Mrs. March

by Virginia Feito

Mrs. March herself had a child. She was glad it was a boy, glad she hadn’t been sentenced to witness her youth reflected, pure and unwithered, in a girl.

Eight or nine years had passed since their breakup, but Darren had the same blotched cheeks, the same curly hair, the same style of striped linen shirt (though her heart sank when she realized this particular shirt was unfamiliar to her—as if she somehow retained the right to know his entire wardrobe forever).

She’s a fictional character!” “Then why does it feel like she exists and I don’t?”

She struggled to remember what it had been like before, this affliction that had once dominated her life. She had planned holidays and gatherings and even her own wedding around it, gobbling painkillers and pressing hot water bottles against her back all day. Not much was left now. So much of one evaporates through the years, she mused.

Guilt was for the brave. Denial was for the rest.

The prospect of having a little secret to herself, known only to her, possibly forever, thrilled her.

She sniffed at her wrists and realized that she had forgotten to pack her perfume. She felt like a stranger to herself without it—a scentless ghost. She smiled at the thought. If scent was an identity, not having one opened up new, exciting possibilities. She could stay here in Gentry, her slate wiped clean, and start over. She could be anyone she wanted.