The Older Girl

She woke and the first thought was the joyful thought. It was her birthday! She ran barefoot down the hallway and then sprinted down the stairs, barely touching the railing, her knees turned shock absorbers to the punishing jolts. When she reached the destination of her mad flight, the dining room, she was both pleased and confused.

Here was a birthday cake set upon the table. Here was the pink icing in arabesques and lovely green leaves. Here was her name, spelled out in sweet sugars she couldn’t wait to taste. And here were the candles placed so carefully in the cake. She counted them. Sixteen candles.

Silly mom. What sort of a joke was this?

Sarah looked up into the heavy mirror suspended by chains on the wall, grandma’s gift, the mirror from Sicily, the strange one. She saw her mother’s back reflected there as she walked out the front door. Before she could call out to her, the door had closed on the sunshine of a beautiful day.

Why was she leaving? Didn’t she want to make her guess where her presents were hidden, their usual fun ritual? Didn’t she want to play the “Warmer and Colder” game?

Then she wondered why the dining room was dark. Why had her mother not lit the room? She felt a vague worry. Maybe something was wrong with Grandma! That could explain everything. Maybe that’s why she had to leave.

Sarah drew closer to the mirror. She looked into it. “Nine years old,” she thought. “It’s my birthday and I’m nine years old today.”

Then she glanced down at the credenza below the mirror. Resting on one of its corners was a sheaf of papers thick as a telephone book. She stared at the top page. There was her school photograph beneath the large word MISSING.

And next to the photograph of her, the one she recognized, the face she saw when she looked in grandma’s mirror, was a picture of another girl, one she almost recognized.

She read the words above the photograph of the older girl, the one she felt, somehow, she should know: “Age Progressed From Age 8 to 16.”

And then everything began to feel terribly wrong. She knew if she tried really hard to remember, everything would make sense. But something told her not to remember.

“I’m Sarah and I’m nine years old today,” she told herself.

But a voice in her head whispered, “Cold.”

“I’ll just wait for mother to get back and she’ll explain everything to me.”

“Colder,” the voice in her head whispered.

Sarah realized it was her own voice she was hearing, correcting her. Playing the birthday game.

“Everything is going to be fine!” she promised herself.

“Colder,” said other-Sarah in her head.

“I’m feeling a chill now. I’m so cold. Nobody should feel this way on their birthday. I feel like I’ll never be warm ever again!”

“Warmer,” said the other voice in her head.