Dark Doorways

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Dark Doorways Page 5

by Kristin Jones


  Swanson had agreed to meet with me another time, probably happy to delay our awkward conversation. Neither of us knew how to continue working together smoothly in our academic context, and we certainly had no clue how build a familial relationship. So I turned to Michael.

  I turned to him and held him, concerned that the madness of our local mysteries would engulf him again. It was easier than dealing with Swanson.

  Very little could be seen though the walls of fog that morning. Lake Michigan, gone. The pier, gone. That enigmatic boat, also gone. Not that I expected it to appear for us anyway.

  “Maybe we should just go get some coffee.” The fog was wearing me down, taking too much effort to look through. But my promenade companion stood motionless, looking out to where the pier should have been, to where the boat should have been.

  “I’m thinking of switching to linguistic anthropology.” His frown as he spoke could have been anywhere. Cafeteria. Library. Haunted boat. Men.

  “Oh, nice segue.”

  “I know. I’m just disappointed. I really wanted you to at least see the boat. Not go on it or anything. Just see it.”

  “So why linguistic anthropology?”

  “It sounds more interesting, you know, more based in people’s lives. Plus I’d only have a couple extra courses I’d have to take before–”

  Like magnets on a fridge, our heads were pulled around simultaneously. Someone had run across the sidewalk, rushing toward something. Or was the person darting away from something?

  “Was that–”

  “Yeah, I think it was.”

  The fog allowed us to follow her, our two lurking shadows that she never guessed were there. As our hands intertwined, I thought only of how nice the skin-on-skin contact felt. Michael, however, kept his focus on her.

  Her silhouette slipped into a coffee shop, only after glancing behind her to check for potential menaces. Violet fog masked us, allow us to slither closer, unnoticed.

  “We were going to get coffee anyway, right?” I whispered.

  Once inside, I inhaled the intense aromas, wondering if they could make a soy latte. As if reading my mind, Michael went to the counter to order. Between my latte and his Americano, she appeared again. Alone. Staring at us.

  “You see her?” I murmured like a ventriloquist. This could be a career option, I thought, in case things stay awkward with Swanson.

  “I do. She’s staring at us.” Michael whispered, straight-faced, eyes focused on the barista.

  We had no choice but to move down the counter to await our beverages. Unfortunately, the move placed us in arm’s-length of her table. We had to acknowledge her.

  We both slowly looked up, very cartoon-like. An anvil was about to fall on someone.

  I sipped the hot latte nervously, happy to hide behind the paper cup. No cinnamon. Interesting. I could have sworn I ordered it with cinnamon, what Mom had always added.

  “Michael. Sarah. Nice to see you both.”

  The contemptuous sneer said otherwise. Her eyes squinted as she spoke, as if her entire face struggled to release the words so incompatible with her actual thoughts. And what were her actual thoughts? Who was this wraith-like misfit?

  “Eliza! Nice to see you too.” Michael’s politeness helped to counter my awkward gaping.

  Her body was expanding. Getting up to harm us was, apparently, too much effort, and so she simply expanded toward us. Her brown hair had been more tame last time I saw her, her clothing more in order. She seemed, what? Desperate?

  “Sarah, SARAH!” Michael was pulling me by the oxters, dragging me off in my immobile state.

  Why my legs refused to move, and why the barista messed up my latte, perplexed me. “No cinnamon, Michael.”

  We reached a restroom, a solitary room at the end of a hallway. I stared numbly at its door, scrambling to stay conscious.

  “Look, Michael, the doorway. It’s so bright.” It was an off-handed remark, just a comment on its appearance, not in any way connected to the fact that I was drugged and in danger. They were just words, just anesthetics speaking before surgery.

  “Perfect.” He hauled me inside, locking the door behind him. “Maybe she can’t get in if the doorway is luminous.”

  “Michael–” My thoughts slipped in and out of the present. Cloudiness closed in on my vision.

  “Sarah, she did something to your coffee. You shouldn’t have had any.”

