The Open Door
by Lisa Kuzma
Emma is soaring. She’s gliding under an infinite blue sky, the sun warming her feathered back as she rides a wild current of wind.
Below her, a patchwork quilt of amber, sage, and copper. A crimson barn. Treetops. Housetops. A narrow ribbon of highway. Tiny vehicles carry tiny people through their tiny lives. She dips low, skims along a field to get a closer look.
In a red convertible, a young raven-haired woman smiles into the rear-view mirror. Her three-year old son—blonde curls and blue eyes shining in the morning sunlight—sings his ABC’s. Pitch perfect. They reach the city’s suburbs. Emma follows, dipping and swerving, rising and turning, dodging trees, power lines, and houses in her flight path. When they stop at a park, she watches them from the branches of a newly planted elm.
Singing gives way to silence, blue sky and sunlight to darkness. Emma tries to take flight, but her wings are pinned to her ribs. She is heavy. Weighted. She struggles to hold on to the branch, to the young woman, to the boy, as the dream evaporates into reality.
She opens her eyes to the usual dim shadows—a dresser, a table, an old wooden chair. As she sits up, a spring pops in the lumpy mattress beneath her, and the heavy wool blanket scratches against her skin as it slides down her body.
Footsteps cross the floor above her. The distant sound of running water. It’s morning.
Emma feels her way across the cold cement and finds the switch. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling; her only significant light source. There’s a small window, but little light filters through. It’s covered with bars and a fine coat of dust. A black and white cat jumps down into the window well. He stares at Emma through the murky glass, tracking her movements.
A key grates in the lock, followed by the familiar groan of hinges as the door swings open. The man she knows only as Frank enters, carrying a tray—toast and juice—which he places on the table along with his key.
He doesn’t touch her anymore. He has grown old and tired; his eyes dull and his gait heavy. A small mercy.
"Good morning, Frank," she says.
He grunts in response, not bothering to make eye contact.
She longs for conversation. Will even settle for ‘the good old days’ when he’d complain about what a ‘burdensome bitch’ she was.
He leaves. Emma watches as he shuffles up the steps. It takes a moment to process...
The door. It’s open.
She listens for Frank’s returning footsteps. Instead, she hears the low murmur of the TV in the living room above and the grumble of aging coils as Frank settles into his favorite chair. Minutes pass. From where she stands in the doorway, she can see up the stairs to the screen door. Beyond that, the blessed blue sky, bird song, and, in the distance, the whir of a lawn mower, the wail of a siren.
Moving quickly, Emma finds her shoes. She grabs her sweater from the back of the chair, sliding her arms through the sleeves.
The sweater is old and worn. Her shoes, too, are old, but not worn.
Before walking through the open door, she checks her pocket for her only true treasure. A stone in the shape of a heart.
She takes a deep breath and creeps up the stairs on shaky legs, pausing to listen on the top step.
No sound but the TV, and Frank, already snoring in his chair. She pushes on the screen door, cringes as it squeals open. Closes it behind her, mindful not to let it slam.
She walks. Away from the house. The harsh blaze of the sun burns her eyes. Vivid details—red car, blue sky, yellow leaves—an assault of primary colors, so garish after her gloomy, monochromatic world. A van rumbles by, music thumping through open windows, matching the manic beat of her heart. She shivers and pulls her sweater tight around her. The crisp autumn air is replete with familiar odors. Wood smoke, car exhaust, decaying autumn leaves. The scent of freshly cut grass awakens a distant memory. Emma, a child of nature, self-possessed, lying in the back yard watching ordinary clouds transform themselves into angels, doves, and teddy bears. A magical time, when she fearlessly inhabited her own skin.
She continues on. Moves past houses, parked cars, mailboxes, and trash cans. A car creeps up behind her. As it draws closer, she dares to look. Not Frank. Just a small, elderly woman peering at her over the steering wheel.
Emma comes to a busy intersection. Vehicles speed by in both directions. A truck backfires, sending a voltaic jolt through her body. She turns away and catches her reflection in a plate-glass window. Her hair, no longer the glossy black of a raven’s wing, is long and matted, gun-metal grey. Her face, drawn and sallow. Eyes, dark-circled and hollow. Old, tattered clothing hangs loosely from a thin frame. She looks past the unpleasant image to a smartly dressed, faceless mannequin.
She turns away, crosses the sidewalk, and steps onto the street. The piercing shriek of tires, a car bucks to a stop just inches from her knees. The driver, a young man with fierce eyes.
"Get off the fuckin’ road, ya crazy old hag!"
She stumbles back to the curb. The kid tears away, tires screeching.
