Dark Doorways

by Kristin Jones

  “Again? She stares and points at you regularly?”

  “No. But this little red-headed boy did it yesterday too.”

  “And you’re not creeped out a little?”

  “I’m creeped out a lot!” I allowed myself to touch him, my hand falling on his forearm. Because I was scared. Because I needed someone. “Can I tell you something?”

  “What? Something more than creepy kids pointing at you?”

  “Michael, have you ever been through a dark doorway?”

  ***

  My arm wrapped into his like a pretzel, just as I had imagined so many times, my coat’s brown wool fusing into his black. This had become our regular promenade, this short jaunt from my apartment building to campus.

  Our morning compotations at the cupcake shop had metamorphosed into dinners at my small kitchen table, friendship into something more. So he walked me to class, escorted me like a gentleman.

  And through all of this romantic sweeping, I never realized that it was New Year’s Eve.

  “So shall we go out to a restaurant? That little pub you like?” Michael’s smile as he talked to me had a way of distracting me from whatever it was he was saying. I’m pretty sure that I just smiled back.

  It started with my question, when I began asking him about dark doorways. He was the one person I could confide in, the one person Mom trusted enough outside of family. But I never received an answer; his kiss was response enough. And now, now that I got to be the one on his arm, the issues of dark doorways and little kids pointing at me mattered very little.

  “Come on, Será, what are you thinking? You have that far-off look again.”

  “I’m just happy. Can’t I be content that we’re, you know, together?”

  “Well, at least this explains why you hated my previous girlfriends so much.”

  “What? Hated? No. That’s too strong a word. Disapproved maybe.”

  “Madison you definitely disliked. Strongly disliked.”

  “Because she was twelve, and–”

  “Eighteen.”

  “And she blew bubbles with her gum as she spoke. She was named after a town in Wisconsin. She wore sweat pants with words across the butt. Plus, you couldn’t have an intelligent conversation with her. Admit it.”

  “I’m not sure what the best response in here.” Again, his grin captivated me. I could forgive his Madisons with that sparkle.

  We approached our building and halted, warned to continue with caution.

  “It is usually this dark? Maybe a storm is coming.” Ellen Hall had a particularly bleak shadow cast across it that morning, one that might have concerned me two weeks ago, before this bliss.

  “We never decided what we’re doing tonight. We can’t study for prelims all night. Or are you afraid of 2013?”

  “Oh, I’m very much a triskaidekaphile.”

  “Is that a word?”

  “It is now. A lover of the number 13. Triskaidekaphile.”

  “So, Ms. Triskaidekaphile, how do you want to bring in the new thirteen?”

  “We should do something exciting, right?” Last year was the hard one, I told myself. You got through last year without your mom. Have some fun this year.

  A pamphlet materialized out of Michael’s pocket as he held the door open for me. He had always opened doors for me, even the dark ones. I couldn’t quite remember which dark doorways we had entered together; this was the first time I noticed Ellen Hall being one of them.

  “Here’s what I have in mind.” The pamphlet, which held tickets inside, showed a boat floating lazily through downtown Chicago.

  “A cruise?”

  “A mini-cruise. More like a touristy boat tour. But there’s an open bar, and you spend the night, so you don’t have to drive home afterward. What do you say?”

  “Was this planned for Madison?”

  “No, she was too–”

  “Too young to drink. Right.”

  “This was for you. Only you.”

  There was something in Michael’s eyes, something that I couldn’t quite name. The words were there, the smile was there, but his eyes... Algid. Lifeless. No, that was unfair.

  “I’d love to Michael. Let’s study for a few hours then go pack.”

  Those hazel eyes that looked at me so platonically just weeks ago now glanced away from me toward the bowels of Ellen Hall. It was nothing, surely. My hard soles clanked down the marble floors in perfect rhythm. Like clicks on a typewriter. Why then did Michael’s make no clamor at all? He stared straight ahead, focused, determined. Yes, that’s what it was. He was just very focused on his studies.

  Mom trusted him, right? He would never lead me into a dark doorway.

