Mirror, Mirror

(Signs of the Times is a work of fiction based on true events. Views expressed are the characters’ own. Viewer discretion is advised.)

It was neither the historical designation nor the fact that the house had dropped in price since it first appeared on the market that interested Isabella. There was something deeper.

She had seen this house before. She had walked on the block hundreds of times. She had walked in rain, snow, sleet, hail, between her job at a bakery and her apartment just down the hill.

Every single time she had failed to notice the house. That was until a bright white stake was driven into the front yard of the house with a For Sale sign written in gold letters. The name and face of the realtor, Joan Bennet, were centered below.

From then on, the house entered into existence. Where once there had been a hedge or some visual static in Isabella’s mind, she now saw the home for sale. Exactly in the middle between her job at a bakery and her apartment down the hill.

When she first saw it, she frowned. How could she have missed it? A black iron fence. Dark Kentucky bluegrass. A smattering of tulips and morning glories climbing up the columns of the white-painted porch.

Dark oak double doors with wrought iron handles. From a distance, they appeared to be in the shape of animals. Isabella could not believe that she had ignored this house for as long as she did.

So when the first open house came in the month of May, she stopped in front of the house. She had made good time on her commute. She had a few minutes to spare. She pushed past the iron gate. Crossed the lawn. Walked up the porch stairs and stood on the threshold.

She reached her hand up to knock. Just before her knuckles made contact with the wood, the door swung inward and revealed a woman. It was the woman Isabella recognized on the For Sale sign. Joan Bennet. But something was off.

Her hair was gray, not black. Her eyes, tired. Where the sign portrayed a face that was excited and friendly, the real face standing in the doorway before Isabella was anything but.

“What do you want?” the woman said. Isabella studied the woman’s face more. Joan's lips were cracked. The stitching on the blazer she wore was coming apart. Her eyes were narrow, squinting in the sunlight.

“It says there’s an open house,” she said.

“I asked what you want, not what you saw.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re not. What do you want?

“That’s alright. I’ll just go.”

“Where?” Isabella saw the woman’s face change. The wrinkles smoothed out ever so slightly. Her eyes opened a little more, revealing dark green irises.

Isabella turned quickly and walked down the porch. As she looked up from the porch stairs out across the street, she saw another woman. That woman was also leaving a house. She, too, seemed to be turning away from an older woman standing in the doorway. In fact, that house was for sale, too.

Isabella stopped. The woman across the street stopped. It was as if a mirror had been placed and held up by the double-yellow lines painted on the street.

Everything was just as she did, just as she had. So she walked further. Past the gate, the sidewalk, the curb, and the gutter. Her arm stretched out in the middle of the street. Reaching, unsure of whether she’d rather feel the touch of skin or just her cold reflection.