Charlotte again felt the force of Freddy’s possessiveness. It was an obsession. It was unhealthy, and she backed away from it.
“In order for me to belong to you, I would have had to give myself to you. I never have, Freddy. I never will.”
“So you give yourself to that loser instead?”
“I think,” she said, her voice reflecting that she was finished with this conversation, “it’s time for you to go.”
“If I go, he goes,” he said, glaring at Michael.
“I told you to leave,” Charlotte said.
“If I leave now, I leave for good.”
She took a deep breath and cut the tie forever. “As you wish. Goodbye, Freddy.” She would never call him father.
His face flushed, his mouth worked, but for once he did not speak. They both knew there was nothing left for them to say. She thought he looked very old suddenly, every bit as worn and spent as Helena. When he turned his back on her and walked away, she thought of how he’d once walked away from her mother, too.
The moment the door closed, Charlotte slumped, feeling a tremendous relief. She closed her eyes, gently rubbing them. There was so much she would have to think about. She had a serious decision to make. When she looked up, she saw Michael’s face.
Suddenly, the answer came easily.
Twenty-Six
Three weeks later, Charlotte paced the floor of her hospital room, wringing her hands, waiting for Dr. Harmon to arrive and remove the bandages from her face. The implants had been removed, the surgery was a success and all that was left was the unveiling. It was déjà vu.
“Charlotte, relax,” Michael told her. “He’ll be here any moment.”
“I can’t relax. You don’t understand.”
“I understand that you’re worried about what you’ll look like. Anyone would. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
“I’ll look the same as I did before the first operation.”
“Dr. Harmon already told you that you wouldn’t. Removing the implants can’t undo the reconstruction. At most, you’ll have a receding chin line. No big deal. You’re lucky.”
“I’m not worried about that,” she blurted out. Four years ago when she waited for the unveiling, she had only herself to worry about. This time the stakes were even higher. Despite his avowals of love, she couldn’t help but worry how Michael would respond to the face.
“Oh, I understand now. It’s about me again.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m a survivor. I’ll live through whatever happens. But that doesn’t stop me from worrying if you’ll still love me.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Come here,” he said gently, extending his hand.
She ducked her head and took his hand, expecting to be reeled in and comforted in his arms. Instead he stood and led her to the bathroom and placed her before the small, industrial, chrome-lined mirror over the sink.
“Charlotte, look at yourself in the mirror.”
She looked into the mirror and saw her reflection. Her head was completely covered, from crown to neck, with a swaddling of white gauze bandages. Only her eyes were visible, along with openings for her nose and her lips.
“I can’t see myself.”
“Wrong. Look again,” he urged, stepping away. “If you can’t love who you see right now, then whether I love you or not doesn’t really matter.”
Against all that sterile white, her blue eyes seemed to possess even more color, even more vibrancy. They seemed to beckon her to look deeper, beyond the facade, to where the real Charlotte lay sleeping. When she did, she caught a glimpse of the beauty that had eluded her for so long. All her life she’d been playing roles from behind a mask. That night in Chicago, she’d vowed to change her life. She began with changing her face. She didn’t know then that she also had to change how she felt about herself. Like the Beast in the fairy tale, she never believed that she was worthy of love. The magical transformation from ugly Beast to physical Beauty never rendered the ultimate prize of love. This glorious reward was hard earned by qualities that had nothing to do with physical appearance after all.
When she turned, she saw Michael, tall and confident, shaking hands with Dr. Harmon at the door to her room. When she stepped back in and faced them, they couldn’t see that behind the bandages she was smiling.
Epilogue
‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty’—That is all ye know on earth, And all ye need to know.