  So there I was on New Year’s Eve, clomping down the halls of the linguistics building, my silent hero next to me. Ridiculous. That was the word I was thinking. Who, after all, shows up on campus– to study– on New Year’s Eve? People with pain. People who have lost someone.

  The only light in the edifice came from Swanson’s door, shining down the hallway like the beam of a rescue boat. Only I wasn’t drowning, not with my quiet companion. “Michael?”

  His freakishly silent footsteps were eluding me as I stood in the glow of Swanson’s office. Somehow I didn’t feel like pursuing him in the darkness. The light felt too much like her. Like Mom.

  The light cut through the darkness like her voice cutting through decades of memories.

  “Sarah! Come in! It’s getting dark!”

  “Can I play just five more minutes? I promise I’ll put my bike away.”

  “Sarah Rose! There won’t be any light left! Come in now and we’ll read a book together. You get to choose it.”

  Oh Mom.

  Her fingernails were pink that night. It was a translucent shade that made you stare really hard at it to even tell what color it was, or if it even was a color. Like she was wearing no polish at all. Like her nails were naturally shiny. That was what I stared at while she read me some Roald Dahl book. We read them all, and so I have no idea which one it was that night. I only remember the fantastical dreams I would have until dawn.

  But I never realized how shrouded in light my memory of that night was. The entire house was aglow, from Mom’s lace doilies to the cheap carpet that never came clean. Soft light from some unknown source landed on Mom’s face as she read to me about flying children, or whatever the story was that night. At least that is how I remembered it as I stood just inches from Swanson’s door.

  “Sarah?”

  I must have been shocked out of my reverie, hearing Swanson mumble something about not meaning to startle me. An angel stared back at me from behind his legs, an ethereal being with light falling around her just like… just like Mom.

  “Sorry, Dr. Swanson. I was just coming in to study for prelims a little. I didn’t mean to linger in front of your office. You haven’t seen Michael, have you?”

  “No, not at all. Though I would be surprised to see him keep up with you.”

  It was an odd thing to say, to hear your advisor rank you among your peers. I wasn’t sure I cared. Between the memory of mom, the absence of Michael, and the lovely angel smiling up at me, there was little else that mattered at the moment.

  “Come in, Sarah. We were making hot chocolate if you’d like one.”

  “You can have some of my marshmallows.” The sweet little voice was exactly what you would picture coming from its source. Her blonde hair spilled over her shoulders like a spool of ribbon that someone had let unravel. Silk. Silk framing porcelain skin and rosy cheeks.

  “Oh, well, how can I resist?” It was sitting down to a tea party with my mom all over again. Doilies and everything. Swanson’s office had never been finer.

  “Mr. Pig loves marshmallows too, so you’ll have to share.” Her small hands divided up the marshmallows evenly. You forget that children so young can do things like divide marshmallows evenly.

  “This is my daughter, Gabriella. Gabriella, this is my student, Sarah.” Gabrie
lla smiled shyly at me as Swanson whispered, “Her mom was generous enough to take her for Christmas and leave me New Year’s. Nice, huh?”

  It was something, drinking hot chocolate with Mr. Pig in Swanson’s office. It was sure something.

  “Say, Sarah, we’re having a few faculty members and grad students over tonight for a little shindig.”

  Who used words like shindig?

  “Yeah! I get balloons and grape juice, and I get to stay up late even though my bed time is eight!” Her soft hand rested on top of mine as she spoke, probably too excited to remember her shyness. The warmth from her was palpable, the life and fire that ran through her little veins. Were all children like this? I wanted her satin skin to stay on mine longer, to somehow consign some of her happiness over to me.

  “So you’re welcome to come. We’d love to have you.” Swanson noticed Gabriella’s hand on mine, noticed this confluence of his two worlds.

  Part of his thick brown curls fell into his face whenever he talked. It was distracting during his lectures, always wanting to wrap my own hair in spirals around my fingers. But that lone lock was such a comfort that morning, as if it was wrapping itself around my skin, coiling down to my feet.

