A Mirror Image

Chelsea was awakened from a deep sleep around three-thirty a.m. in the morning, unable to fathom with reasonable cognizance its jarring suddenness. One minute she was sleeping soundly, the very next second she was awakened with a skeletal finger of fear tingling along her spine with a coldness that rapidly spread. The very tendrils of hair about her neck, were standing up on ends.

Lifting herself upon a rigid elbow, she ventured a guarded, swiveling glance that took in the dark, moon- shadowed room about her. Finding the room absent of any hovering supernatural force, to explain away her sudden awakening, or her uncomfortable uneasiness, she sighed a soft utterance that was audible to her ear alone as Tristan remained undisturbed in snoring slumber next to her.

Shrugging her dismissal, Chelsea laid back against Tristan's sleeping form finding comfort in the warmth he provided. Yawning with content, her eyes began to lower as she spooned herself against his backside, resting her hand on his hip. The mournful sob broke the dark silence about her once again, bringing her eyes fully opened. While the soft, even breathing sounds of Tristan's sleep offered her vast comfort, she found the pitiful crying where there should be naught bordered on the extreme side of eerie.

Unable to move, unable to draw Tristan nearer to protect herself from the unknown, Chelsea remained frozen in wide-eyed terror. While the heat in the room remained a warm, comfortable temperature of sixty-eight degrees, her body trembled as though she laid upon an iceberg to that of their warm bed.

The mournful sounds of a woman crying, brought to mind the vivid image that had appeared in her mirror just hours before. The two together, in one evening, only served to increase her anxiety. Tristan's nearness was not enough to banish the frightening, uncertain thoughts swirling chaotically through her mind. Too many strange occurrences had taken place in the three weeks since their marriage. If it were not for Tristan's presence in her life, his silent support at all times, she might very well commit herself to an psychiatric hospital for clinical diagnosis.

By six o'clock, giving up the idea of sleep, knowing the proof of her sleepless night was a lost cause, Chelsea climbed from beneath the covers to cinch the belt of her robe. Circling the bed to kiss Tristan's mouth tenderly, she closed the distance to the vanity intent on exorcizing the phantom taking up residence in her mirror. This was her home, her marriage, her vanity mirror and there was only room for one queen. "Whoever you are... You're not wanted here. Begone!"

Knowing she had seen nothing, or heard nothing, because there was absolutely nothing there to see or hear, Chelsea lowered herself slowly onto the padded dresser stool. Supporting her chin between splayed fingers, she stared with concentration at her reflection, waiting patiently for something to occur. She was fully prepared to react and respond appropriately this time when, or if, it finally did happen.

A half-hour later the alarm clock peeled loudly behind her on the nightstand, while all within the mirror had remained the same. With a soft shriek of annoyance, Chelsea pounced on the clock to turn it off before it disturbed Tristan. He was sleeping like a babe, the poor darling. She had kept him up half the night crying. But there had been no forthcoming explanation as to why she was crying. How could she begin to explain to him, the only man she had ever loved, that she saw herself standing in her mirror bruised and battered, and weeping? Yet it had not been her, because she was not bruised, or battered, or even crying at the time. It was all shocking to hear! But absolutely true!

Closing the bedroom door softly behind her, Chelsea hurried along the hallway and down the staircase to the kitchen to prepare their normal pot of strong black coffee and his favorite fresh blueberry-waffles. A heartfelt apology, for the grueling night she put him through. Her incessant weeping and frantic clinging, without explanation, had been a little over-the-top even for her. She did not want him to worry needlessly about her mental state. Their marriage has only begun, she didn't want to see it all end prematurely because she was losing her grip on reality.

Pushing the frightening thoughts from her mind, intent on keeping them there, she went about preparing the waffles. Ten minutes later, she heard his footstep sounding softly behind her. Turning with a cup of coffee in hand, she smiled as he came into view wearing his bathrobe.

"I thought I was dreaming," Tristan smiled sheepishly. "So when the smell persisted to itch my nose, I came to investigate. What are you cooking?"

"Are you having trouble figuring it out without the help of your secretary? I thought you told me that I married an intelligent detective," Chelsea teased, reaching up to accept his kiss.

"What's the occasion that merits blueberry waffles?"

"Can't a wife spoil and pamper her loving husband first thing in the morning, after she kept him up half the night crying on his comforting shoulder?"

"Of course she can... But if you really, really had the desire to spoil me, we'd still be abed or in the shower. I have a fantasy playing out in my mind and I need someone to play with me," Tristan laughed, accepting the cup of coffee from her fingers. "You look like you've been up all night, Sweetpea. Did you manage to get any sleep at all?" Suddenly concerned for her welfare, he placed the cup on the counter and reached for her instead.

"I slept a little but something woke me about 3:30 and I couldn't get back to sleep . . ."

"Crying again?" Tristan uttered softly, caressing her chin before kissing her lips and eyes.

"No! It's nothing, Tristan. Really . . ." Chelsea whispered, turning her back to him. She didn't want him to know that she was hearing things, seeing things, feeling things, now smelling things! Maybe she was really more like daddy, than her aunt ever suspected. Hadn't he... "Forget it, Chelsea! You're not your father and you're surely not seeing your dead mother!"

"Are we pregnant?" Tristan laughed, whispering gently into her ear as his hands moved to tenderly caress her stomach, liking the idea of having a daughter or a son with her more and more.

Spinning about with the laugh shaping her lips attractively, "It's only been a little less than three weeks. You don't want a baby yet, do you?"

"Time enough to be carrying a little Tanner. I'm sure that we're doing things right. If not, it feels extremely good doing it to you."

Turning her back but keeping him well within her sight, "You should know, isn't that right, Mr. Experience . . ." Chelsea murmured in a long drawn out voice, arching her brow coyly.

"I never!" Tristan protested, wearing a bemused grin.

Pressing the issue further, "Never what . . ." Chelsea baited checking the waffle iron.

"I . . . I . . . well I mean," Tristan stammered, at a loss to explain himself properly. Suddenly she was putting him on the spot and he didn't care for it. "I never . . . you know . .