He saw only its dark, gauzy reflection, and he froze, his heart beginning to hammer.
Owen forced himself to approach the tub, more cautious than he'd meant to, the hesitation in his approach redoubling his fear, imagination running amok. He'd seen something , the shadow of the door in the hall light, or his own shadow caught in the corner of his eye, and he'd mistaken it for the figure of a man or a woman standing in the shower. Or a girl , his mind whispered, before he could prevent the thought from surfacing. The dark, ethereal shape moved again behind the shower curtain. Whatever it was, it hadn't just been his imagination. The head of the figure moved slowly back and forth, as if assessing him, and the water continued to drip. Drip .
Drip .
He tore the curtain aside—
His heart leapt as he saw it, the empty shower, the tub devoid of water, not knowing quite what to think of that, nor the fact that he no longer heard the drip that had drawn him to the bathroom in the first place. The plug lay where he'd left it, where it had been before his morning shower, beside his mother's shampoo and body wash. One of Lori's tar soaps was still tangled with her blonde hair from her last visit; no mistaking it for anyone's but Lori's, as Owen and his mother both had dark brown hair. He remembered thinking just that morning how unlike his mother it was not to wash the hair down the drain, or to have thrown away the soap, for that matter, and buy Lori a new bar the next time she visited. With lavender shampoo running down into his eyes, he'd considered it was as if she had somehow known Lori would never be home again, that she'd kept the soap and hair on purpose. She couldn't have known—of course she couldn't have. But that was what he'd thought.
He continued to the toilet, used it, and flushed before washing his hands, eyeing himself in the mirror in the semi-dark. Unshaven, hair a mess, brown eyes sallow, as if he hadn't slept in days—he certainly hadn't slept well since they'd heard about Lori. He ran a finger over the old scar on his eyebrow from an injury he didn't recall, the vertical scar that made kids in later grades call him Vanilla Ice. It stood out stark white against his dark eyebrow, a constant reminder of the lost memories from his early years.
As he stepped back from his reflection, his gaze fell on Lori, standing in the shower behind him. Nerves freezing, he held himself perfectly still, afraid if he moved she would vanish, heart pounding as he studied her in the mirror. She wore a plain white robe he'd never seen before, dampened up to her knees, blonde hair wet and hanging in her face. She opened her mouth to speak, voicing words he could neither hear nor discern by the shapes her lips made.
" Lori …" he said, and before he could ask her what she'd meant to tell him, her form shivered, became translucent, then broke apart into tiny droplets, like water, and splashed down heavily into the tub.
Owen whipped around from the mirror, falling to his knees at the edge of the bath, reaching it as the last of the water—the last of Lori —gurgled down the drain.
"God, Lori…" he sobbed. "Lori… Lori…"
A door creaked open down the hall. He looked up as his mother stepped out of her room, bleary-eyed and blinking. "Owen? What's going on?"
Owen cleared his throat, pushing himself up from the bathroom rug. "Nothing," he said. "I just… I lost a contact, that's all."
Dressed in a nightgown a similar shade to Lori's white robe, she gave him a skeptical look. "Since when do you wear glasses?"
"A while ago, Mom. Go back to bed, okay? You had a long day."
She scowled. "I don't need you telling me what to do, Owen. I haven't before, and I certainly don't now."
He nodded. "Okay, Mom. G'night."
She half turned. "You really should put on the light, if you're looking for something." Her peace made, she went back to her room, closing the door behind her.
"Seeing things that aren't necessarily there," he muttered
Owen forced himself to approach the tub, more cautious than he'd meant to, the hesitation in his approach redoubling his fear, imagination running amok. He'd seen something , the shadow of the door in the hall light, or his own shadow caught in the corner of his eye, and he'd mistaken it for the figure of a man or a woman standing in the shower. Or a girl , his mind whispered, before he could prevent the thought from surfacing. The dark, ethereal shape moved again behind the shower curtain. Whatever it was, it hadn't just been his imagination. The head of the figure moved slowly back and forth, as if assessing him, and the water continued to drip. Drip .
Drip .
He tore the curtain aside—
His heart leapt as he saw it, the empty shower, the tub devoid of water, not knowing quite what to think of that, nor the fact that he no longer heard the drip that had drawn him to the bathroom in the first place. The plug lay where he'd left it, where it had been before his morning shower, beside his mother's shampoo and body wash. One of Lori's tar soaps was still tangled with her blonde hair from her last visit; no mistaking it for anyone's but Lori's, as Owen and his mother both had dark brown hair. He remembered thinking just that morning how unlike his mother it was not to wash the hair down the drain, or to have thrown away the soap, for that matter, and buy Lori a new bar the next time she visited. With lavender shampoo running down into his eyes, he'd considered it was as if she had somehow known Lori would never be home again, that she'd kept the soap and hair on purpose. She couldn't have known—of course she couldn't have. But that was what he'd thought.
He continued to the toilet, used it, and flushed before washing his hands, eyeing himself in the mirror in the semi-dark. Unshaven, hair a mess, brown eyes sallow, as if he hadn't slept in days—he certainly hadn't slept well since they'd heard about Lori. He ran a finger over the old scar on his eyebrow from an injury he didn't recall, the vertical scar that made kids in later grades call him Vanilla Ice. It stood out stark white against his dark eyebrow, a constant reminder of the lost memories from his early years.
As he stepped back from his reflection, his gaze fell on Lori, standing in the shower behind him. Nerves freezing, he held himself perfectly still, afraid if he moved she would vanish, heart pounding as he studied her in the mirror. She wore a plain white robe he'd never seen before, dampened up to her knees, blonde hair wet and hanging in her face. She opened her mouth to speak, voicing words he could neither hear nor discern by the shapes her lips made.
" Lori …" he said, and before he could ask her what she'd meant to tell him, her form shivered, became translucent, then broke apart into tiny droplets, like water, and splashed down heavily into the tub.
Owen whipped around from the mirror, falling to his knees at the edge of the bath, reaching it as the last of the water—the last of Lori —gurgled down the drain.
"God, Lori…" he sobbed. "Lori… Lori…"
A door creaked open down the hall. He looked up as his mother stepped out of her room, bleary-eyed and blinking. "Owen? What's going on?"
Owen cleared his throat, pushing himself up from the bathroom rug. "Nothing," he said. "I just… I lost a contact, that's all."
Dressed in a nightgown a similar shade to Lori's white robe, she gave him a skeptical look. "Since when do you wear glasses?"
"A while ago, Mom. Go back to bed, okay? You had a long day."
She scowled. "I don't need you telling me what to do, Owen. I haven't before, and I certainly don't now."
He nodded. "Okay, Mom. G'night."
She half turned. "You really should put on the light, if you're looking for something." Her peace made, she went back to her room, closing the door behind her.
"Seeing things that aren't necessarily there," he muttered
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