A bus pulls to a stop in front of her. Passengers emerge, jostle past. Most are dressed in business attire. They all move quickly and appear distracted. Some hold small devices to their ears and speak even as they walk. Somebody bumps hard into her shoulder. A teenage girl, with fuchsia hair and a ring stabbed through her bottom lip, staring down at the same type of device in her hand, fingers working intently. She looks at Emma vacantly, without apologizing.
Further up the street and around the corner, she finds herself standing before a wrought-iron fence. She walks through the open gate into a different world. Tall, graceful elms. Neat, manicured lawns. Winding pathways. A light breeze stirs up the leaves on the ground. They swirl about her feet. She is standing before a familiar statue. A concrete angel bearing concrete wings.
She follows a path she knows will lead to a playground. The slide is new. But the swing set is still there. Its swings have been replaced. Several layers of paint on the frame. She can almost hear his sweet little voice as he runs to her, hand outstretched.
"For you, Mommy!"
She rubs her fingers over the stone in her pocket.
He’d be a grown man now.
A falling leaf scrapes her tear-dampened cheek.
Perhaps married, children of his own. Happy. Completely unaware that he was snatched from his mother and sold to the highest bidder.
She reaches out and pushes an empty swing.
Emma finds a patch of grass. She lies on her back and stares up at the sky. No clouds, but a massive murmuration of starlings appears, wheeling and turning in unison. Many years ago, a naïve, young, teenage version of Emma wrote a poem. She closes her eyes, searches her memory for the words.
I wish
to see the world thru the eyes of the wing-ed ones
to liberate my body from the burden of gravity
to rise high above the cat’s sinister watch
and sing myself into the crimson light of the setting sun.
A shadow falls over Emma. A heavy-set patrolman with a baton.
"No squatters in the park! Move along!"
As she struggles to her feet, he jabs her in the ribs and leans in close enough for her to smell his fetid breath.
"This is a family park. Get your vagrant ass outta here."
She walks. Past the empty swing set. Past the angel made of stone. In the distance, a child’s laughter. But she doesn’t look back.
Below her, a patchwork quilt of amber, sage, and copper. A crimson barn. Treetops. Housetops. A narrow ribbon of highway. Tiny vehicles carry tiny people through their tiny lives. She dips low, skims along a field to get a closer look.
In a red convertible, a young raven-haired woman smiles into the rear-view mirror. Her three-year old son—blonde curls and blue eyes shining in the morning sunlight—sings his ABC’s. Pitch perfect. They reach the city’s suburbs. Emma follows, dipping and swerving, rising and turning, dodging trees, power lines, and houses in her flight path. When they stop at a park, she watches them from the branches of a newly planted elm.
Singing gives way to silence, blue sky and sunlight to darkness. Emma tries to take flight, but her wings are pinned to her ribs. She is heavy. Weighted. She struggles to hold on to the branch, to the young woman, to the boy, as the dream evaporates into reality.
She opens her eyes to the usual dim shadows—a dresser, a table, an old wooden chair. As she sits up, a spring pops in the lumpy mattress beneath her, and the heavy wool blanket scratches against her skin as it slides down her body.
Footsteps cross the floor above her. The distant sound of running water. It’s morning.
Emma feels her way across the cold cement and finds the switch. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling; her only significant light source. There’s a small window, but little light filters through. It’s covered with bars and a fine coat of dust. A black and white cat jumps down into the window well. He stares at Emma through the murky glass, tracking her movements.
A key grates in the lock, followed by the familiar groan of hinges as the door swings open. The man she knows only as Frank enters, carrying a tray—toast and juice—which he places on the table along with his key.
He doesn’t touch her anymore. He has grown old and tired; his eyes dull and his gait heavy. A small mercy.
"Good morning, Frank," she says.
He grunts in response, not bothering to make eye contact.
She longs for conversation. Will even settle for ‘the good old days’ when he’d complain about what a ‘burdensome bitch’ she was.
He leaves. Emma watches as he shuffles up the steps. It takes a moment to process...
The door. It’s open.
She listens for Frank’s returning footsteps. Instead, she hears the low murmur of the TV in the living room above and the grumble of aging coils as Frank settles into his favorite chair. Minutes pass. From where she stands in the doorway, she can see up the stairs to the screen door. Beyond that, the blessed blue sky, bird song, and, in the distance, the whir of a lawn mower, the wail of a siren.
Moving quickly, Emma finds her shoes. She grabs her sweater from the back of the chair, sliding her arms through the sleeves.
The sweater is old and worn. Her shoes, too, are old, but not worn.
Before walking through the open door, she checks her pocket for her only true treasure. A stone in the shape of a heart.
She takes a deep breath and creeps up the stairs on shaky legs, pausing to listen on the top step.
No sound but the TV, and Frank, already snoring in his chair. She pushes on the screen door, cringes as it squeals open. Closes it behind her, mindful not to let it slam.
