Page 50 of The Stranger in the Mirror

“All set?” I ask, and hand him his coat.

“I think so,” Julian says as he puts it on. He fishes in his pocket, frowns, and then tries the other pocket, then feels around in his jacket pockets. “Hmmm,” he says, and looks around.

“What is it?” I ask.

“My car keys. They were in my pocket.”

“Are you sure?” I say, wondering if he’s getting forgetful like me.

“Yes, I’m positive.” He checks the pockets again. “Doesn’t make sense.” He shakes his head and takes the second set of Jaguar keys from the drawer in the console table. “I’ll look for them when I get back. I’m already late.”

We kiss again, and I stand in the doorway waving until his car is out of sight. As I shut the door, I feel a bit dejected at his departure. I try to shake it off, heading upstairs to dress, telling myself that today will be a good day with my daughter. It’s only one night, and before I know it Julian will be home. Valentina and I are going to the Children’s Museum this morning, then having lunch out. She asked if we could have pizza for dinner, and I told her I thought that was an excellent plan.

After I’ve showered and dressed, I go to Valentina’s room, opening her door a crack. When I see that she’s dressed and sitting on her bed reading, I open it all the way and walk in. “You’ve been quiet as a mouse. How long have you been up?”

“Not long. I only read one book.” She closes her book and jumps off the bed. “We’re going to the museum now, right?”

“Yup. And Christmas shopping after that. I love what you’ve picked out to wear.”

She’s wearing a hot-pink turtleneck sweater, and a pair of brown-and-white cowboy boots. I watch as she brushes her hair and pulls it back with a purple-sequined headband.

“You look marvelous,” I tell her, and we hold hands as we go down the stairs together.

“You do too, Mommy. But you should wear your cowboy boots too. Then we could match.”

I look down at the comfortable wool-lined boots I’m wearing for all the walking we’ll do today. I don’t relish the idea of trading them for cowboy boots, but it’s worth it for Valentina. “You’re right,” I say to her. “Let’s go back upstairs right now, and I’ll change.”

Valentina claps her hands. “Yay.”

Mission accomplished, we head downstairs, and I can see that she’s anxious to start the day we have been planning for the last two weeks.

“Here you go,” I say, handing her the down coat. “Do you need help with the zipper?”

She gives me a disdainful look. “I’m not a baby, Mom.”

I swallow a laugh. “I know. Sometimes I forget what a big girl you are.” That garners a kinder look from her.

I slip on my own down jacket and grab my handbag. “Off we go,” I say, and open the kitchen door to the garage. When I take the car keys from my purse and hit the button that starts the car, nothing happens. I press on it again. Again nothing. I look at the keys in my hand and shrink back in horror. I am holding the keys to Julian’s Jaguar. I’m hot all of a sudden, and Valentina is asking me what’s wrong. I can’t think. Why are these keys in my handbag? I always leave my purse on the console table in the hall, right next to the key holder. How could I have taken the keys from his pocket and dropped them in my bag without even realizing it? I fish around and find my own car keys and we leave, but I’m shaken and second-guessing myself.

I try my best to put it out of my mind and enjoy the day with Valentina, and mostly I am able to do that. We are both tired when we get home, and she gives me no argument when I suggest we change into cozy pajamas before dinner.

“I’m going to wear my Belle PJs and my Rapunzel slippers,” she says as she prances up the steps singing “Be My Guest.”

When she reaches the landing, I go and put the pizza in the oven before going upstairs to change. Still chilled from spending so much of the day outside, I put on a pair of flannel pajamas and a long fleece robe.

“Pizza’s almost ready,” I say when we walk into the kitchen.

“My favorite,” Valentina says, clambering up onto one of the high stools at the island counter.

I take the round pan from the oven and slice it up, putting a piece on each of our plates. “Be careful,” I tell her, “it’s still hot.”

She leans over so that her face is almost touching her dish and starts to blow on the pizza, short little huffs and puffs. I feel my mood lift as I watch her.

“Is it okay to eat it now?” she asks, poking it with her finger.

I laugh. “How does it feel? Is your finger hot?”

She looks at me, her eyes wide, then shakes her head and picks up the slice, taking a bite.

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