I stood before the old door with the sun painted on its face. Already I smelled the flour; already I felt her fingers in my hair. I set my hand to the knob?—
And turned around.
The rain hadn’t started yet. The sky hung full with it, ready to open up. Across the street, Jo the busybody’s window was open. I could see her there, in her kitchen. Probably husking wheat.
“Jo,” I called out.
She didn’t look up, didn’t notice or hear me.
I stepped off the stoop and into the street. I jogged over to Jo’s stoop, climbed up the steps?—
I stood before the old door with the sun painted on its face.
No.
I leapt off the stoop, ran. Ran down the street toward my almost-father’s home. I blinked?—
I stood before the old door with the sun painted on its face. Above me, the sky’s fullness hung like a mantle. The air was electric with anticipation—a day of heavy rain.
My hand wanted to rise, to touch the knob, but I resisted. I wanted the smell of the flour, the feel of her fingers in my hair.
Today was a day of heavy rain. A rare day. Not a happy one.
I never wanted to go home on a day like this.
Anywhere but here. And yet…
Step where it’s darkest.
I raised my hand to the knob. I turned it and pushed in.
“Mama,” I said.
The kitchen was empty. The bedroom door was shut.
A sob came from the bedroom. Brief, sharp, like Mama had taken a wound.
I hovered near the front door, unwilling to take one step more. I should go right back out. I’d stay in the street with Theo until the moon came out. I’d linger in Elisabet’s bedroom until she got sick of me. I’d even go to Jo the busybody’s house and husk wheat with her.
Anything but this.
I couldn’t explain my aversion. I wanted her to be happy, yes. The world didn’t feel right when she cried, when she wasn’t at the counter kneading dough. Yes, all that was true. But it was something else, something I didn’t want to name that kept me from coming any closer.
This felt like it had to do with me. Like I played a part in it.
I wanted to run. But everything I’d ever run from, I’d never really escaped. It all came back around.
I shut the door behind me. The rain had begun, pinging against the windowpanes. I took my boots off one at a time, setting them in the corner like that might make everything okay. Boots upright, orderly—a tiny measure of safety.
Every moment, I itched to run. But that old song my mother used to hum about the deep forest wouldn’t leave my head. One line haunted me—a line Elisabet had taught me, because my mother could never remember the words.
Step where it’s darkest.
I turned toward the bedroom door. Approached on the balls of my feet, as though my heels touching the floor would burn them.
In some part of my mind, the bedroom door was always shut. Eternally, forever shut.
I hesitated in front of it.