Shut In

It's upstairs at the end of a long dark hall, an undescript door caked in enough dust it blends into the faded wallpaper. The light doesn't quite reach that distant end of the corridor so I rarely venture down that far. Every so often, I'll pause before entering one of the other well-used rooms and glance toward it as if drawn by some long ago memory. But my tired eyes never linger long and the thought passes just as quickly as it started and I go on with my day.

Time has left its mark on both the old house and my withered body. Things that used to be bright and cheerful like the yellow flowered wallpaper, my crystal blue eyes, and bouncing red curls, have all faded to dull gray. Fine lines and cracks spiderweb across the surface of my once porcelain skin and the plastered walls. When I climb the stairs, my knees crack and pop in a loud chorus with the rickety floorboards. The stale, heavy scent of death hangs in the air and clings to my skin.

Together we wait, going through the motions of life without joy, knowing the inevitable looms in the not too distant future. Each day the same monotonous routine, I wake in the first room at the top of the stairs. I cross the hallway to the bathroom where the pipes groan forlornly, echoing the ache deep in my tired muscles. I venture down to the kitchen for a simple breakfast while I watch my stories on the thirteen inch black and white television.

With great effort I climb back up the stairs that always seem to be one step longer than they were the day before. This time I enter the second door, carefully pass through the stacks of books and boxes of papers, following the narrow trail to my sturdy oak desk and the trusty black typewriter. Years ago, I'd begin these sessions in front of the tall picture windows that looked out upon the bustling street and busy park below. Standing there, sipping my coffee, I watched children play, mothers gossip, teens skulk, and animals scurry. Then inspiration would strike, sending me to the typewriter where I'd weave stories of adventure, heroism, love, and triumph. But as the stacks of unread stories piled around the room, the curtains began to hang too heavy to open and these days the typewriter only spells gibberish, rantings that hardly form full sentences. Yet I spend the better part of my day click-clacking away on the keys just to keep busy with something familiar.

As afternoon fades toward evening, the doorbell rings 5:00pm on the dot each day. If it's a Monday or Thursday, the grocery delivery boy rushes in and back out so fast it's a wonder he doesn't knock me over. Tuesday's and Friday's, the nurse comes by to check my vitals. She pokes and prods, attempts some semblance of small talk, then urges me to go outside, get fresh air. On Wednesday the pharmacy delivers yet another pile of pills, some intended to prolong my life, others meant to shorten it. Saturday brings the curious gaggle of neighborhood boys. They always seem disappointed when I open the door, as if hoping I had finally croaked since their last visit. The bravest will ask what chores they can help with around the yard. We all know that none of them want to do anything, but if I don’t give them something to do, they’ll be back with their mothers in tow, insisting that they help me. I’ve tried to tell them I don’t need their charity, but it doesn’t matter how much I snap, what foul curse words I utter, these insufferable women insist their boys learn to care for others.

But the most infuriating door bell ring comes Sunday evenings when I open the door to three plastic smiles attached to church ladies who “just want to help.” They rotate tasks each week. One will bustle off to my kitchen and fill the refrigerator with six heat-and-eat meals, pack up the empty dishes from the previous week, then scour every surface with disinfectant. Another will barge right into my wash room, gather my dirty laundry, including my unmentionables, and leave a basket full of perfectly pressed and folded laundry outside my bedroom. One tried to go in once to put them away in my dresser and closet, but she won’t soon forget the tongue lashing that erupted from that terrible plan. The last lays a beautifully cooked plate of food in front of me and sits at the table to chat while I eat. While she prattles on about how much Jesus loves me, I wistfully imagine I’m one of those shut-in widows that is found rotting in bed months after death because no one ever barged in to bother her. I’m certain I’ve been grumpy enough to earn spite from all my neighbors, but I had to live on the one street that seems impervious to rudeness. So, I endure the constant check-ins and forced charity from the well-intentioned do-gooders and gratefully shut the door behind them every Sunday at 6:00pm, relieved to know I won’t have to see their faces again for seven more days.

