The Door Part II

 

The car’s bright blue paint matches the nylon fabric of her jacket; it pairs perfectly with her playful blonde hair, braided neatly into two shoulder-length pigtails. Two baby blue ribbons, one in each braid, complement her periwinkle eyes just as well. I watch those eyes as they scan the asphalt, her fingers as they twiddle and tug the straps on her backpack. She twists in place and kicks her toes into the asphalt, scuffing the fronts of her shoes.

“She won’t get in the car. Ever since the accident,” I say.

“How have you been getting her to school?”

“It wasn’t an issue over the summer. But we’ve been walking since school started back up. Some days she’ll walk the whole way by herself. Other days I take her in the stroller.”

“The stroller? She’s too old for a stroller.”

“Well, she’s too young for a lot of things, but that didn’t stop them from happening.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk about it.”

“I wish it didn’t happen.” That cuts the conversation short.

I watch her standing there, my daughter, trying to confront her pain, battling with an apprehension that she can’t understand. She turns from the car and shuffles towards the sidewalk, content again today with walking.  

“Honey, why don’t we take the car today?” Every word anchors the dead weight inside me; it drags me down, just as her smiles lift me up. But, now, her smiles are thin and few.

She simply shakes her head and continues walking. I catch up to her and kneel down, stroking her sad face with the back of a fingernail, tucking a braid behind her ear.

“I don’t want to,” she says, before I can utter a word.

“It’s too cold to walk today. Don’t you want to be warm?”

Another shake of the head. “I’m afraid.”

I lean in closer.  

“I’m afraid too,” my voice quavers. “Every day I’m afraid.”

She waits.

“I’m afraid because fear is easier to face than grief.”

She replays the words in her head.

“Do you understand?”

She hesitates for a second and nods.

“Don’t be afraid,” she says. She takes my hand, silent, and leads me to the car.

 

 

---

 

I awoke, confused, to the sound of a door closing and the taste of dry salt on my cheeks. I had been dreaming, but of what I couldn’t recall. A sourceless happiness began to fade from me, despite my desperate attempt to cling to it.   

It was dark now. A figure stood across the room. My hand frantically ran across the wall searching for a light switch, but as the figure drew closer, a low glow filled half of the room. It revealed a young girl, her face hidden behind the mound of paper grocery bags cradled in her arms.

“Mr. Holleman? Are you here?” She didn’t see me slumped down in the dark, beyond the reach of the lamp. She stood by the door, dangerously teetering towards it under the weight of the bags. I remained silent, not sure who she was, and not sure how she got into my house.

“Mr. Holleman?” she called again. She bent back and resituated the grocery bags in her arms, her back just inches from the door. I waited to see what it would do, half expecting it to open and swallow her. But nothing happened; she just sighed and placed the grocery bags on the kitchen counter, stepping further into the light. I saw her face: periwinkle eyes, two playful, waist length braids of blonde hair. Two blue ribbons, just as a child would wear. An unknown happiness returned to me. I beckoned her away from the door, but she still didn’t see me.

“The door!” I tried to yell, but my throat was raw and instead sounded a low, croaky whisper. It was loud enough for her to notice me.

“What?”

“The door! Get away from the door!”

This time my voice held true. She crept away from the door, looking back at it quizzically. She looked at me just as confused. Her eyes flicked to the empty pill bottle, the white stained brush on the floor, the outcrop of faded crimson tiles in the center of the kitchen. She took a step back, eyes fixed on the crimson.

“Who are you?”

She noticed me watching her and nervously averted her gaze from the tiles.

“I’m new. Kevin moved to a different route, so I’ve been working this one.”

“Route? What route? Who’s kevin?”

“Kevin. He used to bring the groceries. I came last week and you didn’t answer, but Kevin said you never did...he said he used to just come in and leave the groceries.”

“But, who are you?” I asked again.

“My name is Maia.”

I searched for the name in my memories, but found nothing.

“You were here last week?”

“...Yes, but you didn’t answer.” She began to take the groceries out of the bags and place them in cabinets.

“Was that door there the last time you were here?”

She looked at the door, then back at me.

“This door?” She pointed at it, a jar of dark red spaghetti sauce in hand.

“Yes. That door there.”

“Where else would it be?”

“It wasn’t there yesterday.”

She looked at the pills again, and the brush and the tiles.

“It was here yesterday. Here, I’ll show you.” She moved towards the door.

“Don’t” I protested, but she pressed on. I sprung to my feet and bounded across the room. When I reached her, she had already wrapped her free hand around the doorknob, poised to open. I grabbed her by the elbow and pulled hard, wrenching her hand from the door knob and sending the pasta jar crashing to the floor. It shattered and sauce covered the white tiles.  The sight of crimson sent me to my knees. It carried me away to some other time.

 

 

---

 

I’m in the kitchen. I kneel next to her small body, sprawled out on the floor, a peaceful paleness in her cheeks and a stillness in her eyes. Such beautiful eyes. A sticky wetness dampens the hem of my pants. I hold her head in my arms and weep. The floor is a mosaic of crimson blood and white tiles. My body is frozen and I repeat, “It was an accident. It was an accident”  

 

 

---

 

I scrubbed the floor, but the brush slipped dangerously along the crimson paste. I scrubbed harder, forming spastic imprints across the face of the tiles. It spread, a thick paste, in wide brush strokes, until it was on my knees and my elbows. I put the brush to my skin and scrubbed, ignoring the pain, but the brush had become infected with crimson too, and spread crimson wherever it went.

“No.”

I rushed to the sink and ran the brush under the water.

“No,” I repeated, thumbing the bristles and squeezing the crimson out of them, splashing the water onto my hands and wrists.

    But then, someone laid a hand on mine. It was Maia. I turned to look at her, finding fear and pity. She coaxed the brush from my hands and gently turned off the faucet, returning to face me, to actually look into my eyes. I glanced away.

    “Look at me,” she whispered.

I reached for the brush, but she moved it out of reach. 6 groups of 8 tiles: a total of 48 tiles and 48 hours of work.

“Shhh,” she stroked my face with the back of a fingernail. “Look at me.” She turned my face to hers. “Look at me.” I found fear there, in those periwinkle eyes, the neat braids and adolescent ribbons. I found fear there, just as I found fear in everything.

“Don’t be afraid.” She looked at the door. “Is this why you’re afraid?”

I nodded.

“I’m afraid too. Every day I’m afraid. Because fear is easier to face than grief.”

She took my hand, silent, and led me to the door.