The Door

My name is Jeannie and I need help, which is why I’m in this therapy online group. Better for me to meet this way, although the virus peaked and the worse over. It’s not as if anyone will believe this anyway. Nevertheless, this is my story. If nothing else, you can feel superior I suppose. You can say you’re not insane like I apparently am. Except it’s all true.

I blame my damned cat. Stupid thing! If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be in this predicament. I had to clean out my closet and tear up the rug. All because she thought my closet was her litter box.

 “Be nice,” James, my college son, says, “she’s old.”

 She’s an idiot is what she is. No, I don’t remember the date. It was a Wednesday at the beginning of April, I think. It must have been after my niece’s birthday. That’s on the fifth if I remember correctly. That's what happens when you're sheltering in place as they say and not working. All days become the same. I knew from experience I wouldn’t get the smell out of the carpet. So, I pulled it up, trying not to gag. At least I know I don't have this virus, I thought. I can smell the piss. Public Radio said that loss of taste and smell were new symptoms. Of course, this smell would penetrate an armored tank so who knows? I was hot. Even my grandmother’s watch seemed heavy on my wrist, delicate as it was. My lucky charm I needed these days. But again, I was in a closet that was supposed to be a walk in. Right. It was, if I only took three steps and didn’t turn around.

In all honesty this actually felt good. I flung everything out of the closet into my bedroom. It felt therapeutic. I wasn’t happy. This story is dull, the critic had said about my last story. The writer tells instead of showing and the characters are flat.

What the hell did he know anyway? I thought. My mother said my last poem made her dizzy whatever that meant. She was in an endless loop reading it. Bah, humbug! I was tired and sick of trying to write. So here I was cleaning out a closet instead. Lucky me. I yanked up the last of the carpet and found it.

How did I not see this door before? I thought. After all I’d been in this house ten years. But there it was, a small wooden door in the far corner of the floor.

“Some sort of safe someone put in,” I said to myself. “Be cool if there’s money in there. God only knows when we’re get our stimulus checks.” I turned on the flashlight in my phone and looked closer. There was a ring set in a groove, so the carpet laid flat over the door. I took hold of the ring and pulled. It opened so suddenly I nearly fell back. I approached it cautiously, looked down and then I did have to sit down hard. Who wouldn’t if they saw a set of stairs leading underneath their house? This is the eastern coast of Florida for God’s sake. We’ve lucky if we’re fifty feet above sea level. I gingerly put my foot on them to make sure they were real and not some weird picture or illusion. They held my weight. I felt warm air from underneath. So, I did what any normal person in these uncertain times would do. I walked out, got a thermometer and took my temperature. 99.8. A little high but not a fever. I didn’t remember drinking anything stronger than soda. So presumably I wasn’t hallucinating. I thought I should make sure.

“James!” I called. “Come here! Do you see what I do?”

“Can't right now! I'm fighting this boss in my game!”

I didn't want to wait. War of Dungeons boss battles could take an hour. My other son was either studying his online schoolwork or more likely, napping. So, I shrugged, muttered some un-motherly words about entitled college sons, and started down. About twenty steps in I reached a tunnel. I couldn’t touch the ceiling, but I could touch the walls if I opened my arms. Not much light. And it was getting warmer the further I walked in.

“Great. I must be dead,” I said aloud. “And not from this virus but from breathing cat piss in my closet. It killed me. And apparently the Catholics were right. I didn’t go to church in forever and now I’m on the road to hell.”

“That depends," said a voice. It was soft, unaccented, and slightly mechanical in nature, as a male android might sound. Still, the way he spoke he could have narrated a TV show about painting landscapes. The voice was calm and soothing or would have been under other circumstances. “But you're not dead.”

I jumped and fell back against the wall. “Jesus jumping Joseph! Who in God's name said that?”

“I am sorry. I have startled you.”

I gasped for breath as if I had this stupid virus. “W-Who are you? I-I can't see. And what is this place?”

“I believe you know who I am. I can best describe this place as-where dreams are.”

I slapped myself on the arm hard. Jesus, that hurt. If this was a dream it seemed all too real. I pushed myself back against the wall. It seemed the safe thing to do, protecting my back, facing to the unknown. The safest thing to do would have been for me to run back up the stairs. But I was shaking and not from the situation. He was right. I knew him. And that wasn’t possible.

“That seems an illogical thing to do,” he said, “to hurt yourself.”

“S-Sebastian?” As if saying his name threw a switch the gloom lightened somewhat. I could just see him. He had short brown hair and brown eyes. He was five foot ten in height. He stood upright so the tunnel was bigger than I had originally thought. He wore a black hoodie and blue pants. He was just as I imagined him down to the paint stains on his fingers. Here I was talking to android who was oddly enough, an artist. I dug my fingers hard into the dirt wall, searching for some grip, something real, something to keep me from falling. I knew him. I had created him.