—John Keats
Epilogue
Charlotte rode in the plush darkness of the sleek limousine from the L.A. airport toward the rich, fertile hills and valleys of Southern California that she now called home. The roads were bumpy after the limo turned off the highway onto the small, winding back roads that would lead to the Mondragon property. She rocked and swayed on the soft cushions while looking out at the vibrant greens of the landscape she knew so well. Over there was the open meadow where Michael had taught her how to shoot skeet from a shotgun, and up ahead was the woodlot where, deep within, grew a cornucopia of morels, a secret she shared with no one, not even her husband.
She smiled, thinking of how rich her world had grown in the two years since she’d had her second surgery. Richer by far than the lush nursery that Michael had rebuilt on Mondragon land. Expanded land, when one considered the additional acres she’d purchased for Michael as a wedding gift. It was a piece of choice real estate that bordered the nursery, one that the family had dreamed about every spring when they walked the land. Her investments had paid off well, her house had sold for an enormous profit, and it gave her more pleasure than she could imagine to give everything she had to Michael on her wedding day.
He had, of course, given her everything she wanted. Love. She remembered the answer she once gave to Vicki Ray during an interview. “Everything, anything, for beauty.” She’d learned since her marriage that love transforms even ugly things into something beautiful.
Looking out the window, she caught a glimpse of her shadowed reflection in the dark window glass. She still was an attractive woman, though not the ideal of physical perfection she might have once been. What a relief, she thought with a sigh. She never wanted to be a great beauty. All she really wanted was to be normal, to be loved. Dr. Harmon had been right when he’d told her she’d have, at most, a receding chin. She tilted her head to get a better view of her jawline in the mirror. Nice, she thought. Maybe even pretty. No, her face was beautiful, she amended. This was the face that Michael Mondragon loved.
It was also the face that millions of people across the world had wanted to see on television yesterday. She’d granted an exclusive interview with Vicki Ray, her first since her disappearance. A disappearance that, like Garbo, whetted the appetite of the tabloids and the public. Vicki had done the decent thing after that tumultuous confrontation in the green room after her show. She’d had enough to feed the tabloid gossip machine for months. To her credit, she kept mum, allowing Charlotte her privacy. It was because of that human decency—kindness from one woman to another—that Charlotte called her and asked if she could do an interview.
Her purpose was to bring to the public’s attention the miracle of reconstructive surgery, especially for children with facial deformities. Charlotte hoped that by going public with her history, she’d help increase donations and support for organizations that provided surgery and care to children around the world. If she could help one child escape the childhood she’d endured, it was well worth it.
She ran her hand along her jawline and cupped her chin in her palm. Not that she’d change a single thing about her past. It had, after all, led to this present.
Charlotte dismissed the car at the entrance to the Mondragon nursery. She wanted to feel the cool, early evening breezes brush her cheek as she strolled the rest of the way home on foot. She dumped her suitcase in one of the nursery’s sheds, slipped off her jewelry, let loose the pins of her hair and let it fall, shaking the long tresses down her back.
Ah, y
es, now the crowd of the city felt far, far away; the stale air of the plane was carried away by the soft breezes of a California twilight. She sniffed the air and caught the intoxicating perfume of night jasmine. Her heart skipped happily in her chest, and her skin glowed as soft as the early moon overhead. She was home. Excited now, she started a brisk pace up the hill to the house, to where Michael and the family would be waiting for her.
As she made her way along the gravel road, she envisioned Luis and Manuel sitting at the small table, sipping beer and playing dominoes. Cisco was probably parked in front of the television with a mountainous bowl of ice cream; there seemed to be no way to avoid it during the lazy summer months. Cisco was well in the throes of puberty now, a handsome young man, tall and dark, like his Tío Miguel, whom Cisco adored.
Marta no doubt was bustling in the kitchen, humming over her sauces as she prepared the Sunday dinner with Maria Elena, who decided she liked cooking and was her grandmother’s best helper. As for Rosa…Well…she’d never be happy in the kitchen and no one tried to force her anymore. Instead, she’d started college, and when she wasn’t working at the lawn maintenance business that she and Manuel now owned, or going to class, she had her nose in a book. Michael had stipulated that Manuel and Rosa go through family counseling before handing over the business to them, and though they resisted at first, they thanked him later. Now Rosa was Bobby’s favorite target—he teased her mercilessly, claiming that she was the true academic in the family after all.
