The Missing Bride: a cellphone novel by Alysse Aallyn

Chapter 11 – Perfect Alibi

We opened the door all baited
Breath as through Mirabel might be waiting but

She was not. His cold apartment
Felt forlorn.
Did we long for her or
Fear her? Somehow,
Same. Walls sucked us into
Darkness, blandness. Silence. Yet if
I closed my eyes I could now
Summon her up as I
Couldn’t have before –
Not a stranger but now
Part of me, a past life
Alter. In her bedroom her
Perfume teased us with its sexy cloud
As if somewhere she was
Watching. Listening. Laughing.
“I’m terminal,” yawned Verne.

There’s an odd expression.
“I could sleep.” I scanned the two
Bedrooms, yoked by unlockable
Double doors.
At least my bathroom
Had a lock, I could
Always sleep in there.
Would it be rude to remind him
He was supposed to have rented
A hotel room?

But if I sought politeness
He did not.
“Sorry there’s no telly,”
He insulted me.
Ignoring the fact that I possess a phone;
World-portal. It’s
A different generation.
He lifted a hand – where would
It fall? I watched with
Frozen fascination as he dumped it heavily
Upon my shoulder.

He stumbled words –
“This has been a horrid homecoming
Holiday for you.”
Homecoming? No more a
Homecoming than a holiday.
Luckily, I’d never considered this mission
A vacation. “No worries,”
I tossed off lightly,
“I’m getting copy for my end-break-essay.”
His hand tightened painfully.
I shook him off but he clenched harder.
“You can’t write this!”

I am NEVER ready for this reaction
Though God knows I should be –
Parents and school seem equally aghast
By my take on things
Refusing always to grant me
The power to call them out –
That I was born with it. It’s my
Superpower – Don’t
Reject a superpower.
I used both hands to de-clench
His grip. This would
Leave a mark.
I’d no wish to rile him but
He could never stop me.

“It’s all grist,” I quoted, lightly,
“You know, sweet mystery of life.”
He literally spat with rage.
“That’s so American!
Maundering on about your tiny lives, as if
Gossip is the better part of
Being!” I backed away, trying to control my face;
Who died and made him God? I know
They hate it if they think you’re laughing.

“It’s a mystery to be solved,”
I reassured, “Use all the tools we get:
Hypothesis, antithesis and
Synthesis. Refine
All possibilities.”
What worked at my school didn’t
Work with him. He snorted.
“Here’s what comes
“Of never teaching Classics!
Confession substitutes for mastery!”

In my small experience
Those who try to “master” Truth
Will never understand it;
Uncover deepest questions –
Invisible to us now.
Managing me,
Controlling truth won’t locate Mirabel.
I threw him a successful bone.
“Poetry’s my specialty.”

A thing literally
No one understands.
He seemed relieved.
“You mean like – metaphors?
An allegory?”
This man wouldn’t know a poem
If it chucked him on the cheek.
Poor Mirabel!
Of course she had to leave!
He’d cleared it up in
Just that second; guaranteeing me
Some sleep.
“Good night,” He told me as he closed the door.

Another strange expression: this night
Was anything but good.
I chewed my lip.
It’s a bad habit of mine. Let’s hope
He doesn’t sleepwalk.
Mother wants me to unpack first –
No hope of that – these
Drawers and closets were jammed
With gaudy accoutrement
Complete with price tags.

Because what’s the good of
Acquisition without
Provenance?
My clothes would stay
Jumbled together in their
Carpetbag.
I should film all this –
Make a video –
But where to share it?

And that’s the trouble with
My school – they’re never interested in
What intrigues me. And what
Is that? The thing
I cannot know. I’m always
In the process of finding out.
Behind the locked bathroom door
I soaked myself in
Dead sea salt. Washed
My hair in watermelon mint &
Rubbed myself with Mirabel’s
Mango chutney cream – Still I couldn’t approximate
Her clingy floral scent.

Pulling on my jammies I
Welcomed this new self of mine –
Solving grownup disasters by
Avoiding the reasoning
That caused them in the first place.
There was a knock at my bedroom door –
I said nothing but it opened slightly
Verne’s face poked in.
“Ok if I sleep in here? I just
Can’t be alone tonight.”
“No,” I said. “I wouldn’t sleep
A wink.” The nerve of him!

“Then can I leave this door open?”
He begged, “Just until I fall asleep?”
Why did I feel this was some
Miserable recap of many nights
With Mirabel?
“I have some pills to knock you out.” I
Double-dosed him with Benedryl.
Closed the door and
Disappointed myself by falling
Asleep before I could sort my
Jumbled thoughts:

Cycling my museum of dreams –
Christine, threatened forever by
A hideous Phantom, Daphne
Sprouting as a laurel tree.
Was that what Verne meant by
Classics? In the night’s dark heart
I woke and thought I saw him standing there or
Was it Mirabel – reaching through a gold-framed
Mirror to warn me?