  “I, uh, I’m supposed to–”

  “Don’t go on the boat, Será.” Gabriella tugged on my arm as I wondered how she knew about the cruise plan. My memory seemed cloudier than usual, like a fog from the boat was already oozing in. Maybe Michael had mentioned it after we entered the building. Maybe I had been distracted. Maybe she had been near the doorway on the first floor just minutes ago.

  “Well, you, if you have plans, by all. By all means...” Swanson couldn’t finish a sentence to save his life. He could deconstruct the syntax of twenty different languages, but he stumbled with putting a complete thought together in his own.

  When Gabriella pushed more marshmallows onto my plate from Mr. Pig’s, I knew I had a friend. I had trouble finding a reason to leave her luminescence, to refuse their invitation.

  “Sarah, I thought I’d also tell you that you’ve been doing an excellent job in the program. I actually meant to meet with you before break. There’s something I wanted to discuss with you.”

  “Oh?”

  “We have a research fellowship for one doctoral student each year. You would be working with me, if you’re interested.”

  Full tuition. Double the stipend each month. Was he joking?

  “I, uh. Wow. I don’t know what to say. Of course I’m interested. What are the guidelines, I mean, what would I be researching?”

  “It would… you’d have, er, be part of the indigenous language study. You would be helping me in a lot of transcriptions, you’d have the opportunity to write, present at conferences with me. It’s renewable, it’s uh, two years. It uh, might give you that direction you need for a dissertation topic.”

  “I’m so, wow. I’m honored. How do I apply?” Exordium. It was a word Michael and I used whenever Swanson began his lectures. The beginning of an oration. The beginning of something. This fellowship could open doors for me.

  “No, I nominate you. I name the recipient. Superb work, Sarah. In the program.” He paused in shuffling his paperwork, glancing up at me with an unexpected but genuine smile. “I know you were accepted to M.I.T. You chose me over Chomsky-town, eh?”

  “Oh, yeah. I actually stayed to help my mom. She was really sick, you know, chemo treatments...” Oh Mom.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s–” It was what? Fine? Fine that my mom died? “It was over a year ago that she died.”

  Mr. Pig’s hot chocolate spilled on my jeans as Gabriella played waitress. Her apologetic face and fearful look at her father– Swanson, a father!– showed all the signs of a beautiful soul, a soul afraid to harm anything.

  “Oh, you’re fine, Gabriella. That’s why I wear jeans. Did you know that? I wear jeans so that if I spill my drinks, then the dark pants don’t show it.” I winked at her the way a creepy Santa winks at children in malls. But she leaned into me, accepting my creepiness, sort of a hug without arms.

  “Dr. Swanson,” I began, because I could never call my professors by their first names, even as a doctoral student. What was his first name again? Vern? Vergil?

  “Vadim, please.”

  Right. Vadim. His mother was Russian. How could I forget from his lectures?

  “Vadim, thank you so much. Of course I’ll do it. Just let me know what papers to sign.”

  “So you’ll come to our party?” Gabriella’s face shot up from serving Mr. Pig his new hot chocolate. I was pretty sure stuffed animals should not have liquid pouring into their mouths, but perhaps Swanson– Vadim– relaxed the rules because of the poor custody arrangement.

  “Gabi, no, we’re talking about her job for next year.”

  “But you’ll come to our party?”

  I could have told her the truth, that I had waited since the first day of grad school to be in Michael’s arms, that I couldn’t very well give that up now. But all I thought of as I looked at her was, well, Mom. She could have been my mom as a, what, four-year-old? She exuded light, just like Mom. She brought joy into a room.

  Tears. Tears over hot chocolate with Mr. Pig. That’s what happens when you lose your mom.

  “We’ll see, Gabriella, okay? Maybe your dad can give me the address and I’ll see if I can stop by for a little.”

  “Just don’t get on the boat, Será. It’s very dark.”

  ***

  I was a malingerer. It was that simple. No, coward. I was a coward.

  Couldn’t find you at Ellen hall. feel sick. went home early. please make new year’s eve plans without me.

