Dark Doorways (3 page)

It was an odd thing to say,
to hear your advisor rank you among your peers. I wasn’t sure I cared. Between
the memory of mom, the absence of Michael, and the lovely angel smiling up at
me, there was little else that mattered at the moment.

“Come in, Sarah. We were
making hot chocolate if you’d like one.”

“You can have some of my
marshmallows.” The sweet little voice was exactly what you would picture coming
from its source. Her blonde hair spilled over her shoulders like a spool of
ribbon that someone had let unravel. Silk. Silk framing porcelain skin and rosy
cheeks.

“Oh, well, how can I resist?”
It was sitting down to a tea party with my mom all over again. Doilies and
everything. Swanson’s office had never been finer.

“Mr. Pig loves marshmallows
too, so you’ll have to share.” Her small hands divided up the marshmallows
evenly. You forget that children so young can do things like divide
marshmallows evenly.

“This is my daughter, Gabriella.
Gabriella, this is my student, Sarah.” Gabriella smiled shyly at me as Swanson
whispered, “Her mom was generous enough to take her for Christmas and leave me
New Year’s. Nice, huh?”

It was something, drinking
hot chocolate with Mr. Pig in Swanson’s office. It was sure something.

“Say, Sarah, we’re having a
few faculty members and grad students over tonight for a little shindig.”

Who used words like
shindig
?

“Yeah! I get balloons and
grape juice, and I get to stay up late even though my bed time is eight!” Her
soft hand rested on top of mine as she spoke, probably too excited to remember
her shyness. The warmth from her was palpable, the life and fire that ran
through her little veins. Were all children like this? I wanted her satin skin
to stay on mine longer, to somehow consign some of her happiness over to me.

“So you’re welcome to come.
We’d love to have you.” Swanson noticed Gabriella’s hand on mine, noticed this
confluence of his two worlds.

Part of his thick brown curls
fell into his face whenever he talked. It was distracting during his lectures,
always wanting to wrap my own hair in spirals around my fingers. But that lone
lock was such a comfort that morning, as if it was wrapping itself around my
skin, coiling down to my feet.

“I, uh, I’m supposed
to–”

“Don’t go on the boat, Será.”
Gabriella tugged on my arm as I wondered how she knew about the cruise plan. My
memory seemed cloudier than usual, like a fog from the boat was already oozing
in. Maybe Michael had mentioned it after we entered the building. Maybe I had
been distracted. Maybe she had been near the doorway on the first floor just
minutes ago.

“Well, you, if you have
plans, by all. By all means...” Swanson couldn’t finish a sentence to save his
life. He could deconstruct the syntax of twenty different languages, but he
stumbled with putting a complete thought together in his own.

When Gabriella pushed more
marshmallows onto my plate from Mr. Pig’s, I knew I had a friend. I had trouble
finding a reason to leave her luminescence, to refuse their invitation.

“Sarah, I thought I’d also tell
you that you’ve been doing an excellent job in the program. I actually meant to
meet with you before break. There’s something I wanted to discuss with you.”

“Oh?”

“We have a research
fellowship for one doctoral student each year. You would be working with me, if
you’re interested.”

Full tuition. Double the
stipend each month. Was he joking?

“I, uh. Wow. I don’t know
what to say. Of course I’m interested. What are the guidelines, I mean, what
would I be researching?”

“It would… you’d have, er, be
part of the indigenous language study. You would be helping me in a lot of
transcriptions, you’d have the opportunity to write, present at conferences
with me. It’s renewable, it’s uh, two years. It uh, might give you that
direction you need for a dissertation topic.”

“I’m so, wow. I’m honored.
How do I apply?”
Exordium
. It was a word Michael and I used whenever
Swanson began his lectures. The beginning of an oration. The beginning of
something. This fellowship could open doors for me.