  “But Michael–”

  “Let me see if my phone works. Maybe 911?”

  “Michael.” He was fading with each word, disappearing as I lost contact with anything tangible. “I might love you.”

  ***

  I had to pinch myself when I finally woke up, thirsty and hungry on that disconcerting boat. The inside was more train than boat, split down the middle with individual rooms on each side. The boxiness of it unsettled me; it was the movements from being on water that gave solace.

  Michael, who never left my side, who sat beside me there in our boxcar, squinted out his window as if there was anything to see but fog. Maybe it was the fog he most wanted to inspect.

  “Michael, where... what is–”

  “You’re awake?” His hand went to my forehead, checking my temperature when I could have named a dozen other things wrong with me at that moment. None of them involved my temperature.

  After glancing out into the corridor, in both directions, he lowered his voice to a faint murmur. “You might love me?”

  “Why are we whispering? Why does my brain feel cloudy?”

  “That doesn’t answer the question.”

  Before I had time to contemplate those drugged words that had emerged from my own mouth, we heard a door open. Not a normal door, not the clicking and thudding of a large wooden door that welcomes loved ones into a home. No, this was a whooshing door, the kind that sucks the life out of you, that separates train cars and perhaps separates worlds.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Shush!” His slender index finger found its way to my mouth, as much to steady his nervous twitching as to quiet me.

  The man walking by seemed to walk with a purpose, both in his posture and his intent expression. His suit, obviously not tourist attire, shimmered like snake skin, reflecting light even in the darkness of the corridor. Once he passed through the next life-sucking door– a door that should never be on a boat– Michael’s shoulders relaxed as I watched him fall back against the cushioned red pleather seat.

  “Well, it wasn’t her.”

  “Eliza?”

  At some point we had formed an unspoken agreement that Eliza no longer deserved the nickname Eli, that shortened names were reserved for people who maybe did not drug us on a regular basis.

  “Yeah, Eliza.” He frowned out into the corridor, his eyes focusing on the cheap carpeting. I noticed it too, how the carpeting was thinner than construction paper, but somehow still left the imprints of footsteps and food carts. Shimmering Suit Man and a hundred other passengers had walked that hallway, but to where?

  “Can I explore? I mean, I want to see what’s on this boat, get a drink, stretch my legs...”

  “Sarah.” His hand grasped my wrist, taking me off guard. “I don’t think that would be a good idea. We need to find a way out.”

  “Out? These tour boat just go along the river then drop you off downtown, right?

  “This boat only goes one way.”

  ***

  I often wondered why the number seven kept traversing through my life, why there were seven days in a week, why Mom always kissed me goodnight seven times, why this misanthropic boat had to creep under exactly seven bridges.

  Each one rose slowly, welcoming us into further imprisonment. Downtown Chicago disappeared into the fog, each building as invisible as the pedestrians entering them. The third bridge left us waiting, floating, suspended like the bridge itself. We had no idea what would happen at the last bridge.

  “I still don’t understand how I got on this boat.”

&
nbsp; “I still don’t understand why you said you might love me.”

  “Come on, I was drugged. I’m being serious. Did you drag me here?” I looked into Michael’s eyes, noticing for the first time that day how tired he looked. Drained.

  He slowly glanced back out the tiny square window, examining the fog again. His countenance reflected such disgust, such repulsion; these were expressions I was not used to seeing on him.

  Several minutes of silence engulfed the room, silent staring, silent waiting. Where was Chicago’s noise, that clamor that tourists find so disruptive?

  So there we sat, Michael leering at the fog and the boat just simply enjoying its buoyancy. My eyes settled on a crack in the pleather seats, that crevice that felt so comforting in the moment. It welcomed me, cradled me, giving me something stable to connect with. Part of me began to retreat further into it, shrinking to fit inside comfortably, when I again began to wonder how on earth I ended up on this vessel.

  “Michael?”

