Her Door

The house feels different now that she’s gone. When I lie awake at night, every feature in the house that used to go unnoticed now stands out with an unsettling clarity. Stains years old on the ceiling from water or who knows what animal in the attic make my eyes twitch. Symphonies of noise created by the creaks of the house and the clicks of my fan pierce my eardrums. The uneven paint lines along the corners of the walls resulting from a faceless handyman's inaptitude make my stomach crawl. Each flawed detail contained within these walls amplifies as her absence increases with each passing day.

The walls responsible for my agitation belong to a two-story, eighteenth century plantation house overlooking the Appomattox River in the small town of Hopewell, Virginia. My dad moved us out here five years ago when the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to buy up a few of the town’s local fishing shops presented itself. A natural businessman, he figured buying and fixing up a crumbling old house would allow us to get the biggest bang for our buck. The kitchen, antique furniture, and floors were all scrapped for items on sale in Modern Home Decor Catalogue 2010, but the doors, walls, and outer paneling remain as is, leaving the house a confused mess that would make any interior designer cry. Despite the makeover, the white rectangle we now call home still reeks of rotting wood and the Confederacy.

I mean, “at home” is never something I've felt here, but when she went, any shred of comfort the house may have offered went with her. Funny thing is, that’s not even the worst part. Every morning I have to open my door to see hers across the hallway, closed. Every morning that door freezes me in my place, its handle holding my gaze while the cold tile floor sucks the warmth out of my feet. A daunting energy seeps through its cracks.

    Maybe the unrest is my body’s attempt to hold on to some piece of her in the details, or maybe it's my mind’s way of telling me to look at the world in a different way as a means of putting the pieces of the puzzle together. It’s been three months as of today, and I’ve yet to build up the courage to turn that brass handle across the hall. If she were in my place, she would’ve by now.

As I stand outside my door this morning, missing her more than usual, I remember the fearlessness she possessed that I never quite understood. The phrase she used to say to me when we were kids plays over in my head. If you’re too afraid to crack the egg, you’ll never taste the omelet. I'm still not sure if I understand what she meant or if it even applies to the current situation, but before I know it, my fingers wrap around the handle .

           I tilt my head back, close my eyes, turn the now-worn but still lavish antebellum metal piece and feel its inner workings move, releasing the door from its slumber. With a slight shake of my head, her name escapes my lips for the first time in weeks as the door creaks open.

The energy about the room seems different now that I stand in front of it. Not daunting, but still unsettling. As I bring my eyes to look into her dusty room, still not past the threshold, I'm reminded of all the questions she left behind. Why did she up and leave in the first place? Where did she go? And ultimately, what happened to stop her from coming back like she said she would? The mystery about her leaving or disappearance or whatever you call it leaves my emotions reeling. Her room is too much for my eyes. I hunch over and look down, heaving, grabbing the door frame for support. I haven't yet allowed myself to to digest the hole her absence left inside me.

       The lack of logic eats at me. It's easier to shut my brain down when I encounter a problem that I can't figure out, except in math. Math is good. I wish life was as easy as math, but I miss her. I miss her so much. I can't not know anymore. I have to crack the egg. A gust of wind blows through the house and I breathe her smell in as it escapes the room. It gives me the strength to stand up take a step forward.