“No, I nominate you. I name
the recipient. Superb work, Sarah. In the program.” He paused in shuffling his
paperwork, glancing up at me with an unexpected but genuine smile. “I know you
were accepted to M.I.T. You chose me over Chomsky-town, eh?”

“Oh, yeah. I actually stayed
to help my mom. She was really sick, you know, chemo treatments...”
Oh Mom
.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s–” It was
what?
Fine
? Fine that my mom died? “It was over a year ago that she
died.”

Mr. Pig’s hot chocolate spilled
on my jeans as Gabriella played waitress. Her apologetic face and fearful look
at her father– Swanson,
a father!
– showed all the signs of a
beautiful soul, a soul afraid to harm anything.

“Oh, you’re fine, Gabriella.
That’s why I wear jeans. Did you know that? I wear jeans so that if I spill my
drinks, then the dark pants don’t show it.” I winked at her the way a creepy
Santa winks at children in malls. But she leaned into me, accepting my
creepiness, sort of a hug without arms.

“Dr. Swanson,” I began,
because I could never call my professors by their first names, even as a
doctoral student. What was his first name again? Vern? Vergil?

“Vadim, please.”

Right. Vadim
. His mother was Russian. How could I
forget from his lectures?

“Vadim, thank you so much. Of
course I’ll do it. Just let me know what papers to sign.”

“So you’ll come to our
party?” Gabriella’s face shot up from serving Mr. Pig his new hot chocolate. I
was pretty sure stuffed animals should not have liquid pouring into their
mouths, but perhaps Swanson– Vadim– relaxed the rules because of
the poor custody arrangement.

“Gabi, no, we’re talking
about her job for next year.”

“But you’ll come to our
party?”

I could have told her the
truth, that I had waited since the first day of grad school to be in Michael’s
arms, that I couldn’t very well give that up now. But all I thought of as I
looked at her was, well,
Mom
. She could have been my mom as a, what,
four-year-old? She exuded light, just like Mom. She brought joy into a room.

Tears. Tears over hot
chocolate with Mr. Pig. That’s what happens when you lose your mom.

“We’ll see, Gabriella, okay?
Maybe your dad can give me the address and I’ll see if I can stop by for a
little.”

“Just don’t get on the boat,
Será. It’s very dark.”

***

I was a malingerer. It was
that simple. No, coward. I was a coward.

Couldn’t find you at Ellen
hall. feel sick. went home early. please make new year’s eve plans without me.

The text couldn’t have been
more lifeless if I tried.

It was odd how Mom’s words
collided into my daily life so much more now that she was gone. Usually it was
Never
enter a dark doorway
; but for New Year’s it was
Trust your gut
. Mom
decided that Oprah’s wisdom would someday save my life, that if I ever felt
uneasy in a situation, then I should get out.

I wasn’t sure what happened
between walking arm-in-arm with Michael and drinking hot chocolate with Mr.
Pig, but my gut didn’t like it. There was a strange queasiness that afternoon,
rising like indigestion. Perhaps it was that I missed Mom so much, yes, perhaps
that is why I cancelled plans with Michael. Or maybe I just felt creepy about
how he disappeared on me outside of Swanson’s office.

These were the despondent
thoughts keeping me company on New Year’s Eve, alone in my apartment. I had a new
boyfriend that unnerved me, a flaky roommate, and a dead mom that should have
been there drinking champagne with me.

Please still come, if
you’re free.

The text wasn’t from Michael,
though I was kind of hoping it was. The message came from Swanson.
Vadim
.

Gabriella’s sweet voice
commanding me to drink hot chocolate with pinkies up brought a smile into the
room. “Oh Mom, what should I do?”

506 E. Elm.
Wow, two texts.

At the time, playing with his
daughter and her toy pig, it didn’t seem so odd to give him my number. Now that
he was texting me, it was a peculiar thing, to be getting text messages from my
advisor.
I should get used to this I guess, if we’ll be working together
closely next year.