 “Holy sweet J-Jesus Christ. You-you’re- real.”

“Indeed.” He smiled and I got the feeling he was mocking me. I wasn’t surprised by that. I had once heard an author talk about her son who was also a writer. Her name escapes me now but not her words. Her son had said something like “my characters won’t behave anymore. They run around doing whatever they want.” I should have paid more attention to that. At the time I was just newly writing and didn’t know any better. I thought that would be fun, actually. Right.

“W-what do you mean this depends?”

“It depends on you and what you see.”

I don’t have a lot of experience with androids but this one was maddening. Unfortunately, that was my fault. “How about you elaborate for me? Why am I here? While we’re at it, why are you haunting my dreams and my waking thoughts?”

“Is it not obvious? It is because we want to be heard.”

I looked around for it was getting brighter in the tunnel. I could see the dirt walls now. And I could see him more clearly, as if fog was lifting. “Umm who’s we?”

“All of us who are here.”

Maddening, indeed. I definitely needed to rework this character.

“Too late for that I am afraid, “he said, as if he knew what I was thinking. “I am both sentient and independent. I cannot go back now. I am what I am.”

“I can see that” I replied, “but you could explain better.” He didn’t answer. I sighed. “Okay, let’s recap. This is the road to where dreams are made.”

“They are not made. They just are.”

“Daydreams or night dreams?”

“Is there a difference?” He came closer to me, standing about three feet away. Plenty close enough for me.

“Yes. Daydreams are usually pleasant. Dreams at night can go either way.” If this was the road to night dreams I was going to get out if I had to crawl. I’d had nightmares I don’t want to repeat, or see come true.

“Is that correct?” he asked.

At that my tongue stuck against my lower jaw, suddenly dry as an alcoholic’s wine glass. I’ve had some pretty awful daydreams. It’s weird to say that; everyone has pleasant daydreams, right? I knew better. I needed to leave. But-shit. The stairs should have been just a few feet from me; I hadn’t gone down the tunnel far at all. Still, I couldn’t find them. “You’ve not said why I’m here.”

“Because you called to us. You wanted to be here.”

“I’m here because I found a trapdoor in my stupid closet. And I think you know what curiosity does.” Sometimes I can wake myself up from bad dreams. I tried, opening my eyes wide, shaking my head. Nothing happened.

“You can go back you know,” he said.

“No.” Up above one son was glued to his game, another probably wasn’t doing his online schoolwork, and both would want dinner they wouldn’t particularly like. Try to find anything resembling ground beef these days. Besides that, both were angry, bored, picking on each other. I didn’t want to deal with them, so I walked towards Sebastian. “So, you say I called to you. I don’t know but I’ve certainly written about you.”

“You have called. You seek to improve your writing and us, your characters.”

“I do. I’ve read books on writing, studied other writers. And still-“

“The question is, do you really wish to do that?” He gestured back the way I came. “You can always find the stairs again. Otherwise the answers you seek are-forward.” He pointed down the tunnel.

No one ever accused me of being sensible. Besides I really did want to improve my writing. Who best to tell me than one of my own characters?

“Lead on,” I said.

“You are the one who will lead. As you see, as you feel, so will I.”

I didn’t understand but I started down the path. “What will I see-“ I broke off as the walls faded. Light flooded in. And I saw…

I saw the first thanksgiving after my divorce, so many years ago. We were in an apartment I really couldn’t afford. I couldn’t get my old house sold so we faced foreclosure. My ex and I fought, not over custody, but about child support. James was eight years old and that year, always angry. Alex was five and in his own world then. I had worked hard on making a traditional dinner for the boys. I should have just ordered pizza, judging by James’ words at dinner. They had been very simple and not appreciative.

“This turkey is dry,” he said.

I completely lost it.

“You’re ungrateful!” Then I ran outside before I could say more. Alex followed. I think he meant to comfort me. I told him to go away. I was in tears and didn’t want them to see. Then in shame and in regret I apologized to both and prayed I’d be forgiven. That they’d forget my fury and my pain they didn’t understand.

The scene faded.

“What the hell was that?” I spun and faced Sebastian. I rubbed my face. Cold sweat.

Sebastian answered with a question. “Why were you so angry?”

I had no answer.

“You had failed.” He touched my arm. “Did you hate your son in that moment?”

“No!” I jerked away. “I only hated the situation!”

Sebastian’s eyes were red now. I knew why they were since I had written it. In my story an android can scan a human to check temperature and heart rate. When they scan their eyes turn red. But this was different. It was like he saw inside me.