After dinner, I trudge back up the creaking stairs for my nightly constitutional and bath before retiring to my bedroom for sleep. My final conscious thought is a prayer to the Jesus I’m told loves me so much to end this miserable purgatory.

Every day.

...

Every week.

...

It all passes the same.

...

Day after day.

...

Week after week.

...

Over and over.

...

Until…

One of the busy body church ladies brought her young daughter with her. She apologized profusely that her husband had been called away at the last minute. The little girl sat at the table with me, her wide green eyes barely high enough for her to see over the edge. She cocked her vibrant red head to the side as she stared intently at me. I grumbled at her and she giggled back. I narrowed my eyes and bared my teeth, she squinted back and stuck her tongue out. Her mother scolded her which prompted her to repeat the action, this time with the added effect of blowing air and spit over both of us before jumping down and racing out of the room and up the stairs.

Horrified, the mother moved to chase after her, but I stopped her. “I don’t need you rummaging around upstairs. I’ll get her.”

Reluctantly, the mother sat back down and watched anxiously as I slowly climbed the steps. When I got to the top I heard a giggle at the far end of the hall in the darkness and I followed. The girl stood before the forgotten door, looking intently at it as though seeing something I could not. Then she turned to me and my breath caught in my chest. That red hair and curious glint in her young eyes suddenly triggered a forgotten memory, when toddler-me had stood before this same door begging my mother to go in. I had locked up that room after losing my parents and young husband and vowed to never re-enter. But now, standing here faced with the memory of who I had once been, the yearning to go in was overwhelming.

The doorknob fought against me as I turned the handle, but with some effort, I loosened it and pushed open the door with plenty of squealing from the rusted hinges. Immediately, the two of us were engulfed in shimmering prisms of rainbow light. The setting sun streamed through a giant stained glass window and bounced off hundreds of crystal mobiles hanging from the ceiling. My chest tingled with something I hadn’t felt in decades as we crossed the threshold. At some point, the child had taken my hand and, for once, the warm touch of another person brought my tired soul comfort.

Unlike the rest of my worn down home, this room looked brand new. The paint on the walls was still a sunny yellow. The fluffy couch welcomed us with its rosy velvet upholstery. Not a speck of dust clung to a single thing. Everything looked just as it had when father hung the mobiles and held me high in his arms to reach for them. Just as it had when I cuddled on the couch with my favorite novels and whispered to my mother of my dream to be an author. It was just the same as it had been when my beau had knelt before me on one knee, the colorful light bouncing brilliantly off the diamond ring in his outstretched hand.

“So pretty,” the child whispered.

I looked down and saw her hand stretched up. Without so much as a groan, I bent down and lifted her high into the air, as my father had once done with me. She giggled once more as her hand brushed the sparkling crystals and they clinked melodically against one another. Another sound rang through the room in chorus with her laughter and the clinking crystals. It had been so long, I almost did not recognize the lilt of my own joyful laughter.

Eventually, the three church ladies appeared at the door, worried we both had gotten lost. They all wore matching looks of awe when they found me cuddled on the couch reading one of my favorite stories I’d written to my new little friend.

“Are you...smiling?” one hesitantly entered the room.

“I’d forgotten about this room until this little darlin’ stumbled upon it. This was my happy place when I was young.”

I left the door open after that. The light streamed through the windows, making the entire hallway sparkle joyfully throughout the day. I invited the boys inside the following Saturday and they helped me scrub the years of neglect off the old walls. The ladies helped me sort through the boxes of papers, finding the best of my stories to submit for publication. I pulled open the drapes and stood at the big picture window watching my neighbors bustle about below. When I sat at the typewriter, I created stories of magic and wonder that delighted the little girl I read them to each week.

And at night, before I went to sleep, my final conscious thought was a prayer of gratitude, to the Jesus who loved me, for sending three meddling neighbors and a sweet angel girl to help find where I’d locked up my happiness and end my miserable purgatory.