Dear Bobby, Charlotte thought, pausing at the edge of the woods to catch her breath. He was doing all right, having reached peace with his father and himself. As for his AIDS, well, they were all optimistic. And with Dr. Xavier Navarro’s help and the protease inhibitors, he was maintaining his health while living in the cabin beside the spring pond that Michael had given to him—along with the sweet springwater rights. In time, the proceeds from the fledging springwater business would support his medicine and allow him to continue painting.
The woods were already deeply dark. Up overhead, a bat swooped and glided in the twilight. Michael, she knew, would be standing on the porch, looking down the road, waiting for her return. The thought of him sent her back on her path, onward and upward, past a dense thicket that, if she crossed, would lead to a small rock-strewn stream the horses loved to sip from during a summer afternoon’s ride. In the distance she could see the rolling hills filled with neatly cultivated Mondragon stock, vigorous once again.
In the two years since her marriage to Michael, they had built the foundations of their own family here, on this land, with the same hard work and prayers that Luis and Marta had more than a quarter of a century earlier. They watched the seasons come and go in their natural rhythms, attuned to the signs and capricious whims of nature. As much as they loved the land, were sentimental about it, they never slipped under the spell of the delusion that nature was all harmony.
They both knew better. They had learned and accepted that nature was change, and change meant uncertainty. If the nursery, or their looks, eroded in time, they knew they would persevere. Because what they shared transcended the mortal bonds of time and space.
She passed the stone wall that marked the border of their house, a broad, California Spanish stucco with deep red tiles on the roof that reflected the twilight colors enveloping her now. She turned the curve and her lips rose, spying Michael’s broad form standing on the front porch, looking out at the drive, leaning against the wood pergola. A deep bark sounded in the air, alerting them of her arrival. Next came the high-pitched squeal of a little girl’s voice. Charlotte laughed aloud, watching her daughter’s chubby legs kick the air in excitement for her daddy to put her down.
“Mama! Mama!”
Charlotte hurried to the porch, running, dropping her purse as she neared the stairs. Bear, their big black-and-white dog, practically knocked her over as he barked and ran in excited circles around her, tail wagging, whining in pleasure. Charlotte opened her arms to her daughter, relishing Marguerite’s beautiful, creamy skin, her glistening black hair like her father’s and her mother’s brilliant blue eyes. It was her delicate, perfect chin, however, that Charlotte loved to look at the most, to kiss, to thank God for.
Charlotte brought her year-old daughter to her chest, rocking her, kissing her forehead, hugging her as she always dreamed she’d hug a child someday. She lifted her eyes and saw Michael, so proud, so strong, his eyes filled with a deep and abiding kind of love. He had answered her dream. He was her Someone. How nice to believe again in fairy tales and happy endings, she thought, smiling at him.
He smiled back, communicating millions of words of love in that one glance. They both knew that in a short while they’d put their bundle of energy to bed and make love in their own bed, in their home, on their land. Afterward in those quiet, close moments, he’d lift her to his shoulder and stroke her hair while she told him of the time she’d spent away from him—he’d want to know every detail. All this they understood with that one smile, that one knowing glance. She sighed with a contentment that went beyond description.
Moving her line of vision beyond her child, past Michael’s broad shoulders to the mountains beyond, she saw the infinite power and glory of nature’s sunset. The majestic colors swirled together, light and dark, brilliant and mysterious, unique and different, blended in harmony.
She smiled, lifting her face to the sky, welcoming the light into her heart.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-2913-0
GIRL IN THE MIRROR
Copyright © 1998 by Mary Alice Kruesi.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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Girl in the Mirror Page 39
