The Missing Bride – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

We examined the boxes content.

 “Let’s separate in two piles,” Derek proposed;

“Hopeless and intriguing.”

But which was which?

Everything seemed hopeless: ridiculous clothes,

Shoes with broken heels, endless piles of

old magazines.  Souvenir of

Great Britain? – a Union Jack sleepshirt.

Cosmetics and grubby makeup kits,

Hairbrushes, scrunchies,

An ancient red plastic boombox,

Terrible Advice Books 

(“The Power of You”)

costume jewelry of improbable value –

Even her jewelry box I recalled

From childhood days.

All just junk Dominica could

Have thrown away!

Why wasn’t Mirabel more literate?

Dyslexia?  Hadn’t that word

Been bruited undefined 

To the insatiable ears of

An eight-year-old –

I heard parents always looking for

Excuses. I thought about what I would 

Have left – same thing Derek might –

Notebooks of scribblings

Journals and diaries –

“Notes to self” – cherished cards

Day planners and calendars?

The only exciting thing: a professional portfolio

Stamped MONFORT COLLEGE OF MODELING.

I opened the portfolio, scared and thrilled

Here’s the Mirabel I would recognize.

But all the photos seemed outdated –

Shlocky, overly made-up and

Inhumanly posed.

This girl should demand

Her money back.

But maybe there was no “money” –

Goblin gold melts away when you reach for it.

What is a “model” after all but 

A blank screen embracing

 Frenzied searchers for the 

“Other.” Well, she’d been

“Othered” here –

One particularly traumatic

Mirabel in whiteface

With the cruel thorn-like silver

Piercings through her lip – 

Rendered speechless –

Her life a cage around her

Nude starved body. 

Derek saw my reaction and put his arms

Around me.

“Well, that settles it,” I said,

“That was really Mirabel. I saw that lip.”

To suggest anything else –

That there could be 

Cadres of desperate girls

Scarred and marked and rendered mute

Thrown away into the dumpster? 

No wonder

Mirabel declared the fashion world 

“Shit!” One precious picture 

Evoked the “Murble” I remembered –

Filled my eyes with tears –

There she was

Pony-tailed Mirabel in Daisy Dukes,

Washing the side of a fake car.

Youthful, hopeful, tender, memories came surging up –

Mirabel filling the kiddie pool so I could play,

Decorating my pancakes with Picasso faces,

Gelling my hair into crazy shapes.

If you ran these pictures backwards

They recorded tragedy:  the slow dawn

Of knowledge as she realized she was in

Bad hands; turns out beauty 

Isn’t enough. Answering the question;

It had been my real sister who

Threw me at Lord Verne so that she could 

Get away. Derek dropped the fake nipple 

He’d been studying. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know 

She was that kind of model.” 

I blazed at him: “Everyone’s that kind!

It’s a job!” Derek spluttered.

“The human body’s beautiful.”

I cornered him:

 “Will you get naked so I can inspect you?”

His face reddened.  Suddenly he

Was fifteen years old. “Not unless you do too.”

“I won’t. You’d have to be the only

Nude person in the room.”

He huffed, and puffed, “Point taken.”

And to his everlasting credit

Hugged me again, but tenderly.

No further explanations required.

 “Sorry,” I mumbled.

“Don’t apologize,” he said.

“It’s all horrible.”

Bad moment over.

“Hey, look at this.”

He’d clicked open the boombox.

“There’s a home-made cassette.”

It was an answering machine cassette.

I recognized it – Dad still used that kind.

It explained the ancient boombox.

“Let’s press play.”