The Locked Door

The kids are small enough to fit together in the bathtub. They splash each other and try to stand up. I tell them over and over they need comfy butts in the tub. I have a recurring fear of them falling, swallowing water, and dry drowning hours later while asleep. I read about it in a mommy blog once. To keep them occupied, I wave a bubble wand over their heads. The opaque bubbles float down to pop in their outstretched hands. The glee something so simple can bring lifts my mouth into a smile. 

I bundle them in towels, swipe q-tips in their ears, and dance electric toothbrushes across their teeth. When I open the bathroom door, they burst forth into the living room unashamed of their nakedness. I decide to let them toddle until they're dry enough to put pajamas on. 

"Bedtime! Pick out your book." 

I start bedtime by going to each of the windows, checking and rechecking the locks, closing the blinds, pulling the curtains. When I move to the backdoor, I hold my palm over the broken bolt. There's a pain in my chest, a gnawing. A picture of a dark beast, eyes black, humanity absent. An enormous, destructive body pushing against the door, screaming in whispers, "Let me in!." The vision feels alive, chomping, snarling at the door. 

I reach for the screwdriver sitting on the dryer and move it to make it look less like a hidden weapon, more like I forgot to put it away. A shovel crusted with mud is next to the front door, leaning against the kids' rubber boots and my garden gloves. In every room, I've identified innocuous household objects to be used as weapons. A shard of glass expertly swept under the oven, sharpened pencils in windowsills above the kids' reach, a pyrex dish left near the couch. Materials designed to throw, maim, stab all choreographed to look like a mess. 

I gather both babies, dress them in footie pajamas, and lay them in my bed. We each have a spot for falling asleep. The older one sleeps with his stomach pressed to my spine, toes touching the back of my legs; the younger one sleeps with my arm as a pillow. His curdled milk breath hot against my face. I close my eyes and steady my breathing, will my heart to a regular rhythm, so they believe I'm asleep and stop fidgeting and rest their eyes. 

Tonight, there's an unease inside me, siphoning my energy. I wake up hot, my heart pounding, thinking I heard a scratch outside. Could be the wind, a branch, a dream. I wiggle from between the babies and reach for my phone. No texts or calls. I listen closely. No sounds from the door. It's quiet except for the pounding of my heart, the blood behind my ears, the anxiety punctuating my thoughts. 

I tiptoe into the kitchen and turn on a light, then flip it off. Best to look like I'm sleeping. I microwave a cup of water and pour in a packet of hot chocolate, then sit by the heater. My phone clock says it's barely midnight. The darkness of the living room with the blinds and curtains drawn is stifling after staring at my phone. Shadows seem to breathe on the walls as cars drive by, the faint flicker of their headlights peaking through the cracks. I'm tired to the bone, but I know sleep is impossible unless I can relax. Tomorrow is Friday, so I have to work. I go through my to-do list; the mental repetition of the tasks a salve. As soon as the anxiety creeps in, eating at my gut, stealing my breath, I start from the beginning again, again, and over again. 

Wake up, shower, pack diaper bags-- 

Wake up, shower, pack diaper bags, breakfast, get dressed--

Wake up, shower, pack--Scratch. 

My body jolts. Was it a key? A credit card trying to find purchase between the door and the latch? A safety pin inserted into the keyhole or a paper clip? I squint, my eyes searching through the shadowed darkness to find the lock. Is it locked if it's up or flat? My tired brain can't remember. Did I lock the bolt? The back door? How about the windows? The questions have a visceral effect. My body aches with panic. It rakes through my gut, blisters into my chest, squeezes my skull. I gulp the hot chocolate, trying to ground myself. It warms me. 

Only the wind, I resolve. We are safe. 

I hear a car stop nearby. 

It's nothing. Just the neighbors. 

The sound of a car door opening convulses through the silence.

I pull my body to the door, legs sliding beneath me, and press my ear against the cool wood. There's a sliver of air seeping from the cracks. I shiver. A deep voice and laughter. I can feel my anxiety metastasize. My legs grow numb, immobile. 

The sound of a door slamming shut. 

My eyes press closed, tears hot down my cheeks. I hear erratic footsteps. Stumbling. Feet thump toward the door. My eyes are squeezed so tightly, there's a brightness to the blankness. My body is on fire, the viscous terror igniting through my veins. I wish I could amputate it from me, then slash through the phantom webs left behind. My phone is on the floor by the heater. How long would it take for the police to get here? Ten, twenty, or thirty minutes? Would they arrest him or send him away to punish me later? 

It is astonishing how easy it was to be fooled by a monster, to start a family with a beast, a creature you're not supposed to love. It is surprising what you'll accept to be wanted, needed, and desired—to want, need, and desire. But love can be corrupted, twisting and grisly. Violent. It makes you swallow your needs and diminish your feelings for the sake of sparing another the inconvenience of your humanity. Love swallows you whole, slowly dissolving your bones with acid. Repairing yourself is painful. You're once full and electric, then told to bleed dry until you're empty. 

My eyes bind together with tears, and memories flash in the blankness. Bright and hot. Stinging and scalding. Venomous words sprayed from fangs, a squeezing hold from not a hand, but five fingers snaked around my neck. The thump, thump, thump of my heartbeat in my ears. Gasping. Crying. Someone laughing, smiling. Giving in, giving up. The feeling of cool metal pressed to my forehead. Monstrous eyes staring through me. I'm a toy. A thing. Fists pushing into my body, aching all over. My muscles separate themselves from my bones; my vessels slither from my pores. I want to hide. I want to sleep. To disappear. 

I push my eyes open. 

He's wiggling the doorknob. A chill wraps itself around me, slithering up my spine and curling around my neck. I hear him cursing, growing angry, blaming me for a locked door. He pounds on the wood. My terror immobilizes me. I can't breathe or move. The noise ceases, and the silence feels like a gut punch. I hear him moving away from the door. I make myself small, pushing my ear closer.

There is a tap-tap coming from the bedroom window. More ringing. He begins pounding the glass. I imagine the glass shattering on my sleeping babies' heads, picking bloodied shards from their glowing skin. A vicious phantom hovering above me whispering that it's my fault. If I had just unlocked the door. A lawless swell burns through me, igniting like gasoline in my veins. It feels raw and shocking. My body bursts upright, and my hand grips the doorknob. I feel disembodied. As if my bones are acting of their own accord, outside of the pulsing terror ebbing through my veins. For a moment, I'm too shaken to do anything, even breathe. Hot tears drip down my cheeks. I wipe them away with my palm and pull the shovel to my side, the metal raking nails against the floor. Violent shivers wrack my body. I release my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. Panic combs my veins. I hear the distinct click of the deadbolt turn. The doorknob twists, and the door swings open. I feel an enormous, suffocating fear.  

He looks through me, his eyes blackened, and smiles sheepishly, "Doing some gardening?”