She walks. Away from the house. The harsh blaze of the sun burns her eyes. Vivid details—red car, blue sky, yellow leaves—an assault of primary colors, so garish after her gloomy, monochromatic world. A van rumbles by, music thumping through open windows, matching the manic beat of her heart. She shivers and pulls her sweater tight around her. The crisp autumn air is replete with familiar odors. Wood smoke, car exhaust, decaying autumn leaves. The scent of freshly cut grass awakens a distant memory. Emma, a child of nature, self-possessed, lying in the back yard watching ordinary clouds transform themselves into angels, doves, and teddy bears. A magical time, when she fearlessly inhabited her own skin.
She continues on. Moves past houses, parked cars, mailboxes, and trash cans. A car creeps up behind her. As it draws closer, she dares to look. Not Frank. Just a small, elderly woman peering at her over the steering wheel.
Emma comes to a busy intersection. Vehicles speed by in both directions. A truck backfires, sending a voltaic jolt through her body. She turns away and catches her reflection in a plate-glass window. Her hair, no longer the glossy black of a raven’s wing, is long and matted, gun-metal grey. Her face, drawn and sallow. Eyes, dark-circled and hollow. Old, tattered clothing hangs loosely from a thin frame. She looks past the unpleasant image to a smartly dressed, faceless mannequin.
She turns away, crosses the sidewalk, and steps onto the street. The piercing shriek of tires, a car bucks to a stop just inches from her knees. The driver, a young man with fierce eyes.
"Get off the fuckin’ road, ya crazy old hag!"
She stumbles back to the curb. The kid tears away, tires screeching.
A bus pulls to a stop in front of her. Passengers emerge, jostle past. Most are dressed in business attire. They all move quickly and appear distracted. Some hold small devices to their ears and speak even as they walk. Somebody bumps hard into her shoulder. A teenage girl, with fuchsia hair and a ring stabbed through her bottom lip, staring down at the same type of device in her hand, fingers working intently. She looks at Emma vacantly, without apologizing.
Further up the street and around the corner, she finds herself standing before a wrought-iron fence. She walks through the open gate into a different world. Tall, graceful elms. Neat, manicured lawns. Winding pathways. A light breeze stirs up the leaves on the ground. They swirl about her feet. She is standing before a familiar statue. A concrete angel bearing concrete wings.
She follows a path she knows will lead to a playground. The slide is new. But the swing set is still there. Its swings have been replaced. Several layers of paint on the frame. She can almost hear his sweet little voice as he runs to her, hand outstretched.
"For you, Mommy!"
She rubs her fingers over the stone in her pocket.
He’d be a grown man now.
A falling leaf scrapes her tear-dampened cheek.
Perhaps married, children of his own. Happy. Completely unaware that he was snatched from his mother and sold to the highest bidder.
She reaches out and pushes an empty swing.
Emma finds a patch of grass. She lies on her back and stares up at the sky. No clouds, but a massive murmuration of starlings appears, wheeling and turning in unison. Many years ago, a naïve, young, teenage version of Emma wrote a poem. She closes her eyes, searches her memory for the words.
I wish
to see the world thru the eyes of the wing-ed ones
to liberate my body from the burden of gravity
to rise high above the cat’s sinister watch
and sing myself into the crimson light of the setting sun.
A shadow falls over Emma. A heavy-set patrolman with a baton.
"No squatters in the park! Move along!"
As she struggles to her feet, he jabs her in the ribs and leans in close enough for her to smell his fetid breath.
"This is a family park. Get your vagrant ass outta here."
She walks. Past the empty swing set. Past the angel made of stone. In the distance, a child’s laughter. But she doesn’t look back.
Frank is sitting at the kitchen table, hands cupped around a coffee mug, staring at the swallows feeding outside the window. His shoulders tense as she opens the screen door and steps inside, but he doesn’t look at her.
She climbs down the stairs. The key is still on the table. She puts it in the lock and pulls the door shut behind her.
She slips off her shoes, crawls into bed, draws the blanket to her chin, and closes her eyes.
Outside the window, a black and white cat claws at the glass.
She climbs down the stairs. The key is still on the table. She puts it in the lock and pulls the door shut behind her.
She slips off her shoes, crawls into bed, draws the blanket to her chin, and closes her eyes.
Outside the window, a black and white cat claws at the glass.
Lisa Kuzma is a hoarder of words. Stories, poems, and memoir bits and pieces have been trapped in her hard drive, gathering cyber-dust, for decades. As she nears retirement from her full-time job as an administrative assistant, she is sorting through the digital clutter, tossing the trash, and finding suitable homes for the rest. Kuzma is currently working on a book-length memoir. She lives in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.