Page 16 of Mirror Image

I’m standing behind her, pretending to drag my heels, just to make her beg.

She always wanted more—more height, more laughter, more everything. Years later, when the swing snapped unexpectedly, she tumbled backward, taking me down with her. We hit the ground laughing so hard, our sides ached. Lita came running out, clutching her rosary like she’d heard a gunshot, scolding us all the way to dinner.

The memory hits so vividly that for a second I could swear I hear it—the creak of the rope, the bark of her laugh, the soft thunk of her sandals landing in the dirt. I grip the steering wheel tighter, waiting for it to fade. It does, but slowly, like a song trailing off.

I look at the tree now—still standing, but the swing is gone. Just a pale groove in the bark where the rope used to rub.

It’s strange, the way the past gets edited by time. The tree stays; the laughter doesn’t.

The house belongs to my aunt and uncle now, Stef’s parents. I’m a little relieved they’re traveling for the holiday weekend so I don’t have to make an excuse not to go inside.

I ease the car back into drive and roll down the block—one, two, three, four—until the road dead-ends at the cemetery fence. The chain link glints in the sun, separating the living from the no-longer.

This is as close as I’ve ever gotten. It’s been more than two decades, and not once have I been able to propel myself through those gates, around the drive, and up the hill to the shady plot under the mimosa tree.

From this exact spot, I can just make out the pale marble headstone. A matching carved angel sits perched atop it, watching over the grave’s occupant, the epitaph carved in curling script:

And I will sleep in peace until you come to me.

It’s funny, the symmetry of it—how that same tree grows here too, its blossoms falling on her name every spring. There was a time I thought I’d never get past the sound of her death, that the memory would drown me whole.

But grief has a rhythm of its own. It buries what it must, resurrects what it can, and waits for you to show up again when you’re ready.

“Sleep, sweet Jessica,” I murmur. “Sleep.”

Chapter Six

Mary

Five years ago

The car hummed around us, a sealed capsule of silence. My hands were locked on the steering wheel, our reflection faint in the windshield—two sets of eyes staring back at me, mine and hers, both shell shocked.

I told myself I was angry at my parents, but really, I was furious with myself. Sam told me to call first. To ease them into it. But I wanted the surprise—the joy, the miracle moment.

I wanted to give her the family she should’ve had.

A memory of my parents rose uninvited, so clear that it felt like I could roll down the window and smell it.

Dad at the grill, sleeves rolled up, pretending he was on some cooking show. “Temperature is an art form,” he said solemnly as he flipped a burger. “You’ve got to know when to commit.”

Mom lounged nearby in her deck chair, sunglasses perched on her head, pretending to read but mostly watching him. “Commit to not giving us food poisoning,” she called out.

I stretched on the grass with a lemonade, pretending to study.

Dad grinned over the smoke. “That’s the Langston way, Marebear. Never panic, always flip with confidence.”

Mom laughed. “The secret,” she said, “is a well-funded take-out budget.”

And we all laughed, and I remember thinking, This is what home feels like.

The memory faded as quickly as it came. The smell of charcoal became hot asphalt; the laughter turned into the steady hum of tires. My fingers further tightened on the steering wheel. The easy, certain world I grew up in felt a million miles away.

A horn blared behind me, jolting me fully back. The sun was lower now, pouring through the windshield in bright, blinding stripes. Sam was still facing the window, her reflection ghostly in the glass.

The silence stretched so long, it felt like a living, breathing thing sitting there between us.

Then, quietly, I asked, “Did you ever look for them?”