Prom Night in Purgatory(32)

“Where are my pajamas? This dress has gotta go.” Maggie searched the floor for the pj's she had dropped the night before, but they were nowhere in sight. Irene must have picked them up. Catching her reflection in the mirror, Maggie yelped in surprise. The ruby lipstick Irene had applied was smeared around her mouth, and her eyes looked like she’d gotten a bit carried away with the whole smokey-eyed look. The smokey part extended about an inch below each eye.

Her hair was a lion’s mane, and Maggie reached for Irene’s brush with the inlaid mother-of -pearl handle. It gleamed as though Irene had randomly decided to polish the silver upon awakening. Next to the brush lay the matching mirror and comb, and a perfume bottle with a bulbous diffuser was placed nearby. Lipsticks were scattered here and there, and a photo of a young Roger was placed in a position of prominence on the far left side. Maggie picked it up and studied it for a moment; strange, she hadn’t noticed it last night. A little note was wedged into the ornate frame of the oval vanity mirror and Maggie leaned in for a closer look. It wasn’t a note after all, but a ticket stub from a movie theater called the Marquee. The ticket stub didn’t look much different than a carnival ticket - it just had the name of the theater and the price of the ticket printed in the corner - $0.60.

She’d seen the remains of the old theater downtown. The long vertical sign still remained, jutting out from the side of the abandoned brick building. The Marquee windows had been broken and the movie posters removed long ago. There had been a fund raiser hosted by the Honeyville Historical Society to refurbish the old theater not long before the fire that had destroyed Honeyville High. The project had been put on hold, however. Irene said the money raised would now go toward building a new school. She said it had been one of her favorite places growing up, and she was disappointed that she might never see it restored.

The vacuum started up again somewhere else in the house, and Maggie turned away from the mirror, puzzled by Irene’s sudden need to pull out all her old things and display them like she was seventeen again. A ribbon of fear wound its way around Maggie’s heart. She needed Irene to keep it together; Irene was the only person Maggie had left in the world.

Maggie walked toward the bedroom door and tripped, her heel catching on the edge of the heavy rug that was spread across the wooden floor. Wait. There was no rug in this room. Irene’s bedroom had beige carpet that she fussed over incessantly. Maggie stared down at the gaily patterned rug -- roses and vines intertwining in a repeating pattern across a pale pink background. She looked around the room again, trying to find an explanation for the impossible. The door to the heavy wardrobe stood wide, giving Maggie a glimpse at the clothing inside. Tops and skirts stuck out in messy disarray, and pearls and shoes were strewn on the floor nearby. None of the clothing was familiar. The lamp sitting on the bedside table was different too. Last Christmas, Gus had given Irene a gold reading lamp that she could turn on simply by clapping. Irene had thought it was the most exciting thing she had ever seen and had gleefully clapped the little lamp off and on, over and over, like a kid in a toy store. She had placed it by her bed; it had been there last night. Maggie had clapped it out, relieved that she wouldn’t have to get up. And in the corner, a record player in an ornate console, not unlike the one she had seen in Lizzie’s room, stood open and ready, a record docked on the waiting turn-table.

Maggie reached for the door, the heavy knob smooth and familiar against her palm, soothing her in a way only tangible things can. There had to be an explanation. She would just go find Irene. She walked out into the long hallway and proceeded down the stairs.

She noticed immediately that the house had a new sheen, an air of vibrancy and wealth that made her doubly suspicious that she had awakened in a different house. The wood floors gleamed, and the runner centered on the stairs was plush and new. The banister beneath Maggie’s hand was smooth, and a hint of lemon oil rose as she ran her hand along its surface. At the bottom of the stairs was a table and a stiff-back chair that Maggie had never seen before. Around the corner a phone was anchored to the wall . It looked like something used only for decoration. The rotary dial protruded above the rectangular brass box, and the ear piece, at the end of a long cord, was attached on the left side. Maggie touched it gingerly. It rang suddenly, a shrill clanging in the quiet hallway, and Maggie sputtered and screamed, jumping a foot in the air. Footsteps started down the stairs. Maggie looked up to see sturdy shoes, nyloned legs, and a full yellow dress covered with an apron. Not Irene. Maggie raced through the short corridor and into the kitchen. Her heart raced as she looked at the white cupboards, so familiar yet so wrong. The counter tops were a cheerful red formica, the floor linoleum in a marbled pattern of red and beige. Not Irene’s kitchen. Somebody had baked bread, and the loaves were cooling on a cloth on the wooden table that was centered in the large space.

Maggie felt the way she had the time she had mistakenly walked into the men’s bathroom at school. All the dimensions were the same: the corners, the mirrors, and the colors were identical, but the function and fixtures were all wrong. And everyone inside was a stranger. At the time, it had taken her brain a moment to compute and inform her of her mistake. When she realized what she had done, she’d been almost as horrified about going back out as she was about staying put.

She looked out the kitchen window that overlooked the front porch. Rose bushes lined the walk. That was the same. There was the front porch swing. Check. A long pink Cadillac pulled into the drive. Irene was home! She would explain. Maggie watched as the car came to a jerky stop halfway between the house and the garage. Three girls in skirts and blouses and cardigan sweaters in varying colors and similar styles piled out of Irene’s car. They were laughing and chattering, and Maggie frowned in dismay. The girl with the dark hair and the familiar gait led the way up the front steps like she owned the place. They were coming inside!