The Girl in the Mirror. Cathy Glass

street lamp right outside her window.

      The door to the study was closed. Giving a small knock, she turned the handle and gently eased open the door. Here, too, the main light was off, and she was surprised to find a red glow illuminating most of the room. It came from a lava lamp on a table in one corner. Mandy went in and silently closed the door behind her. Grandpa was asleep on his back, mouth open and breathing heavily. John was dozing in one of the armchairs. She quietly crossed the room, sat in the other armchair and looked across the room at the lamp. She hadn’t noticed the lava lamp during the day, presumably because it hadn’t been switched on. Its red glow now gave the room a strange, almost surreal hue. As she looked, a red bubble of oil in the lamp slowly elongated upwards and a smaller bubble appeared to the right. She was surprised her aunt and uncle had such a modern and popular (to the point of tacky) artefact amidst their antiques and hand-crafted reproduction furniture. It seemed incongruous.

      Reaching down beside the chair into her bag, Mandy quietly slid out her mobile and checked for messages. There were three texts: one from a friend replying to her earlier text, one from her father staying he’d arrived home safely and would ‘c’ her tomorrow, and the third from Adam: ‘Luv n miss u 2. hugs n kisses. adam’. Mandy smiled to herself as she returned the phone to her bag. She’d been forgiven. Resting her head back she gazed at the lava lamp. The larger of the red bubbles of oil was still contorting upwards, becoming thinner and longer, while the smaller one was growing rounder and fatter. The trouble with lava lamps, she thought, was that your eyes were drawn to them, and you had to watch, whether you wanted to or not. Like a television left on with the sound off, it was difficult to look away or concentrate on anything else.

      It was only 9.50 p.m. but with the early start and the emotional rollercoaster she’d been on all day it seemed much later and she felt pretty exhausted. Grandpa’s heavy and laboured breathing continued in the background; she saw his legs occasionally twitch beneath the sheets. She wondered if the medication was wearing off already. The nurse had come again at 8 p.m. and given him another injection, which also contained a sleeping draught and was supposed to see him through the night.

      Tired, reasonably comfortable in the upholstered chair, and mesmerized by the swirling glow of the lamp and Grandpa’s almost hypnotic breathing, Mandy’s eyes slowly began to close. His breathing seemed louder now her eyes were shut, and with nothing else to concentrate on she found herself silently counting the seconds in the rhythm of his breathing. In – one, two, three, four, and then a pause of five seconds before he breathed out for three seconds. It was far, far slower than her own breathing – she’d taken nearly three breaths to his one. She assumed it was his medication slowing his body rhythm at the same time as it suppressed the pain. Counting the seconds of his breathing was as soporific as counting sheep and, combined with the warmth of the room, soon made her doze.

      She was a child again, in this house, and looking out of a window at the front, looking down on the driveway below. She was in the Pink Room, so named because it was decorated pink. Mandy could see herself standing at the window and looking down on to the drive. It was late at night and very dark outside. A car was pulling away, leaving the house, its headlights illuminating the gravel ahead. It was her father’s car and there was someone in the back. As she watched, the girl with the ponytail turned to look at her, just as she had earlier that evening when she’d waved goodbye to her father. Tears streamed down the girl’s cheeks and Mandy could feel her terror and distress. ‘Help! Someone help me. Daddy, no!’

      ‘Help, Mandy, quick.’ Mandy’s eyes shot open. ‘Wake up. I need your help!’ John’s voice.

      The dark of the night outside had gone, and so too had the red glow of the lamp, replaced by the main light of the study. Mandy was immediately on her feet, going to the bed; her heart raced from the shock of suddenly waking. ‘He needs the toilet,’ John said, struggling to get Grandpa out of bed and over to the commode. Grandpa groaned but his eyes stayed closed; he was a dead weight and powerless to help.

      Mandy pulled the commode to the bed and then yanked off the lid, but it was too late. As John lifted Grandpa on to the commode, he groaned again, and they heard the rush of water as a wet patch appeared on his pyjama bottoms. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled in a small voice, and Mandy could have wept.

      ‘It’s not your fault, Dad,’ John reassured him. ‘I should have woken sooner.’

      So should I, Mandy thought, if I’m going to be of any help.

      Grandpa’s eyes stayed closed as John steadied him, a hand on each shoulder. Mandy knelt at his feet and carefully slid off the wet pyjama trousers, one leg at a time. ‘Thanks, love,’ he said, his eyes still closed.

      ‘I’ll get you clean ones,’ she said quietly, humbled by his humility.

      He gave a little groan of acknowledgement but didn’t open his eyes.

      ‘You’ll find the clean stuff either in the dryer or the airing cupboard – in the laundry room, behind the kitchen,’ John said.

      Mandy rolled up the wet pyjamas and left the study. She knew she’d let Grandpa down by not hearing his calls for help. The rear hall was lit only by the nightlight and now seemed even darker after the main light of the study. She passed the kitchen, which was still in darkness, and then stopped outside the next door which John had said would be the laundry room. Turning the knob, she felt inside for the light switch and clicked it on before entering. The room was bare and cold compared to the rest of the house, and smelt of pine disinfectant.

      She saw the washing machine straight in front of her and next to that the dryer. Crossing the red slate-tiled floor, Mandy pushed the wet pyjama trousers into the washing machine ready for the next wash the following day, then opened the dryer door. There was a single sheet from Grandpa’s bed and two pairs of his pyjama bottoms, still warm from drying – Evelyn must have put them in before going to bed. She gave them a shake and loosely folded them over her arm. She guessed this room was mainly the domain of the housekeeper, Mrs Saunders; her apron hung on the back of the door and the shoes she wore in the house were paired just inside the door. Switching off the light, Mandy came out and returned to the study. If she’d ever been in the laundry room as a child she certainly didn’t remember it.

      Grandpa was as she’d left him: on the commode, eyes closed, with John standing behind, holding him. ‘Well done, you found them,’ John said, glancing at the clean laundry draped over her arm. Grandpa didn’t stir and could have been asleep.

      Leaving the sheet and spare pair of pyjama trousers on the foot of the bed in case they were needed later, Mandy knelt and concentrated on easing Grandpa’s red and swollen feet into the pyjamas, first one leg then the other. His legs were like dead weights, and there were notches of blue veins clustered on both ankles where the blood had flowed down from sitting. She drew the trousers up to his knees; his pyjama jacket hung over his lap.

      ‘Ready,’ she said to John, and straightened.

      ‘On the count of three, Dad,’ John said. ‘One. Two. Three.’ As John lifted, Mandy quickly pulled up the pyjama trousers as she’d seen John previously do, which gave Grandpa as much privacy as possible. ‘Now into bed,’ John said.

      Taking most of the weight, John swung Grandpa towards the bed and Mandy guided in his legs. Grandpa moaned but his eyes stayed closed. She pulled up the sheet and tucked it around his neck, as John straightened the pillows. The commode was empty and Mandy moved it to one side, but left the lid off ready for next time. They waited by the bed for Grandpa’s breathing to slowly regulate, signalling he was asleep.

      ‘Shall I make us a cup of tea?’ Mandy asked, now wide awake.

      ‘Please. Mine’s skimmed milk with no sugar. And thanks for your help, Mandy. It’s so much easier with two. We make a good team – you and me.’ His gaze lingered appreciatively.

      Mandy looked away. A good team. She would have given her right arm to have heard him say that when she’d had her schoolgirl crush. Perhaps it was the embarrassing reminder of that time, or the intimacy of the sick room, but she suddenly felt uncomfortable. ‘I’ll make that tea then,’ she said with a