THE  27Th  EDITIOn

Thousands of Irene Adams’s gilded eyes gazed back at her from the fractured mirror as she sat down at her vanity. The pink marble was littered with pieces of glass that glinted in the dark orange sunlight, hazy from one of the various California wildfires ripping through the countryside. As she gingerly swept the shards into a small black trash can, she looked up and noticed a single black streak running down her cheek. 

    “How did you get there?” Irene whispered to the streak, a sad smile spreading across her pale face as she ran her fingers over it. She normally remembered to wear waterproof mascara; it was a pain to remove, but stayed put when required. Oh well, you couldn’t be perfect all the time. Prior to this morning, though, no one had ever been closer to perfect than Irene Adams. She religiously got her hair dyed a dark brown every Sunday and was never seen with a blouse wrinkled or a shoe scuffed. You could find her most days perched on the backyard veranda with sweet tea in hand, instructing gardeners on what to plant in her plots. Crystal vases bursting with bluebells graced every table, and fresh batches of cookies perpetually cooled on the stove. 

     Irene took deep, shaky breaths as she wiped the makeup off of her face. Perhaps marrying a rich septuagenarian prick before you could legally drink wasn’t the best idea, but no matter: this was the price she paid for the life she led. She should be used to it by now. It had been five years since she moved to Los Angeles from rural Nevada, three and a half since she met Gerald, and two since she moved into the shocking white mansion he bought for the two of them in Calabasas. Two years was plenty enough time to get used to it. Other women had, so why couldn’t she?

     It was now 5:00 PM, and Gerald wasn’t home. Irene sat at the window clutching a cup of coffee, watching the shadows of palm trees grow longer and longer across their driveway. Every time Irene called him it went straight to voicemail, and he hadn’t opened any of her texts. They’d fought badly before, even as badly as they did last night, but he had never disappeared like this. 

Maybe it was because of the job. Irene had grown bored staying at home all day and had run out of room for more houseplants, so she’d started working part-time at a local nursery. She had loved plants since she was a little girl, picking purple tomatoes in her father’s garden and letting the juice burst into her mouth and down her shirt. She’d initially wanted to garden at home, but Gerald believed yard work was unbecoming of her, so this was her best option. Irene had been able to keep it a secret for three months, but last night he found her name badge. He’d pinned her to the vanity mirror, pushing her into it until it began to buckle under the pressure—

     Suddenly, Irene found herself kneeling in the backyard with tears running down her face, hands in the warm dirt. She wiggled her fingers, displacing some soil, and chuckled. It was a wonderful feeling, a feeling she had long since forgotten. A flood of memories came back to her: pollen dusted fingers after harvesting tomatoes, the itchiness of zucchini leaves, towering artichokes in bloom and her father’s dirt-caked hands on her little shoulders as she tore kohlrabi out of the ground. She’d forgotten how her father’s hands felt. 

     Irene sat there in the periwinkle twilight, inhaling the earthen air. There was electricity in the soil, she could feel it. She pulled her hands out of the ground and wiped them on her dress, hungrily crawling through the yard while examining the weeds. She grinned; despite the RoundUp her husband had instructed the gardeners to use, perky dandelions popped up through the rocks unperturbed, reaching for the heavens.

     It was 3:00 AM when she finally heard his key twist in the front door. Irene couldn’t discern whether she felt relieved or terrified that he was home. She heard his coat drop to the floor, followed by a coughing fit and a symphony of fucks, shits and goddamnits. Charming as ever. As he stomped up the stairs, Irene clenched her fists and squeezed her eyes shut, still too nervous to sleep. If he thought she was asleep, maybe he wouldn't bother her. Gerald thumped into the room, wheezing, and lifted up the covers of the bed before pausing. 

     “Irene.” 

     She tensed, and the room flooded with light. Irene slowly sat up in bed, as if not to disturb a mountain lion, and turned to look at him. At that moment, it was as if she saw Gerald for the first time. He was standing by the light switch, his old, tired face contorted into a grotesque frown. A tight white undershirt clung to his sagging chest, which looked like a sack of potatoes. Dark gray hair sprouted out of the top of his head in clumps, pathetically combed over to the right in an attempt to hide his balding. In his left hand was her green sundress, streaked with dirt and grass stains. 

     “Do you know how much this cost? Do you?” 

     Irene didn’t know, and for once she didn’t care. As Gerald continued to scream, she slid out of bed and pulled on a terry cloth bathrobe. She calmly walked over to him and punched him in the nose. Blood began gushing out, running down his face and onto his shirt. Gerald stood in stunned silence, and she glared deeply into his eyes. Suddenly, he snapped. He pushed her through the doorway to their bedroom, and she slammed against the railing of the hallway. Irene scrambled to her feet, bolting toward the stairs in a panic. Oh my god, what the fuck am I doing, he’s trying to kill me.

     “After all I’ve done for you?! You’re dead!” Gerald screeched, lunging after her. He kicked her in the back just as she began sprinting down the stairs. She tumbled into the front hall, slamming into an accent table next to the door. Irene laid there in a daze, eyesight swimming in and out of focus. Gerald hobbled the rest of the way down the stairs, loomed over her and spat in her face. 

     “You crazy, ungrateful bitch. I’m done.” He mumbled before yanking his keys off the rack and walking into the driveway. Irene wanted to cry, but only found anger instead of tears. She was too tired to move, watching his car pull out of the driveway and barrel down the street. Who knew what he was up to now? Maybe he was going to pick up divorce papers, maybe he was going to find another barely-eighteen-girl naïve enough to trust him. Regardless of what he was doing, she prayed he wouldn’t come back. 

     After what felt like a decade, she pulled herself to her feet and realized she’d sent a potted daffodil flying when colliding with the table. Irene frowned. “I’m sorry, baby,” she whispered, gently scooping the dirt back into the pot and placing the plant inside. By now, the orange of daybreak had begun to illuminate the room. The flower almost seemed to glow, its yellow petals electric and alive in the morning light. Irene was mesmerized. She began to think of her father. 

     Rapping on the door shook her from her stupor. Irene groggily rose to her feet and placed the daffodil in the center of the table, shaking her hands out. She backed away slowly, clenching and unclenching her fists as the knocking began to ramp up in intensity. If Gerald was unwilling to get out of her life, she would have to forcibly remove him. Irene pulled a framed childhood photo of her holding a zucchini off the wall and held it menacingly above her head, stalking toward the door before looking through the eyehole.

     What she didn’t expect to see were two police officers. Irene almost dropped the photo. She placed it next to the daffodil on the table and timidly opened the door, giving each of them an inquisitive look. “Um…hello, officers.” 

     “Good morning, ma’am. Are you Irene Adams?” 

     “I-Irene. Irene Adams. Is there something wrong?” 

     “May we come inside?” 

     She turned to the side and gestured weakly inside, cold sweat dripping down her spine. They steered left into the living room and sat down on a white leather couch. Irene sat opposite them in a brown loveseat flanked by dark purple orchids, and her mind began to race with possibilities. Had Gerald called them? Were they here to throw her out? Were they here to arrest her? 

     “It’s about your husband.” 

     The daffodil teetered off the side of the hall table and onto the floor, its clay pot shattering and spreading dirt everywhere. The men in front of her jumped and yelped in surprise, but Irene was unruffled. Looking at the soil scattered across the spotless marble floor, she now knew why the police were here. She turned her back to them, looking out the window in wonder as ambulances rushed down the street, sirens screeching into the air. Irene then looked back at the daffodil, still on the floor, shimmering in the sunlight like a glittering promise.