Dark Doorways

by Kristin Jones

  “Michael, the map is still fluttering. It’s waiting for something.” My words fell on deaf ears. How he managed to get to his feet, I never knew.

  The last of the glass fell, tumbling over our shoes. It moved far too much for my taste, far more active than I preferred my glass.

  Michael stood there beside me, sill mute and staring off into nothingness. My dummy and I watched as Gabi’s map fluttered in slow, choreographed motions. The map was making up for the vitality that Michael lacked.

  The more the map butterfly danced, the more the room filled with deep contrasts of blue and yellow. The breaking of the glass had revived the original primary colors. Each pigment returned to its owner; the jade glass picked itself up, separated into two sides, and reformed according to yellow or blue.

  The map would not come back to me, even as I held out my falconry glove– well okay, my Target glove– to retrieve it. Only when I turned to leave the room did it finally come back to me.

  It refused to be near Michael.

  I turned softly back to look at him, partly regarding him and partly giving him my farewell. Part of me knew that I was walking away from more than just a meal. The map sat perched on my shoulder as I watched him. In his vacant body staring off into what was once a green glass wall, his neck tilted a bit. He was thinking of something, or someone.

  “Goodbye,” I whispered. It never bothered me that a map flew in butterfly spirals, that glass flew out at us. What bothered me was that I just walked away from Michael.

  I knew without looking. I knew what sprawled across the arched entryway as I left. Shadows, looming shadows, swam through the cracks, in and out like it was nothing. It wasn’t until I was safely on the sidewalk that I looked up at where the address numbers hung, there in the dark doorway.

  ***

  Swanson encouraged me to write out these memories, to have an outlet that would not interfere with my research. Swanson fills my memory of that day in Cancún, that Spring Break, when we had our day at the beach after recording Nahuatl and Zapotec speakers. I was learning far more of Mexico’s indigenous languages than I imagined possible, but misery still sprawled all over me, thick like an unwanted blanket in the shoreline heat. My despondent gaze looked out over the endless lurching of the water, wondering if Florida and Cuba would both just reach over and grab me. Would I maybe prefer it?

  It was loneliness, which I knew far too well. You don’t lose a mom and have an absent dad without living it daily. Mom’s passing might have been easier with someone to walk the path with me, some sibling or aunt. But there I was, alone on a Mexican beach, wondering how I ended up surrounded by drinking college students and feeling even more alone.

  Mom hated my father enough to consistently conceal his name. She used her little code words, like Sperm Donor, as if he didn’t deserve a name like decent human beings. “If you don’t like your curfew, take it up with The Sperm Donor.” “Don’t use that voice with me, Miss, or you can go live with The Sperm Donor.” Oh Mom.

  The couples stumbling hand-in-hand, barely conscious from their alcohol indulgence, reminded me of my other great void. Michael never passed his prelims, never sat for them. Apparently I had dated a flake, a man-flake who floated through grad school like a snowflake drifted across a glen. I wouldn’t deny that I missed his friendship though, or that even in his oddities, he still eased the sting of loneliness, if just a bit.

  And so it was Swanson– Vadim– who placed a single hand on my shoulder that afternoon as I mourned my mother and Michael. The pat pat, the brief gesture that still allowed him to retain his manliness, was enough to send tears flying. The salty droplets leapt from my face to dive into the salty Gulf. They were returning home, these little estuaries flowing out of my eyelids in their debouchment.

  I remember my head falling on his shoulder, his arms folding around me in the anonymity of a Spring Break beach. It crossed my mind to accept the embrace, to appreciate the comforting for the affection behind it.

  ***

  The plane couldn’t have been quieter. Swanson and I flew back to Chicago in silence, each stewardess mistaking us for strangers travelling separately. Even the babe in seat 27B remained inaudible until I could trace the outline of the Des Plaines River from my window seat.