  He turned to me slowly, letting his eyes fall on the pleather crack, where the gray foam poked out into the red lining. Perhaps we both wanted to fall into that gray space.

  “You weren’t responding. I was afraid you were in a coma.” His words were barely audible, barely spoken.

  “At the coffee shop?”

  Michael nodded, never taking his eyes off the seat crack.

  “So you dragged me onto a boat?”

  His eyes finally rose to meet mine, those eyes that grew more weary by the minute.

  “No.”

  Something replaced the fatigue in his eyes. Fear. Maybe even terror.

  After trying to read his eyes, I watched as he dejectedly looked back out over the fog. He was conceding to it.

  “No, I didn’t bring you here. I opened the door of that bathroom, hoping Eliza had left. I thought I could get a cab and take you to the emergency room.” After a squint out at the fog, he continued. “But when I opened the door, the coffee shop wasn’t there any more. It was all fog. I carried you through the fog on what I thought was a downtown sidewalk. Apparently, I was just walking onto this boat.”

  “You were trying to protect me.” As boyfriends should, I thought. It explained his preoccupation with the fog, his hateful looks toward it. My index finger outlined the pleather crack, tracing all the small tributary cracks feeding into it. “Maybe we shouldn’t fight it.”

  “What?”

  “Even if we find a way off, Eliza’s going to get us on this boat again.” We both watched my fingers tracing the fissures in the seat. “Maybe falling into a fracture wouldn’t be so bad.”

  ***

  “Did I ever tell you about a dream I had with Mr. Parker in it? That guy that bought my mom’s house?”

  “What did you call him? Bald Head Parker?”

  “Receding Hair Line Parker.”

  After deciding to abandon any unavailing escape plan, we allowed our flesh to relax into the pleather seats as if they were real leather. We were young and falling in love, and what better place to do that than on the Chicago River? What did it matter that we felt tired and somewhat anesthetized, or that it was a disgusting body of water?

  The fog lifted with the third bridge, revealing the city in all its polluted beauty. Holding hands, we chatted like it was any other afternoon, like it was an actual date.

  “So I guess I told Grace about the dream, but maybe I never told you.” I shook my head and laughed, feeling more carefree than I had in ages. “You wouldn’t believe it.”

  “What? Should I be jealous?”

  “Ha, right. It was–” I cut myself off. It was what? How would I describe the man-wolf enamored with me? I crossed one boney knee over another, wondering why I felt so tranquil in this boxy compartment of a soulless boat.

  But the city, oh the gorgeous city.

  “Oh, Michael,” I began in my saccharine tone. “There’s that Mediterranean café I’ve been wanting to try. We should go there some night, watch the sunset. Doesn’t that sound romantic?”

  We sank further into the pleather’s crack, losing more feeling in our muscles, but enjoying every moment of it. Twisting my arm through his, I rested my head on his shoulder to enjoy the sites. I never remembered loving Chicago so much. It inspired lyrics from La Mer as I gazed out our little window.

  “Voyez ces oiseaux blancs...”

  “You know those are pigeons right? And that you hate pigeons?”

  “Shut up and kiss me.”

  “Okay, I draw a line when you start quoting 90’s country hits.”

  Our bliss might have gone on like that, in that ignorant state that lovers sometimes prefer. The euphoric sensations made the sky bluer, the city more thrilling, the boat somewhat tolerable. We had decided to embrace the journey, to travel in good faith where nothing was bona fide.

  It was my little treasure map butterfly that broke our trance. Flying up from my purse, it fluttered out of its slumber to land on Michael’s arm, graceful as ever.

  It was that little guide, Gabi’s map that lead back to her house, that jolted me back to the reality of our perilous situation. I no longer even had the energy to reach over and transport the map back to my own lap.

  “Michael–”

  “I know.”

  The map fluttered over to me, the faintest bit of light still radiating from its fibers. Gabi, my sister. Gabi knew what she was doing when she gave me this map.

  “The door on the boat was dark. Why did we forget that?” I frowned first at the map, then at Michael. We both knew the boat was attacking us, taking something from us that we never agreed to give.