  The text couldn’t have been more lifeless if I tried.

  It was odd how Mom’s words collided into my daily life so much more now that she was gone. Usually it was Never enter a dark doorway; but for New Year’s it was Trust your gut. Mom decided that Oprah’s wisdom would someday save my life, that if I ever felt uneasy in a situation, then I should get out.

  I wasn’t sure what happened between walking arm-in-arm with Michael and drinking hot chocolate with Mr. Pig, but my gut didn’t like it. There was a strange queasiness that afternoon, rising like indigestion. Perhaps it was that I missed Mom so much, yes, perhaps that is why I cancelled plans with Michael. Or maybe I just felt creepy about how he disappeared on me outside of Swanson’s office.

  These were the despondent thoughts keeping me company on New Year’s Eve, alone in my apartment. I had a new boyfriend that unnerved me, a flaky roommate, and a dead mom that should have been there drinking champagne with me.

  Please still come, if you’re free.

  The text wasn’t from Michael, though I was kind of hoping it was. The message came from Swanson. Vadim.

  Gabriella’s sweet voice commanding me to drink hot chocolate with pinkies up brought a smile into the room. “Oh Mom, what should I do?”

  506 E. Elm. Wow, two texts.

  At the time, playing with his daughter and her toy pig, it didn’t seem so odd to give him my number. Now that he was texting me, it was a peculiar thing, to be getting text messages from my advisor. I should get used to this I guess, if we’ll be working together closely next year.

  It was a strong fire I had to light under myself to find the motivation to leave my comfortable couch that night. Actual matches might have been more efficient. Getting dressed– and how does one dress for a party at her boss’s house? casual? alluring?– reminded me of how alone I felt, how that should be reason enough to go out and be around others.

  Grace, I decided to go out. Happy New Year! –S

  The scribbled note could have been more legible, but it was still far easier to read than what Grace usually left me. Such was the relationship of our opposite personalities. Barely legible. Barely caring.

  My brown wool pea coat, my weak protection from Chicago winters, helped give me a figure. I inherited Mom’s svelte figure, her euphemism for flat chested. Lucki
ly, the pea coat flared in all the right spots, looking like there were actual curves underneath. Wondering how waterproof my boots actually were, I trudged down to Elm Street, the neighborhood I remembered well from my childhood. Mom would drive me down and point out the expensive houses she would buy if she ever came into money. She would have relished being invited into one of them for New Year’s Eve. Oh Mom.

  “Michael!” The near-collision startled me. I never saw him on the sidewalk, yet there he was, with me in that about-to-fall-flat-on-your-face dance where we both grab for anything to steady us. Once I found the neighbor’s mailbox, I was able to finally ask what he was doing.

  “What are you doing is the better question! Aren’t you home, sick?”

  “Well... I was.” Lies. Lies on top of cowardice.

  “You’re just standing me up?” His face held genuine pain, a reaction I wasn’t prepared to face that night in my matching alpaca scarf and hat. “So where are you going? Some other date?”

  “Michael, no. It’s just Swanson’s house. Faculty, grad students. Nothing really.”

  It wasn’t nothing though. It was a chance to extract some of Gabriella’s goodness.

  “Swanson? Are you kidding me?” He was shrieking, yelling.

  “Michael, it’s just–” I let out a heavy sigh, as if my lies would go out with the carbon dioxide. Maybe the truth would come back in with the fresh oxygen. That crisp winter air. “I think it was just too fast for me, okay?” Nope. More lies.

  “What was too fast?”

  “The boat thing, spending the night together. I think I just need things to move slower. I still feel the pain of losing my mom and I’m kind of stressed about prelims. I should have said all this to you.” The lies were starting to sound good. They sounded better than You creep me out sometimes.

  “Well, yeah, you should have. But I can understand. It might be nice to concentrate on our prelims before we do something like that.”

  He nodded to himself while staring down at his footprints. I couldn’t help thinking of Swanson’s words, that he was surprised Michael could keep up with me. Maybe I would be a good influence on Michael, a lightning rod to help keep some of the distractions at bay.