The night Miranda saw the lady in her grandfather's truck, she swore to find an answer to the feeling she felt then.
Friday came quickly. It had been since Tuesday when the incident occured in their front yard, and her frightful visual encounter with that spirit shocked her to the core. She and Angela are sitting in her room, and Miranda just finished talking to her mom about how long the Salk family owned th property they live on, when she looks to her mother and asks her if she ever feels her grandmother, Angela's mother, around anymore.
"No, I don't ever feel her around." Angela begins gently rocking in her chair, the same one she fell out of last Saturday.
"Not even when you're cleaning her old shoes, or flickin' through the picture books you got?" Miranda wonders why these feelings only come to her.
"Well, there are times when I miss your Memaw, but I aint never had her visit me, if that's what you're gettin' at." Angela smiles as she grasps the arms of the chair with her hand.
Miranda imagines what life would be like with her Memaw again, but there can't be any time for that now. She died long ago.
Just downstairs, James busts through the front door, swinging the screen door open as if it begs for it every time, "Miranda!" He calls from downstairs, "I have a great idea!"
Angela leans forward and drags her fingertips along the disheveled bed, as to not fall over, "You best give the boy some attention."
Miranda smiles and slips downstairs, "You mind, James? Were havin a conversation!"
James is carying a brown sack of chopped wood, and a bag of some other things to be revealed as she descends the stairs.
Angela sits on her bed, and looks into the mirror in front of her, watching her hair slide from behind her ear, and unto her shoulder. She stares into the smooth glass, and her eyes wonder to the tall standing mirror by her closet across the room, reflecting the emptiness behind her bedroom door. Miranda had forgotten to turn it back to it's place, which is against the wall. Angela stands and walks her fingers along the bed. After reaching the mirror, she turns the solid pine, but the top of the mirror, instead, falls onto her head, knocking her to the ground.
Angela slides down and lands on the boards of her wooden floor, her hand sliding from the bed and to her side. The Mirror continues to even itself with her view, until Angela sees herself clearly from head to toe, knees bent.
"Not again..." Angela sighs a breath of defeat.
In the mirror, an image of an old lady begins to fabricate. The gray figure begins taking shape. She sees Arms, a head, elbows- feet. Hands are covering the old womans face, but Angela knows. the wrinkly hands slide down a ragged face, and slowly press against the glass of the mirror, as if being lowered by a transparent coffin. The wrinkled face twists into a displeasing grimace and adds a second demention to the etched lines that time has so carelessly carved. The smell of dirt and mothballs poisons the air around Angela, and she can smell a decade of rot and filth. It was as if Angela was being lowered past the grave of this jilted, old woman.
"You wretched old bag." Angela grunts as the woman in the mirror opens her chapped lips.
"You... my... mistake..." The scratchy voice begins mumbling through crooked teeth.
"No, Ma," Angela fights back a lonesome tear, "it was a mistake spending all that time keepin' up with your health, even though you let him do what he did..."