  It was a strange lack of noise, the silence of that flight, full of meditative passengers. Something was about to happen, and I could see it in that not-yet-happening anxiety, that holding of your breath as you watch your mom’s favorite bowl fall to the ground in its doom.

  Swanson paid for our cab back to Evanston, dropping me at my apartment dutifully. Hesitant fingers sat on the cabbie’s back door, my jaw dropping open to say something. I looked over to Swanson, laughing at his nod even then, even after spending a research trip together in Mexico. He couldn’t manage a simple Goodbye or See you Monday.

  “I–”

  The words just weren’t there. A thought had already formed somewhere; my speech just couldn’t quite pin it down yet. More silence. My phone cut me off as I grasped for words, ringing while I grabbed the black duffle bag.

  “Bye, Swanson. I’ll email you my transcriptions as soon as I get something substantial finished.”

  Nod.

  It was commonplace, the way I– or anyone in my generation– could close a car door, schlep a bag up to a second floor apartment, and somehow get settled inside, all while answering a smart phone. Mom would have ironed while timing her roast and answering the mustard colored rotary phone. Mom would have shook her head at my graduate studies. “A girl your age should be married.”

  The thing about answering a phone while stepping over Grace’s garbage was that I had to ask for everything to be repeated.

  “Donnelly?”

  “Donnell. Heinrich and Donnell.”

  “Oh, Mom’s lawyers. I’m sorry. I just got home from the airport. So everything is okay?”

  “Of course. I’m calling regarding a special request.”

  “Oh?”

  “Your mother, Katherine H. Faro, left a very unique stipulation in her will.”

  “Didn’t we go over her will already?”

  “This is Sarah R. Faro?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please verify your date of birth.”

  It was always the birthday that messed me up. It felt like a trick question, like they only asked to watch me squirm. They were waiting on the other end for me to mess up my own birthday.

  “Uh, July el– fifteenth. July fifteenth, 1989.” Just when I was about to have them fire off their next question, I pictured Receding Hair Line Parker, staring out of Mom’s windows and mocking me. He was the type that never got his date of birth wrong. “Is this about Mom’s house?”

  “No, Ms. Faro. Your mother had some information to share with you.”

  “Information? But it’s been a year and half. Shouldn’t I have received this already?”

  “She wanted to wait until you passed your prelims. We have verified that you have passed and we are ready to disclose the document.”

  “It’s a document?” My head was spinning. Who was I talking to anyway? Was this Heinrich or Donnell?

  “Yes, Ma’am. You mother wanted you to know who your father is. Can you stop by our office today?”

  “My– Today?” It was difficult to tell if I stood in the middle of the apartment, gaping, or if I melted into the floor boards. The gelatinous legs were the same either way. “You have a document?”

  “Yes Ma’am. We do not disclose sperm donors over the phone. Once the document is in your possession, you’re free to do with it as you please.”

  “Sperm donor?” We were back to repeating everything.

  “Yes.”

  So all of Mom’s If you don’t like it, you can take up your complaints with the Sperm Donor remarks were in reference to an actual sperm donor?

  The walls of my apartment were collapsing in on me, crushing the shock out of me, reminding me to breath. Why now? Why only after I passed my pr
elims?

  Oh Mom. My head nodded. I was beginning to take on Swanson’s defense mechanism. Yes, I too would nod rather than deal with emotion. The student becomes the faculty.

  “Today should be fine. I’ll be there by two.”

  Nod.

  ***

  Swanson’s door absorbed any knocking, forcing me to bloody my knuckles any time I had to pound on his door. This day was no different, as one hand thumped and the other held the delicate little photograph. At least Ellen Hall was lit up, illuminated by the spring sunshine flooding into every available window.

  Even the shimmering sunlight on Swanson’s door seemed to be apotropaic, like nothing harmful could possibly happen here. Perhaps that explained Gabi’s fixation with the light over her front door, or Mom’s obsession with never entering dark doorways. Maybe a luminous door could ward off evil in this little world.

