Hand in Hand

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—Originally publshed in The Roanoke Review, Fall 1996

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The bridge was now two tower tops struggling to keep their lighted heads above the choking mist colored dirty orange by the city lights. Clarissa became a pale silhouette at the door. Each time the flames in the fireplace flickered, her form and her reflection vanished from Sam’s view.
    Sam went to her. “Sissy, what would it take to make you see that you’re fine just as you are?”
    “God himself would have to tell me, face to face. Except I don’t believe in God any more.”
    “Would you settle for other people telling you? People who love you?”
    “Jamey?”
    “All right. Maybe he only thinks he loves you. How about your mother?”
    “I’m her great disappointment.”
    “She had a tough time of it after your father died. Forgive her. And admire her.”
    “I do. I’m a failure compared to her. I’m brighter and more artistic and prettier than she ever was. What have I got to show for it?”
    “And me?”
    “You don’t count.”
    “Because I’m too much like you, your mirror, your alter-ego, the other half of the We-of-Us.”
    “Maybe if you’d been here,” she said in a flat voice, “I might not have agreed to marry Jamey.” She raised her head and smiled. “You do count. You’re my last hope. You do believe in yourself. When I see that and when I see that you believe in me, then I think to myself, maybe Sam’s right. Maybe I’m not so bad. I see myself in the mirror of your eyes, Sam. I like what I see. Now you’re going to take my mirror away.”
    “The tour in Vietnam is a year. I’ll be back.”
    “Unless you’re stationed in Germany or Korea or somewhere.”
    “Let’s face next year when next year comes. Maybe history will intervene again.”
    “And take away my mirror forever.”
    “No. To bring us together.”
    “Don’t die on me, Sam.”
    “I won’t.”
    “Promise me.”
    “I promise.”

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