I recognize the back of Agatha’s head from the tangled hair falling out of its ponytail. But as I take a seat next to her in a metal chair built to keep visitors from outstaying their welcome, I find that this isn’t the same woman who had sat in my office just weeks before.
“They called me this morning,” I say, hoping to pull her glazed eyes away from the obvious one-way mirror on the opposite wall. The chair is bolted to the floor, so instead of turning to face her, I settle for looking at her reflection.
“Can I get you anything?” the nurse asks.
I nod, “Water, thanks.” Agatha doesn’t move.
Too many things to say mean I say nothing, just stare at the linoleum floor. The tiles’ yellow edges glow in the shadows, and I wonder how many of Moundsville’s mental patients have pissed, shat or vomited on the exact spot between my feet.
I’m shaken from my thoughts when the door shuts behind the nurse. Lifting my head, I come nose-to-nose with Agatha. She’s turned to face me, her ear resting against the recliner’s back.
This close, I can see her cheeks are no longer flecked with crumbling drugstore mascara. Now they’re pale with exhaustion and resignation. She smells strongly of shampoo. The nurses hadn’t given her a thorough rinse.
Unable to tolerate being this close to her — the period at the end of my failure — I strain my eyes against the mirror and try to catch a hint of movement on the other side. All I see, however, is how much older I look since Agatha disappeared.
I turn back to the breathing corpse still gaping at me.
“I feel like this is where I’m supposed to say this is my fault,” I say. “But I don’t think it is. I think it was those two — or maybe it was something else. I think you were overwhelmed.”
To avoid saying anything more, I sip the water. It’s sour from the Styrofoam, and I put the cup back on the table in disgust. Agatha’s empty eyes don’t leave me the entire time.
“Tell the nurse to call me if you want to talk,” I say as I rise, sensing that there isn’t more to say and even less to hear. Agatha’s head slowly turns back to the mirror, and I meet her gaze in the glass before admitting, “I want to know what happened to you.”
The words have left my mouth so dry that I take a second bitter sip of water and start to leave. At the door I turn around one last time to find Agatha staring at my reflection. Maybe it’s just the dark glass, but I swear something black — like ink or smoke — curls from her lips.