Chapter 1 - Things She Still Is
At 6:20 in the morning, I found an eight-year-old boy standing on a chair, covering the last mirror in his mother’s hospital room.
The bathroom mirror was already hidden beneath two white towels.
A winter coat had been draped across the dark television screen.
The polished metal tray beside the bed had been turned facedown.
Even the small glass panel in the cabinet door was covered with notebook paper and strips of medical tape.
Noah Reed pressed another sheet against the window, trying to block the faint reflection of his own face.
“Noah.”
He nearly fell from the chair.
I crossed the room and caught his arm before his foot slipped.
“What are you doing?”
He looked toward the bed.
His mother, Sarah, was still asleep.
Nine hours earlier, she had undergone surgery to remove a large tumor from the left side of her jaw. The surgeons had rebuilt part of the bone using tissue from her leg. Her face was heavily swollen beneath the bandages. One eye did not close completely. The corner of her mouth rested lower than the other.
The doctors had warned the family that the first few days would look frightening.
They had also warned us not to make promises about what would be temporary.
Noah stepped down from the chair.
“I’m almost done.”
“You cannot cover the observation window.”
“She can see herself in it when it gets dark.”
“This window allows us to check on her from the hallway.”
“I only used paper.”
“That still blocks it.”
He moved between me and the window.
“No.”
I had cared for children who could not recognize a parent after surgery.
Some hid behind relatives.
Some refused to enter the room.
Some stared too long, then cried because they felt guilty for being afraid.
I thought I understood what Noah was doing.
“Your mother may look different right now,” I said carefully. “But covering every mirror could make her think you’re ashamed of her.”
His face tightened.
“I’m not.”
“Then help me take these down.”
“No.”
I reached for the paper.
Noah spread both arms across it.
“She can’t see yet.”
“That is not your decision.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Noah.”
“She told me.”
Before I could answer, the door opened.
Mark Reed entered carrying a paper cup and a small gift bag.
He was Sarah’s former husband and Noah’s father. He had spent most of the night moving between the waiting room and the cafeteria because he said sitting still made him feel useless.
He stopped when he saw the towels.
“What happened in here?”
Noah climbed back onto the chair.
Mark placed the cup on the counter.
“Why are all the mirrors covered?”
Noah did not answer.
Mark looked at Sarah, then at his son.
“Did you do this because you don’t want to look at her?”
“No.”
“Then take it down.”
“No.”
His father’s voice hardened.
“You cannot make your mother wake up and think her own son believes she needs to be hidden.”
Noah’s eyes filled, but he remained on the chair.
“I don’t think that.”
“Then what do you think?”
Noah pulled a folded page from his pocket and pressed it against the towel covering the bathroom mirror.
It was a crayon drawing.
A woman with yellow hair stood beside a stove while smoke rose from a black pan. A little boy sat at the kitchen table laughing.
Across the television screen, Noah had already taped another picture.
Sarah driving a yellow school bus.
On the cabinet door, she stood beneath an umbrella with one arm around Noah.
The drawings covered every towel.
Not photographs of Sarah’s old face.
Scenes from her life.
Mark stared at them.
“What are these?”
Noah looked toward his mother.
“Things she still is.”
His voice was almost too quiet to hear.
I examined the drawing nearest me.
Sarah was holding a flashlight while Noah sat beneath a blanket during a power outage. Her mouth was a simple red curve, no different from any face an eight-year-old might draw.
“You made all these last night?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Why?”
“So the towels wouldn’t look empty.”
Mark rubbed a hand over his face.
“Noah, I know you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared of her.”
“Then stop acting like there is something she shouldn’t see.”
Noah stepped down from the chair.
“She said the doctor had to explain first.”
Mark frowned.
“What?”
“Which parts would go away.”
I looked at him.
“Did Sarah ask you to cover the mirrors?”
Noah nodded.
“Before surgery?”
“Yes.”
“What exactly did she say?”
He closed his eyes as if repeating something he had practiced.
“She said she might wake up before Dr. Cole came. She said her face could be swollen and purple and not moving right. She told me not to let her look until someone explained which parts were temporary.”
Mark stared at Sarah.
“She asked an eight-year-old to do that?”
“She said I would be the first one here.”
The accusation in his voice was small but unmistakable.
Mark had promised to remain in the room.
He had gone downstairs for coffee.
I crouched beside Noah.
“You were trying to follow her instructions.”
He nodded.
“But we still need the observation window uncovered.”
His eyes moved toward the bed.
“What if she wakes up?”
“I’ll stay with her.”
“What if you leave?”
“I won’t.”
He studied my face, deciding whether adults’ promises meant anything.
Before he could answer, Sarah made a faint sound.
Mark moved toward the bed.
Her fingers shifted against the blanket.
Her right eye opened first.
Then the left, only halfway.
She tried to speak.
The words came slowly through the swelling.
“Noah?”
He rushed to her side.
“I’m here.”
Sarah’s hand searched until it found his.
Her gaze moved toward the covered television.
Then to the towel across the bathroom door.
“Did you cover them?”
Noah nodded.
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
Sarah released a breath.
“Good.”
Mark looked at me.
I looked at the drawings taped across the room.
May you like
The boy had not covered the mirrors because he could not bear to see his mother’s new face.
He had covered them because she was not ready to see it without knowing what it meant
