The White Door

Kerri Engelder

Trees arch above our heads. Their branches are intertwined, pushing towards the sky with such force that I can’t help but think that perhaps, their roots are the only things keeping them tethered. I can imagine them, spinning like oversized dandelion seeds into the grey sky. The sun is low, and peeking out from behind the gently sloping hills, it looks enormous. As if it might rest lightly on the crest of the nearest mountain, loose its balance, and roll down in an orange blur.
It is that time of day when all colors seem more saturated, deeper. Shadows are long, cast in dark blues and purples. Bruise colors. As I walk, the moss on the stones by the side of the trail is so vibrantly green that I feel the need to tear it off the rock, and carry it with me. Slip it gently into the front pocket of my jeans. Sitting on my dresser at home, is a collection of pebbles in an old mason jar. They’re not as pretty as they were, when they were sitting on the bottom of the riverbed. When the light was like this, and the sun was low.

I leave the moss where it is.

It’s been raining a lot recently, and streams of water carve their way down the hillside, across the path, then into the ravine. My shoes are soaking, and I no longer care if I step into puddles. I can see you, looking at me sideways, a step behind. Your shoes are making squelching noises. I want to stop, and crouch down to untie them. I want to peel them back from your feet, and throw them deep into the bushes. I want to run barefoot, through the mud, like we did when we were younger.
Instead, I fold my arms and look down the gully. Like the fin of an elaborate fish, a ribcage rises out of the water. The neck of the deer is still attached, glowing ghostly white under the dark water. The skull points downriver, nodding leisurely in the current. Antlers breach the surface, swaying as if in the wind. I look away, and wonder how such a beautiful creature could end up in such a lonely place.

I can’t help but think of the nights spent under trees. When the moon was high, and the mosquitoes long gone. The summer sky was so beautiful, and wide. If I stared at it long enough, I felt as if I was being swallowed up in it. Careening through nebulas and constellations, wrapped in the starlight and vast emptiness. It always made me feel small, insignificant. You would touch my palm, gently, hesitantly, and I would come back, and everything was in perspective again. The right proportions, the right size, with tree branches lacing together like fingers over our heads.

We stray off the path, and weave through birch trees. Their branches slowly fade to silhouettes, as the sun rolls along the mountain, and then behind it, tinting the white trees orange. Clouds gather in swollen purple and blue pleats across the sky. Eventually, the birches thin, then end, and a meadow widens in front of me. For the first time during the walk, I turn my head, to look behind.

You seem smaller, somehow.

Do you remember that summer day? It was so hot. Every blind in the house had been closed since morning, but still, the heat leaked in. I stood in front of the refrigerator for half an hour, pressing my cheeks against the ice cream and frozen peas. You were asleep, blissfully cool in your unconsciousness. When even the icy breath of the freezer didn’t seem to help anymore, I stumbled down the hallway, and into the bedroom.
The light coming through the blinds was soft, and yellow. Strands of hair that weren’t plastered to your temples caught the light in a halo around your head. Standing there, by the doorway, I was overwhelmed by something. I don’t know if I could even tell you now, what it was. But something big and full washed over me, and cooled me, just for an instant. Lying on your side, your hands were relaxed, and pinkie finger slightly curled. As I lay down, next to you, I heard your breath catch for a moment, and then continue, gently ruffling the tendrils of hair around my face. I watched you for awhile, waiting to see something cross your face as you slept. Something big, and pure and meaningful. But there was nothing for me to read there. I reached across the space between our bodies, until our pinkies touched.

Squatting in the center of the field is a stone house. Ivy climbs up one side, and cascades down the other. Weeds surround the rough foundation, choking out a single wild iris. My feet carry me to the door. The wooden frame is warped, and slivers of inky blackness seem to leak out from the space between the door jam and the mantle. With one finger, I stroke the splintering wood. It was painted white, once. My hand stops at the knob. It is ice cold, and requires most of my strength to turn it. Rust flakes spiral to the frosty ground.

I am sure you remember coming here. We were just kids, then. No missing pieces, or cracks or chipped paint. The sun was high, and the light that filtered through the leaves was green and gold, speckling the ground like a robin’s egg. Our feet were rough, from being barefoot all summer, and I barely felt the gravel or blackberry thorns as we raced between the trees.
We stumbled onto the house quite suddenly, breaking out into the clearing and nearly tumbling down into a small brook that ran through it. I remember feeling blinded, for a moment, by the brightness of the sunshine, and the feeling of the rays suddenly touching my skin. It wasn’t green, it was all bright, shining gold. The long grass was yellow, and brushed up against my elbows. The house, as I first saw it, was beautiful. Lightly mossy stones, and a white door. Straight out of a fairy tale.
I remember turning the handle, just as I am now, and stepping inside. It was dark, and smelled musty. The floor was rough and hardwood. A fireplace, overflowing with ash and charred newspaper sat at the far end of the room. Rubbish gathered at the corners of the room, like snow-drifts. The windows looked like they had been painted shut. I heard the wood creak, as you crossed the room to where I was standing. I didn’t turn, but felt your hands gently brush my shoulders, and then tug me towards you. Then, it was all mouths, and hands, the hard stone of the wall on my back, and dust.

I push the door open. Felted blackness fills the empty rectangle. You walk past me, and pause, turning your head just slightly to look over your shoulder. Then, you’re gone.

I look after you for a moment. All I can see is darkness, so deep it’s nearly tangible.
I blink, close the door gently, and go back the way I came.