  Swanson nodded me in, as he always did, inarticulately. I watched his nod more closely, wondered if it was always part of his personality or if he grew into it like a pair of hand-me-down jeans.

  I handed over the transcriptions while I stared. Were his eyes always that green? Did he remember Russia, or just his Russian mother? These and a thousand other thoughts swam through my consciousness as Swanson glanced through my work. A solitary thumb stroked the picture in my lap, the fragile snapshot that could disintegrate at any moment.

  The framed picture of Gabi sitting on his desk captivated me as we sat in silence. She had his same green eyes, his same round cheeks. But what really captured my gaze was the light, always the light. Other women would have remarked on her sweet smile, her innocent youth, her gorgeous hair. But all I could think of was the lack of shadow. Shouldn’t a picture have at least some darkness, some contrast? How was I making out her features but still seeing no shadow?

  “You used the new program?” The nodding genius spoke.

  “Yeah.”

  “And it transcribed well?”

  “Yeah, I checked it afterward. I think I had to make a couple small corrections, but it was pretty accurate. I highlighted the corrections.”

  Nod.

  “Good work, Sarah.” Another nod.

  I knew he wanted to create a program to transcribe indigenous languages. I knew he received his own Ph.D. from M.I.T., where I had originally planned to attend. I knew he gave dry lectures. But what I really wanted to know was how he spent his evenings, what family vacations he went on, what his favorite movie was.

  “You’ve spoken with Michael?”

  “What? Michael?” I was caught off guard, realizing that Michael still existed when I had tried so hard to pretend he didn’t.

  “He took some time off. I thought you knew. You two were close, no?”

  “Uh–” Close. It was a sad word to contemplate, a sad realization that we were indeed close at one time. We had suffered through all our coursework together. We had shared coffee nearly every morning since my mom died. Yes, we had been close. I was in denial, unwilling to mourn the loss of my friend and my love.

  “Well, maybe you’ll see him. He should be around today.” Swanson’s mouth was smaller than I remembered, when I stopped to notice.

  Any other time, with any other person, it would have been awkward to sit and stare. But it was Swanson, Vadim Swanson. He nodded while others absorbed his brilliance. So I sat there gaping, wondering what foods he preferred and what sports he watched, all while his small mouth creased into itself.

  “Good! We’ll get started on the next step. Conference proposal. How’s that going?”

  He looked up at me for perhaps the first time since I entered his office. Air gushed out of the room like a deflating balloon, as if space and time both had to stop for a second while his eyes focused on me, locked on mine in confusion. Yes, it must have been confusing to have a female grad student staring at you, speechless.

  “What is it Sarah?”

  “I brought you something.” The picture emerged from my lap, landing on his desk. There, on top of publications, invitations, and grant proposals, sat my little photo.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a picture of me. When I was little. My mom took me to the beach. She gave me this right before she died. She said it was her favorite picture of me, that I was so happy playing in the sand that day.”

  Nod.

  “I think I was three. About Gabi’s age.”

  Nod.

  His tiny mouth attempted a smile as he reached over to hand it back.

  “I thought you could keep it.”

  “Oh?” The confused eyebrows were not picking up on the hint.

  “Dr. Swanson, Vadim, I know you were a sperm donor twenty-four years ago.”

  ***

  I remembered fog everywhere that morning, wrapping itself around my legs and feet, trying to pull me down like shackles. Swanson hadn’t been ready to welcome me as a daughter yet, but his invitation to coffee was at least a step. So I trudged on through the fog, knowing the path from my childhood enough to remember each block without seeing it. At least, I should have known each block without seeing it.

  My feet halted, not recognizing the path any longer. A queasiness infiltrated my gut and I knew where I was without looking up. There was supposed to be a park here, a little boy here pointing at me. But in its place sat Eliza’s house, jeering at me as I struggled through the fog’s grasp.

