The Missing ‘V’

There is a mirror opposite my shower.

The mirror itself has changed over the last twenty-seven years, but the placement has always stayed the same: next to the window, under the shelf of toothbrushes, year old moisturiser and muscle oil, and facing the shower head.

The first mirror was circular and had foam letters stuck around the rim. My name and my sister’s name, hers higher, obviously, and mine misspelt as they didn’t have a ‘V’ and she had used the only ‘E’. RITY I was called, between the ages of six and nine.

But then it was bathtime and the mirror, and letters, were gone.

The next mirror was narrow and had no foam letters. It wobbled and was lopsided, so I was constantly shifting it to line it up with the tiles. It used to worry me, that mirror. I would be sat in class and suddenly wonder if it was still hanging. It was seven years bad luck, wasn’t it? Does it still count if it falls of its own accord? Does the household get a communal dose of bad luck, divided between the four of us? I could cope with 1.75 years of bad luck.

The mirror did fall, eventually.

For three blissful weeks we had no mirror. A blank space awaited me each evening and with it I could savour my showers.

But then the new one arrived, along with new tiles, a new bath, a new sink. I had half hoped that the placement might have changed.

I would leave the window shut tight and turn the shower to the hottest setting. The room would fill with steam, perfumed and cloying with whatever Body Shop speciality I’d splurged my pocket money on. I sat on the toilet waiting for the glass to fog and only then would I step in. I’d stand with my back to it and peek over one soapy shoulder, satisfied when I could see no part of myself.

Mould started to grow along the edges of the bath. A bad builder, my parents grumbled as they attacked the grout with bleach. Damp spread along the forbidden space between the toilet and the wall. We should call him back, they muttered, stood shoulder to shoulder and staring down at the black splatter I was convinced spelt my name. Paint started to bubble on the ceiling. You need to fix it, my dad said down the phone, whilst my mum watched me.

I started to find messages that grew in the steam. You look beautiful. Don’t compare. We love you. The ‘e’ was written like the ones found in my birthday cards.

I started to leave the window open a crack. Just a sliver at first. Before college parties or the nights before exams, I’d leave an inch to allow the perfumed steam to filter away. For baths late at night when the loneliness hit hardest, or for a wash after travelling to see friends at their universities, I pushed the window so I could see a patch of the driveway below. When I had a shower on the night before my first ‘grown-up’ job, or a bath before a date to twist myself in unimaginable ways for my razor, I pushed the window all the way.

I have tried, just once, to take the mirror down. But unlike its predecessor the nails hold firm and the mirror doesn’t move. It is so large it would be more than seven years bad luck if it falls. I think the mirror will stay longer than me.

I have decided my bathroom will not have one.

But then, last week, when the bath is being repaired, we find a foam letter. The missing ‘V’. I stick it to the mirror, as high as I can reach. The next day the rest of my name is there in bright primary colours. But when I keep the window shut and the mirror steams up, the letters fall one by one, their grip lost. I must leave the window open, before I lose myself again.

So, I do.

More letters join my name. One letter greetings, the rude word of the week, and then reminders for shopping.

When I shower, my body is framed by the pieces of my family caught in plastic foam. Just above my right shoulder the word POO ROLL sits, my dad’s reminder for the shopping that week. Down by my right hip, C-U-N-T, a word my mum once hated but now uses with vicious pleasure for other road users, the government, or the cutlery drawer when a knife is jammed. Above my head, like a tiara, LOVE, which needs no explanation at all.

I have decided now that I will have a mirror in my bathroom. Around its edges you will find pieces of myself in foam letters. I intend for guests to add theirs, so it will be so crowded with the remnants of my loved ones I will have no choice but to look in the mirror.

And smile.

Verity Jane (she/her) is based on the South Coast, but hopes that will soon change. She works at a literary consultancy helping other students learn how to write, whilst trying to remember her own reasons for writing. You can find her quietly observing on Instagram - @verityjanebooks