To my horror, we both knew what I had felt that day. Sebastian said it.

“You hate that he’s sometimes like his father. Critical. Cynical. So was your ex. You worry your youngest will hoard like your ex did. He is messy now. You compare them to him. James didn’t vote in the primary and this disappoints you. He expected you to go to college and get him. He always does, although he thanks you, takes you out to lunch. But you wonder if that’s enough, even as you go. Even as you love him.”

“Jesus Christ! Stop! He tried to get a ride. He couldn’t! That doesn’t make me angry.”

“You say to them be who they are. But you only mean it when they are who you want them to be.”

“T-that’s every parent, if they’re honest. W-we must fight that.” I ran away from him but froze. I saw…something I often imagined when the phone rings and I see on Caller ID it’s the school.

Alex injured in a school shooting.

“He was trying to help someone,” a voice said. Then there were more scenes.

I saw James, in a hospital bed. There was a doctor in the room. He wore a handmade mask with a bird’s beak. It was, I saw to my horror, a Medieval plague mask.

He said, his voice muffled, “We have no working ventilator for your son.”

My mother called me. Trembling, I answered the phone in my ice-cold hands. “Your father died,” she said. “The virus.”

Then it was my father calling. “Your mother…” his voice trailed off.

I turned away, crying and the scene faded. I was back in the tunnel. Sebastian stood only a few feet away. Watching.

I wiped tears from my eyes and stared at the android. I walked up to him; hands clenched. I raised my fists, but he only stood, watching me. I dropped my hands. “Why am I seeing this?”

“These are things you imagine. Why?” he asked.

I did but all this was too real. It was why I hesitated to come here. Daydreams weren’t always pleasant. “Anxiety. I am afraid. These shootings. The sickness. They could happen!”

“You are right but is fear all it is? Are you also angry with them? Why do you imagine these things happening to those you love?”

 “Wait. I see it now.” I gasped for breath. I put my hand to my forehead. It was still sweaty but now very hot. “This is not where dreams are made. Or even are. This is where the demons are.” But as Sebastian looked at me with his red eyes, I knew even more than that. “This is where my demons are. Anger. Greed and fear. My deadly sins. This place is…” the heart of darkness I nearly said. My darkness.

Sebastian came closer. He was only inches from me now. “If you want to write well you must face them,” he said, “know yourself. Know me. Why did you create me?”

“I-I was intrigued b-by an android who could gain the ability to love.”

“Maybe I can hate too.” he said.

“No! I didn’t create you to hate. You’re supposed to be better than the humans around you.”

“It is possible I am not. Why should I be better? If I can love I can feel anger. Hate. You must face that possibility. Face your demons. Know them. And bleed out. Only then will we have anything worthwhile to say.”

Someone called, “Mom. Mom!”

I turned looking around. The voice was very faint. Yet it called again and a bit stronger this time. “Mom!”

“They call me,” I said.

“Only when you face your true self, your failures, can you realize your own strength. And realize how strong your love can be. Only then will we be something.”

“Mom!”

“Do not go,” Sebastian grabbed my wrist. “Listen to us. See yourself. So we can be.”

Run back up the tunnel! But my way was blocked by people. One walked on crutches; another was hunchbacked. I knew they were me; they had my eyes.

“Wake up!” said that faraway voice.

 “I have to go!” I pulled away hard. As I did my watch’s band broke. He held it in his paint stained fingers. I had to get out. I ran-

I woke up in a hospital bed. A doctor bent over me. No bird’s mask, thank God. He wore a quilted handmade mask. I didn’t see James, but I heard him. Someone had put a laptop in the room. He spoke via Skype. “Mom. We’re here.”

 “Sort of,” Alex replied. “We’re all in isolation.” Apparently, I passed out in the closet. James found me, saw I was feverish, and called 911. The virus, of course. I must have dreamed the trapdoor in my delirium. Fortunately, the illness was mild, and I didn’t need a ventilator. Both the boys were quarantined but their symptoms were even milder than mine.

I’m well now, and at home. Life slowly returns to normal. As for my closet it took me a long time to go in there but finally, I did. Of course, there was no trapdoor. Just in case, it’s boarded up. I crammed everything in my other closet. I refuse, I refuse to use the walk in. I’m also afraid to write, although I'm driven to it. So, I do with trembling hands. Listening to their call.

Why did I board up the closet? Because when I got home from the hospital, I found my grandmother’s broken watch. It was wrapped in purple tissue paper, lying where the trapdoor was. Why does that matter? Because that’s Sebastian’s favorite color.

 Also, I don’t own purple tissue paper.