  “I’m not sure how to get off. I honestly don’t know how I did it before. I think I just woke up and was back home.” Michael looked out into the hallway, already envisioning an escape.

  “We have the map. I think it’s time we use it.”

  ***

  It was difficult to preconcert these things, to plan ahead for such precarious events in our lives. I had no idea how this boat escape would turn out, but I had a companion, which was more than I’d had in a long time.

  Mom had passed away before she and I could ever become adult friends. I had watched as Grace and her mom went shopping or tried out a brunch restaurant when her parents visited. That could have been us, Mom. Instead, I chose college, college in California no less. Four whole years of missing out on shopping and brunches. Four years I would have given up in a heartbeat if I had known I’d lose her.

  But I had Michael, who held my hand as we crossed under bridge number four.

  “I think we need a plan,” Michael said gravely.

  “Okay. Should we wander out into the corridor, look for a door maybe?”

  “That map you have, from Swanson’s kid–”

  “Gabi. My sister, Gabi.”

  “From Gabi. Did you look at the other locations on it? I mean, before it ends up at her house?” This was the Michael I remembered from before Eliza’s brainwashing, the Michael who could be a genius when he focused.

  I handed the map over to Michael while I got up to stretch. A short peek out of the cabin sounded like a good idea, at least until I hobbled over to the doorway. An inexplicable pain shot through my right knee, surprising me. I just had my legs crossed too long, I thought.

  The hallway was darker than I expected and the light coming from our own compartment seemed to make the contrast worse. My phone became a flashlight, illuminating more than it should have. It was one of those rare moments when I preferred the ignorance of the darkness.

  The gossamer beings that I saw, once I had more light, seemed transparent, as if their forms couldn’t quite decide between this world and another. They moved mechanically, following the shape in front of them injudiciously. Once they got closer to my light, their silhouette disintegrated, floating to the ground like particles of dust.

  It was the pain in my knee that frightened me more than the phantom figures. They, at least, were to be expected on this nightmare jou
rney, but not this pain. I had to drag my leg back to the bench to avoid putting weight on it. Mom had pain in her knee too, just before we knew about the cancer. Standing there, staring dumbly at my knee, I felt hot tears dripping.

  “Never enter a dark doorway. Promise me, Sarah.” Her eyes had been so fixated.

  I’ve disappointed you, Mom.

  “Sarah, did you see this?” Michael never noticed the tears; he was in work mode, male protection mode, find-a-solution-to-this-problem mode.

  “What?”

  “Here,” he pointed out as I sat back down. “Gabi drew these squiggly lines. I think this might be the Chicago River. Except it’s right next to campus.”

  “Hmm," I responded, massaging my knee. "You know, I remember that the North Branch forks up there. One fork goes north into Evanston and one goes northwest into Skokie.”

  “Oh, so maybe Gabi really was drawing the same river we’re on now?”

  “I don’t know. This isn’t exactly professional cartography.” I took the map back from Michael, the edges flapping up at me happily. Its delicate fluttering reminded me that I had been too quick to disregard the details of Gabi’s treasure map. I had overlooked so much in my single-mindedness, looking only at the endpoint.

  “Look,” Michael said. “The map shows a path along the river, but at this point, her directions veer off.” He pointed at what looked like a simple line. “What could this line be?”

  We both shook our heads, trying to imagine what a straight line across squiggly lines could mean to a three-year-old. The purple and yellow color coding didn’t help much.

  “Michael! Look!” Out our window, we could see the outline of the fourth bridge behind us. With the rivers’ movements below it, we suddenly understood Gabi’s message, the straight line over squiggly: a bridge. “But which bridge did she mean? And how do we get off the boat?”

  We had let down our guard, let our voices rise. Eliza could hear us as she stood in the doorway of our cabin. Michael saw her first, his jaw dropping open. As I turned to see what had caught his attention, Eliza had already begun to inch closer, expanding without moving.

 

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