’re happy. You know I still miss you, but you deserve a nice life and you seem to be finding that here, with Doogie Howser in there. I really don’t want to disrupt that. I don’t know if you believe that or not, but I don’t. I’ve just been…I’ve….”

Karen just stared at him. He guessed she had reserved herself from any other expressions of comfort. She wanted answers. Now.

“Okay listen, I had a bad morning. I think I might be having more problems with being sober than I thought. I-I was alone in my apartment and I just started to feel this enormous weight of guilt and stress. Fear really. I don’t know why, I haven’t had an attack that bad before, it felt different. And I didn’t come here first! I stopped to see Father Pollick, he calmed me down and told me to take some time to comfort myself. And Karen, my only comfort is here.”

“Okay, then if you were calm, why didn’t you pick up a damn phone and call? The man that broke into my house this morning was deranged Steve. His eyes are bloodshot and his hands are still trembling”

Steve looked at the floor. “I-I passed the liquor  on the way here, and things got, you know, a little wrong,” Steve said quietly, “I didn’t go in though.  I guess it just started me off though. I’m so sorry.  I was scared and panicked, and I just wanted to hold my little girl, okay Karen? I didn’t think about how it would look, I’m a fucking idiot I know, but Jesus Christ Karen, I’m going through a lot here to get back on track, and I know it’s my own fault, but that little girl is all I have.”

Steve began to sob. Karen started to lean forward and take his hand, but decided against it. She had grabbed his hand so many times before.

“Steve,” she said, “ You need to go home.”

“Karen…”

She stood up and began to walk out of the room.

“Karen!”

“Steve, I need to think about what just happened this morning. You and I had a trust. You gave me your word that your visits would be regimented. I don’t know, we might have to look into the chaperone…”

“No! Oh please honey you know I can’t handle that.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’m sorry, just please have pity,” he couldn’t believe he just said that, “This will not happen again. Don’t take her away from me. I haven’t had anything to drink!”

“Yet even sober you still seem to have the knack of disrupting this house. I’m not committing to anything right now, I just need to think about it. Me and Vince both. He’s becoming more and more a part of this family. Bri loves him.”

She was really twisting the knife here. Out of her anger she wanted to hurt him, plant his face in the dirt and stamp on his neck. How low can a man get?

“Go home Steve.”

“Can I just say goodbye to her?”

“You go in that room for five seconds, no more. I’ll be standing outside. You kiss her and get the hell out. We’ll talk later.”



Steve knelt beside his daughter’s bed. She was sleeping peacefully, holding a stuffed animal unfamiliar to Steve. The pirate teddy bear they had picked out together, and was always her favorite, sat in the corner of the room under some clothes. This new white rabbit smelled of Vince.

He kissed her nose, aware of the condescending glare from his ex-wife in the doorway.

“Can you really help Daddy, honey?” he whispered very low.

Bri smiled ever so faintly, and replied, “You betcha.”





Steve opened his car door and sat, keys in hand.  He hesitated. Where to go now? He was terrified of returning home. Even if he stayed away from his bathroom, he would still have to walk past the standing mirror in the hallway of the apartment building. Sure he could look the other way, but he would know, just know, a split second glimmer of a Mexican teenager would flicker in the glass.

Ever since he had seen it, him, whatever, he had instinctively though of only three places to go for comfort. Two out of three had been visited. It was now 2:34pm. Crease would be starting to serve the more loyal patrons now. In some ways Crease’s would be the most comforting place, not because he could indulge himself on the liquor that had destroyed him, but because Crease and his fellow drunks would probably give him the most straight-forward consolation he could get.

Steve looked back at the house. The curtain twitched, Karen was watching to make sure he left, so she could get back to being happy and safe and warm. Steve decided to oblige, and started the car and pulled way.

So, where to go then? Steve considered stopping at the grocery store and buying some Nyquil. He couldn’t handle being conscious right now, the fear was a physical ailment, it might not be a bad idea to just knock himself out for the day. But that was just delaying the inevitable, he would wake, and that boy would still be there. He reached over and looked at the phone number for Dr. Gheric, licensed psychiatrist. A man paid, and paid well, to listen. And listen. Then lecture. Then tell Steve he’s a nut. He started to think about what Karen had said, and how she wanted to talk. If Vince started to convince her to separate Bri from her father, she might just listen. If she decided to take steps in that direction, the fact that he was seeking mental help might not favor him too well. No, he couldn’t go to a doctor, not yet.

Nyquil it was then.





Steve awoke 9 hours later, after taking twice the recommended dose, and it was pitch black. The only light in the room was his alarm clock, which read 12:47am.

“Shit,” he grumbled, and rolled on his side. Almost immediately the fear crept back in, and took hold once more. There was a boy in his mirror. Why was there a boy in his mirror? Steve decided to swallow his fear.

“I’ll just have to ask him,” he said. Despite his auditory expression of bold confrontation, Steve sat on the bed for the next twenty minutes. Finally he rose, and very slowly walked to the bathroom.

Inside, he switched on the light, and stood in front of the mirror with his eyes closed.

“I don’t believe in spooks,” he joked to himself, to no avail, and opened his eyes.

The young Mexican remained. Steve was once again amazed by how perfectly vibrant and real he was. If it wasn’t for the few watermark stains on the glass, he could swear he was standing in front of a physical person. For some reason the terror didn’t overwhelm him like before. He was still frightened, but now curiosity had been thrown into the mix. And wasn’t that, after all, the great mark of men? Curiosity defeating fear.

The boy’s expression was still a blank stare, not threatening or congenial, he just was. His chest moved slightly to show he was breathing. Steve stared at him for minutes, the two regarded each other in silence. Finally Steve spoke.

“Who are you?” he asked.

No answer.

“What…what the hell is this? Huh? Huh Pancho? Mind if I call ya Pancho? Seeing as you are a guest in my house, I think it’s best we know each other, don’t you Pancho? My name is Steve Zahn. I’m a divorced father, a welder, and an alcoholic. I like movies and long walks on the fuckin beach. How bout you Pancho? Like movies?”

No change in expression, no movement except for breathing, but Steve somehow knew the boy was listening.

“Well I gotta tell ya my friend, I’m not exactly keen on your intrusion here. You see, I’m slowly starting to, I don’t know, rehabilitate myself. You’re not exactly what I need right now. The fact that I’m even speaking to you shows how bat-shit crazy I’ve become. So if that’s your mission, if you’re here to send me to the nuthouse, then mission accomplished! Very good work Pancho! Now please, if you would be so kind, get the hell outta my house, my head, my goddamn mirror!” Steve yelled, and knocked the tootbrush cup and deodorant stick off the counter in anger. He turned and grabbed the shower curtain, and ripped it from the rings. After his fit subsided, he sat down on the tile, and looked up at the mirror. The mexican was still looking at him, even from this downward angle.

Steve got up and meant to leave the room, but before he did he noticed something. Beneath the boy’s left eye was darkened a bit, almost like a very faint bruise. That hadn’t been there before.

Steve shook his head and left the room.





READ PART 2 OF "IN THE MIRROR"