The Town with No Mirrors: Part III–Epilogue

"I'm sorry," I blubber into her shoulder.

A wave of sadness soaks me. Then it ebbs just as quickly.

She couldn't stand what she saw in the mirror. It was
never good enough. So she didn't eat. Exercised constantly.
It became her top priority.

"She was only a little older than you when it
started. Seemed better by college. But then she got pregnant.
And after you were born, the baby weight she'd put on just...sent her into a relapse."

"Do you see now why I jumped at
the chance to raise you in Gladder Hill? After what happened
to her, I never wanted anything like it to happen to you."
She hesitates. "That's why I got scared when I saw your drawings. I worried that it had backfired. That you'd become
just as fixated on looks..."

"I'm just asking because normally we suggest patients like yourself get
counseling to help you get used to your new appearance. But
since you never knew your old appearance, and since you're
going back to Gladder Hill anyway...it may be irrelevant for
the time being."

I blink, flustered by my secret phone call. “Who?"

"I never knew
your mom. But she and I are inextricably linked."

"That Gladder
Hill is too extreme. Or too exclusive. As if I choose to have
limited space and resources. It's not like I haven't tried to
get more funding, but it's almost always the same pushback:
there are more pressing issues in the world than body image."

Then I see the burnt pages full of holes,
the charred edges, the hint of an eye.

She stares at the remnants
of my sketchbook.

The woman behind
it is chewing gum and perusing a booklet with photos all
over it, only I can't see them well because she keeps flipping
the pages.

I have no time to deliberate because I hear Grandma and
Principal Gladder talking and laughing behind me.

The guard nods, and the cashier shrugs, seeming
to concede whatever they're arguing about.

I stare out in amazement at the scenery whizzing by:
buildings, houses, yards, cars, road signs, and trees, interspersed with stretches of nothing—sweeps of sagebrush and
rugged open spaces.

A hill rises
before us. A tall fence surrounds it, but it crests high enough
that I can make out a few streets running through it, stippled
with houses.

This dream is weird: lucid, self-aware.

Beautiful. That word from the list
on Beryl's leaflet. Her eyes twinkle as they meet mine, as if
to say, Yes, you heard right. I'm using that word. I never got a
chance to look up the definition. But I think I'm starting to get
the gist.

My ankle is already feeling better, but Grandma and Principal Gladder both agree that I should stay home
from school for the next week. I have no complaints about
this staycation—a silver lining.

I explain my face collection and how it
led to the fight with Grandma and the fire. It pours out of me practically in one breath, and then I wait.

But I have to hand it to her for being such a good Gladder
Hillian—or at least seeming to be. I wonder what Principal
Gladder would think to know she's created someone who
might be an even bigger stickler for the cause than she is.

When I crest the hill, the landscape
opens before me as it always has.

I've been easing back into drawing, even if it
means experimenting with my left hand, since my right arm
is still in a sling. The results look like the work of a five-year-old, but it feels good to be creating again—and who knows,
maybe I can become ambidextrous.

Noah interrupts my reverie.

"So? I'll play with my left hand too."
I raise a skeptical eyebrow under my bandages, but he
goes ahead and deals the cards with his left hand, fumbling.

I think we both know there's no
point: my drawing arm is out of commission for now, and
my face bandages are still on.

I sit on the hamper in the bathroom while Miss Ellowby
removes the old dressings, following the Barkbee doctor's
instructions.

Mr. Grinwold puts down
his garden trowel and sits back on his heels.

Of course, some things are different, in
a good way: Principal Gladder has already implemented
some of my suggestions into the community—counseling
sessions for discussing Superficial thoughts, which she's
now acknowledged as normal, even healthy, in moderation.

Of course, some things are different, in
a good way: Principal Gladder has already implemented
some of my suggestions into the community—counseling
sessions for discussing Superficial thoughts, which she's
now acknowledged as normal, even healthy, in moderation.

"You're two and a half seconds late." I expect
him to make a witty comeback, but instead he's staring at me,
his Pop Eyes widening and then bulging.

I squint at the far-off blaze, and all I can think of is
the phrase spread like wildfire. That seems to rouse me from
my stupor.

I whirl toward Noah, who's still gawking ahead. "Maybe no one else has noticed it yet," I say.

Ridiculous as that tabloid headline was—FELICITY GLADDER UNRECOGNIZABLE
AFTER 8 YEARS HIDING!—maybe the hiding part had a point.

Then I squeeze
Noah's hand, and he squeezes back, as sirens start to blare.

The Southwest Heritage Museum has announced a
new exhibition opening next week. Set to be a permanent installation, it will showcase the history and
culture of the now- defunct Gladder Hill community.

Curated by Gladder herself, the exhibition
showcases everything from artifacts to artwork, and
all proceeds will go toward her new foundation for
people battling eating and body image disorders.

Curated by Gladder herself, the exhibition
showcases everything from artifacts to artwork, and
all proceeds will go toward her new foundation for
people battling eating and body image disorders.

This set of 103 hand-drawn
portraits depicts all former Gladder Hill residents,
including a self-portrait.

"It was a step toward acceptance and healing for
me," Zailey said of the latter.