  Spring in Evanston could be amazing some years, if the temperature was in the 60’s and the redbuds and lilacs were in bloom. Mom always said that fairies lived in the hawthorns, the short trees with the white flowers. But some days, like that day, the fog billowed over everything and concealed any beauty. Why then, could the fog not hide Eliza’s house too?

  I couldn’t say how long I stood there gaping, whether it was three minutes or three hours. I only remember Michael showing up, joking around as if nothing had changed between us.

  “Sarah! Sarita! What, did you forget how to walk?”

  “Michael? What are you– What’s–”

  “Where are you headed?” His face was the same one that had haunted my dreams, those lips that had kissed me so tenderly just months ago.

  “I was on my way to meet Swanson, but why–”

  “Swanson? Again?”

  “Yeah, we, uh, we apparently are related. It’s a long story. Anyway... So... what are you–”

  “Why am I here?” His fleece jacket looked comforting, fuzzy, like an old blanket. I wanted him to embrace me just so I could feel its solace.

  “Well yeah. I mean you missed prelims, right? I thought you moved back home or something.”

  “Swanson said I could just postpone them until the fall. So, I’m back!”

  “Well where have you been? And why were you acting so oddly before?”

  The fact that we were standing outside of Eliza’s house seemed to have slipped my mind in that moment, in the reunion of two lost souls. The fact that Michael had returned and seemed to be back to his old self was far more interesting. Or maybe it was just less frightening than confronting Eliza’s house.

  “Something happened to me, Sarah.”

  “Well, yeah. You weren’t even humanoid; you were unresponsive that last night I saw you. What the heck was that?”

  “Heck? We’re using that word now?” His laugh was its own comfort, a cheeriness that I hadn’t realized I missed so much. He glanced up at Eliza’s house, the structure still slightly veiled by the fog, and his smile disintegrated. “It was this house.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I came to check up on it, to see what was going on here. Call me a protective, macho guy.” His frowning countenance rose from its fixation on the sidewalk. As our eyes met, I could see he was changed. He was aurorean, exuding morning light when everything else absorbed the fog.

  “You came here? And you found the house, not the park?”

  “Yeah, the house was here. Eliza was here too. She invited me in.”

  “What? You didn’
t.”

  “I did. I wanted to see what had spooked you, you know, to try to protect you.”

  “Oh Michael. So what happened?”

  “Do you remember that boat trip?”

  “Remember?” I scoffed. “How could I forget? You totally flaked out on me New Year’s Eve because I wouldn’t go on that damn boat with you.”

  “I know. It was weird, right?” He scratched his head, the way he always did when he was excited. “I think that Eliza girl had done something to me.”

  “You didn’t drink her tea, though, did you?”

  “Yeah! I thought tea is tea, right?”

  “No!”

  “Then there was the boat–”

  When he suspended his story, when he stared down at the sidewalk again, I realized he had really been through something. He was more than unnerved; he was petrified. The animosity I had been feeling toward him melted away, leaving me standing there, on Eliza’s sidewalk, longing to console him.

  “What about that boat?” I whispered, clasping his hand.

  “I don’t think I can ever go back there. I–”

  “What happened?” I was whispering, grasping for truth where I knew it was hidden.

  He stood in silence for several moments, watching the fog twist in between our legs. “Sarah, that boat wasn’t meant for anything living.” Michael’s head was shaking back and forth, as if the movement would change the past.

  “I have to ask. When you got on the boat, did it have a– oh, it sounds ridiculous– a dark doorway?”

  “Yeah. It was weird. It was one of the first things I noticed. How did you know?”

  ***

  The walk to the pier became violescent; the fog colored our world lavender. Michael and I got off the train downtown–purple line to red line, like we always did to get into the heart of Chicago– and made the trek in silence, not knowing what we would find. Immersed in the purple fog, we could barely see each other, let alone this mysterious boat.