I turn to Esther and smile. “Why don’t you go on your lunch break?” It would really be best to get her out of the way for the plans we have. Not necessary, but best.
“Sylvia says I’m supposed to be on the floor,” Esther says, hands on the counter.
Sylvia? Who the hell is Sylvia? “Well it can be our little secret. I won’t tell if you won’t, Esther.”
“I can’t. Sylvia said.”
“Esther, do we really need to do everything ‘Sylvia’ says in this life?”
Esther says nothing. She reaches for something under the counter. A gun? A phone. She’s texting something quickly, what is she texting, Mother? Making me nervous, but in the mirror, Mother looks just fine in her garden. She’s picking red flowers now. Gathering them into a basket crooked in her arm. A pretty black bird alights on her shoulder and they appear to be singing to each other softly. You’re right, Mother. It’s not for us to be nervous. If anything, Esther should be nervous. Texting on the floor in front of her bosses like this.
“If you want to stay here and text, you go right ahead,” I tell Esther. “We’ll just wander around the floor.” In the glass, I see Mother’s already starting to drift away along the mirrored walls of the shop. Mother, wait!
“I think you better stay here at the register with me,” Esther shouts limply.
“Oh, we can’t have three of us crowded behind that register. That would be such a waste.” I walk away from her, my red shoes leading me along. And in the glass along the shop wall, Mother’s red shoes are doing the same.
“Where are you going?”
“Here and there.” But we know exactly where we’re going, right, Mother? Mother knows. Mother’s already far ahead.
“Sylvia says we’re not supposed to change anything!” Esther blurts after me, almost like she anticipates our plans.
“Does she?” I sing over my shoulder. “How interesting.” And then I run to the display window. Why do I feel like I need to do this in a hurry? I don’t really. Not doing anything illegal. This is our shop, isn’t it? We’ve let it fall into the wrong hands, obviously. Hired Esther for some reason, what were we thinking? And now this woman Sylvia to contend with, apparently. Where have we even been? Don’t know, isn’t that funny? Anyway, we’re here now. To put things back, to make things right.
Mother’s already there in the window glass, waiting. Smiling at me among her tall red flowers, though she’s surrounded by such violence again. Her smile says, Surely you know what you have to do here.
Of course I do, Mother.
First things first: get rid of these gray headless monstrosities. I say monstrosities because when I look at them straight on, I see they’re just ugly dress forms. And yet when I look in the window glass where Mother is, they’re most definitely corpses. So which are they, Mother? Dress forms or corpses? Mother’s face says potato potahto, and I have to agree in this case. The point is really to get them out of her garden. So I topple them—one, two, three. Because they’re already dead, they don’t feel a thing. I gather one of them into my arms. Surprisingly light and silvery she is. I’ll have to bury her, all of them, somewhere, I guess, right? Or should I call the undertaker? Who is your next of kin, ladies? But that’s such an absurd question. How can they possibly answer it? They don’t have lips because they don’t have heads. And dead on top of that, remember? Can’t forget.
“Mirabelle!”
I turn to find a little blond woman standing behind me. Clutching her pearls. Looking aghast. Of course we would have a customer pestering us just now. Always when you’re in the middle of something.
“Just a moment, please. We’ll be right with you, okay?”
The woman just gapes at me. She’s looking at me like she knew me once （I must have severed her before） and she can hardly recognize me now. “My god, Mira.” She shakes her head. “Is that really you? You look…，” but she doesn’t finish that thought. Her mouth just stays open. Taken aback by the Glow, I suppose. Our Brightening—or is it our Lift?—has cut out her tongue. Not very nice or polite, but that’s retail. Sometimes you have to finish people’s sentences. Sometimes their thoughts.
“Thank you. I’d tell you my secret, but here’s the thing: everyone’s Journey is different. Very perilous. Personal,” I whisper. “So what works for me may not work for you and so forth.” Right, Mother?