Double Doors

As I approach, my hands start to tremble and my feet grow heavier, my breath tightens as if anticipating the initial nosedive on a rollercoaster. That feeling of lightness, of being suspended in air. A flood of emotions as I see the brick sidewalk is still as cracked as I remember, and the plants near the doorway, still white, the smell still too-rich, floral cologne. I twist the purple bow wrapped around my wrist as I walk to the metal gate surrounding the porch. My parents must miss us as much as we miss them, if they keep this stuff lying around, appearing untouched. I try to take it all in, unsure if or when I will be returning. I watch the double doors stare back at me as I unlock and open the rusted gate; just as I have done for the last 23 years. The gate squeals, a sound that scratches an itch I’ve unknowingly longed for.

The doorknob on the right, gold and rusted, as if blessed from all of the palms that have graced it. The doorknob on the left, pristine and beautiful, forbidden to touch. I remember sitting on the porch, my barbies sitting in a perfect line, while we share tea. Meanwhile, my dad is grunting and cursing over the rusting knob, just a few feet away, failing to recognize its beauty. I take a quick glance at the shiny doorknob, begging to be touched. Almost like it’s illuminating the porch in its golden temptation. But, the familiarity of the right door wafts through the air and draws me in as the feeling of the cold metal decides for me. I enter through the right path, yet again as I always do.

The aroma of wet clay bounces off the adobe brick walls. The scent of green chile flows through the archway as my mother, Marie, cooks her famous green chile enchiladas. Laughing at something my sister says as she places them in the oven, dressed in a white t-shirt full of paint splotches and blue jeans, faded from the sun. Her black shoes are a stark contrast from the white floor covered in purple flowers. There lies my little scuff on the floor, burnt and charred as the day I put the hot iron straight on it. As soon as her eyes land on me, I feel myself start to leak tears as I run straight into her arms. Careful not to burn my arm on the hot stove that envelops most of the small kitchen. I feel her squeeze me slightly, trying to ensure that my flesh and bones do exist in the same space as her.

My sister, Lisa, wraps her arms around my side, and for a split second, it’s just us in the room. This perfect cocoon of safety. Lisa smells like lavender and pears perfectly paired with her white dress full of flowers, her skirt shimmies as she takes a step.

“So,” Lisa begins, “where have you been hiding?” she says as she gently punches the side of my arm.

“You know, here and there.” I say with a grimace.

“Well, we missed you around here. It’s going to be nice not to be the only one cleaning up around here.” She says with a smile and a wave towards the pile of dirty dishes.

I remove myself from the hug with a wrinkle of my nose.

“Yeah no thanks, I didn’t make the mess, I don’t clean it.” I say and I turn on my heel to go to retrieve my leather suitcases from the trunk of my car.

My father, Phillip, is there to greet me when I arrive. He hugs me and I can smell the cigarettes and the leather on his black coat. He wraps me in a bear hug, almost too much where I can’t breathe. The tears come freely now, the feeling of the protection I get from my dad, almost like a forcefield around me. The world can’t get me here.

When my dad releases from the hug, I can see the tears in his eyes as well. We don’t say much, but I know what he is feeling. I can feel it too. The pain of knowing nothing you say will change the outcome. Sometimes silence is the best choice.

My father reaches for my suitcase and I notice his hands are more cracked than before, more torn, and when he reaches for my bags, they don’t move as well as they used to. There is a feeling of burden that starts to rise in my chest. Like a balloon, beginning to inflate, but I press it down.

“Missed ya kid.” my dad says with a grin. His long white hair barely moving in the wind as he takes the bags inside. I remember when it was black, always in a long braid.

I slowly follow behind, carrying my own suitcase inside as well.

My dad leads me to a small room by the front of the house. It is covered in the same purple paint and pink butterflies from when I was a child. The small bed pushed to one side of the room, and the green heart I drew in the middle of the bedroom with the last of my mother’s good paint, alive and vibrant against the wooden floor. I leave my suitcase by the door and go down to touch it. The prick of the wooden floor, sharp against my skin. It knows I don’t belong here, it knows I am lost.

I retreat to the small bathroom, with one light hanging above the sink, the walls brown and damp. The smell of humidity encroaching on my nose as I run the water and splash my face to remove the salt of my tears. The white shower curtain mocks me as I sit down on the tile floor, the cold reaching through and digging into my bones.

I pull my phone out of my pocket to see if there is anything, any sign of the life I knew. I know it is coming, I know what my wallpaper is, but as soon as the screen illuminates with the pictures of the life I left behind, my breath hitches. I feel the cage around my heart expanding. The bows, the smiles, the popsicles, and his eyes. They’re like portals, dragging me into them.

I see the swings at the playground, which swung empty instead. I see pancakes on Sunday mornings, enough to fill more than our plates. I see the pink tutus and the blue tulips, the palettes of a priceless gift. The broken music box at the bottom of my suitcase that entraps the sound of laughter and what could have been. The little ballerina, twirling and singing across the room, the one I could never reach.

But now, in this bathroom. I remember the hum of the light straining from being turned on too late. The cracks in the floor that lead to the bedroom that held so many unfulfilled possibilities. The roots to which would have stitched the parts of me, the parts of us together that could have unraveled something new, bold and beautiful. The disappointing truth in his fists to pull the strings of desire out of me whenever he pleased. Rather than build or plant something longing and loving. Leaving the blood to close the wounds, never antiseptic. No, never antiseptic. Because that would mean that I would heal. Leaving a pit in my stomach that was a boulder, not a peach. A regret, not a gift.

I drop my phone onto the cold tile, standing from the floor, shaking. My legs are barely able to support my weight. One step at a time, you can do it. I walk outside of the house, and stare at the double doors. For the first time in my life, I reach for the untouched doorknob.