Take the stairs

Kristen spent another morning gazing at the lifeless tree by the water. She pressed her hands against the cold glass, hoping to catch a glimpse of the bird feeder her husband had placed in front of the window, one floor above the living room. The coal tits remained shy, flying toward the feeder and quickly making their way back into the tree. During the first months, Kristen spotted one little feller, placing his paws in the net and pecking a few seeds before taking off again. As the weeks passed, his visits to the feeder extended. But the slightest gust of wind, a small sound, or even the twitch of her own finger sent the poor guy back into the tree. So, she kept still now. Pretending to lose track of how long it had been. Four weeks and five days. Almost five and a half. Kristen wondered if she could catch the leaves on the tree sprouting if she’d sit there long enough. She always loved the beginning of seasons but hated how they dragged on. March was always too grey. October would be too yellow forever. 

She’d laid in bed that morning—which was now the living room couch with her pillow and a blanket on top of it—and noticed the season had clicked. A shy sunbeam lit up the retirement center across the water. Kristen watched the elderly with walkers, sticks, or in their wheelchairs, pushed by a loved one. Or two, if they were really lucky. Old lady Yasmin walked by her window, and Kristen ducked out of sight before she saw her. Kristen’s hands uncontrollably shook at the idea of another conversation for which she did not have the strength. 

Four weeks and five days. Five and a half, almost. Kristen hadn’t thought of a place to go ever since, so her mornings were slow. Reading. Falling back asleep. Reading again. Grey skies. Birds in a lifeless tree. Her afternoons were for brushing teeth. Washing face. Getting dressed. Afternoons were for make-believe in case a friend rang her doorbell and she ducked too late. Then she had to answer, unwashed, in pajamas, only to be met with a look of pity. Mornings flew by, though she counted every minute. At 11:55, she planned to climb the stairs at 12:00. At 12:06, she pushed it to 12:15, and so on. The ritual repeated itself every morning until it was well past one, and Kristen got up anyway, without a rounded number to justify the right time to do so. 

The first steps on the stairs were easy, but the further she got, the heavier her breathing and the harder her heart started pounding. Of course, they were just sensations, except they weren’t. She was preparing to stare into lifeless eyes, even if they were just her own, looking back at her in the bathroom mirror. She froze halfway up the stairs. Her heart stumbling over beats. Kristen took a deep, stuttering breath and looked down at the platform in the middle of the stairs. Her grey woolen socks on the grey, uninspired steps. They’d always planned to change them. 

‘Something blue and yellow!’ her husband had shouted during the first talk about the renovation.

‘No way! Pink and red. That, or the stupid grey stairs forever.’

He pretended to think and raised an eyebrow: ‘Compromise?’ 

Kristen had smiled. ‘That depends…’

‘Yellow and pink.’

She didn’t respond, though she’d agreed immediately. Pink was her color, and yellow was his. It seemed like a fine combination of sweetness and sunshine.

‘Come on! We’re not keeping the stupid grey stairs. You wouldn’t be caught dead in a house with a hint of greywash!’

Kristen poked him, smiling: ‘Neither would you.’

‘Never said I wanted.’ 

Another wave of panic poured over her. Kristen busted up the stairs and ran into the bathroom. Counting every action needing to be done. Brush teeth. Wash face. Get dressed. She opened the basket with working clothes and found comfort in it; it didn’t reek like it had been a month. She put on her once beloved jeans she’d sacrificed for painting the house and hasted back down. Kristen opened the cabinet beneath the stairs, filled with pots of paint they’d bought just before—

She climbed the stairs fearlessly now, sandpaper in hand. Erasing all the grey layers, swooping her fingertips over the rough surfaces. Kristen imagined a friend ringing her doorbell and gladly opening it to announce she was very busy indeed. Painting the stairs. Renovation must go on. Et Cetera. But she wasn’t lucky enough to open doors she wanted to.

Kristen stirred the pots of paint and poured them into individual trays. Smiling, looking at the bright yellow color her husband had picked, she walked up the stairs. Peace settled into her chest. No rumbling or rattling. She sat down and gently painted the top step yellow. Switched to pink every other step. Halfway descending the stairs, she imagined her husband’s reaction when he came home. Her shoulders relaxed. She painted one more step and realized she had run out of thoughts. Kristen wondered when she’d last listened to an audiobook and knew the answer very well. While painting the other half of the stairs, she listened to a story about a guy fighting a gigantic mountain of cheese. His companion was a cheese slicer, which was very fortunate for him. Kristen thought it nice to have company to fight with you instead of showing you how sorry they truly were. 

When she finished the last step, she rinsed her hands and sat back on the window sill with a warm cup of tea. Two men outside pointed up towards the bird feeder. Kristen placed her hands against the cold glass and saw eight coal tits pecking at the food. Unbothered at last. She rushed to the stairs for a better view but halted at the look of the wet paint in front of her. Walking back to the window sill, her blanket on the couch, she wonders how bad it would be to just lay beneath it, just for a minute. 

Then she heard the voice of old lady Yasmin: ‘Her husband died on top of the stairs—cardiac arrest. No explanation. Very sad indeed. You know they were married ten years ago this October? He bought her a bouquet of sunflowers and a house.’