It was a strong fire I had to
light under myself to find the motivation to leave my comfortable couch that
night. Actual matches might have been more efficient. Getting dressed–
and how does one dress for a party at her boss’s house? casual?
alluring?– reminded me of how alone I felt, how that should be reason
enough to go out and be around others.

Grace, I decided to go
out. Happy New Year! –S
 

The scribbled note could have
been more legible, but it was still far easier to read than what Grace usually
left me. Such was the relationship of our opposite personalities. Barely
legible. Barely caring.

My brown wool pea coat, my
weak protection from Chicago winters, helped give me a figure. I inherited
Mom’s svelte figure, her euphemism for
flat chested
. Luckily, the pea
coat flared in all the right spots, looking like there were actual curves
underneath. Wondering how waterproof my boots actually were, I trudged down to
Elm Street, the neighborhood I remembered well from my childhood. Mom would
drive me down and point out the expensive houses she would buy if she ever came
into money. She would have relished being invited into one of them for New
Year’s Eve.
Oh Mom
.

 “Michael!” The
near-collision startled me. I never saw him on the sidewalk, yet there he was,
with me in that about-to-fall-flat-on-your-face dance where we both grab for
anything to steady us. Once I found the neighbor’s mailbox, I was able to
finally ask what he was doing.

“What are
you
doing is
the better question! Aren’t you home, sick?”

“Well... I
was
.” Lies.
Lies on top of cowardice.

“You’re just standing me up?”
His face held genuine pain, a reaction I wasn’t prepared to face that night in
my matching alpaca scarf and hat. “So where are you going? Some other date?”

“Michael, no. It’s just
Swanson’s house. Faculty, grad students. Nothing really.”

It wasn’t nothing though. It
was a chance to extract some of Gabriella’s goodness.

“Swanson? Are you kidding
me?” He was shrieking, yelling.

“Michael, it’s just–” I
let out a heavy sigh, as if my lies would go out with the carbon dioxide. Maybe
the truth would come back in with the fresh oxygen. That crisp winter air. “I
think it was just too fast for me, okay?” Nope. More lies.

“What was too fast?”

“The boat thing, spending the
night together. I think I just need things to move slower. I still feel the
pain of losing my mom and I’m kind of stressed about prelims. I should have
said all this to you.” The lies were starting to sound good. They sounded
better than
You creep me out sometimes
.

“Well, yeah, you should have.
But I can understand. It might be nice to concentrate on our prelims before we
do something like that.”

He nodded to himself while
staring down at his footprints. I couldn’t help thinking of Swanson’s words,
that he was surprised Michael could keep up with me. Maybe I would be a good
influence on Michael, a lightning rod to help keep some of the distractions at
bay.

“So can I walk with you?”

It never occurred to me that
bringing an uninvited guest to Swanson’s house might be rude. We just walked.
We stomped through the Evanston snow, which sparkled just a few blocks from
Chicago snow, and we said nothing. I was being escorted.

When 506 E. Elm came into
view, I gasped. It was
the
house. It was Mom’s dream house, the one she
always stopped in front of while holding her hand over her heart. There was the
widow’s walk, where she wanted to watch the moon rise, the chimney she would
have cleaned by a professional, the window planters where she would hang
greenery at Christmas. The warmth of the front light spilled over the front
door. Mom’s door.

“I’m not going in.” Michael
frowned at the place in disgust.

“What are you going to do
then? Walk back?”

“Yep. Well, happy New Year I
guess.”

My response was lost in the
wintery frost as he spun around, heading back through the same footsteps we had
just created. Maybe a good girlfriend would have followed him, comforted him as
something was troubling him. But I was a better daughter than girlfriend. I
owed it to Mom to go inside her dream house.

Taking the steps up the
curved sidewalk, I imagined Mom being pleased. My punch of the doorbell could
have been her proudest moment as a mother. Any other mother would boast that
her daughter was in a doctoral program, about to be on fellowship. But Mom,
dear Mom, would have written to the relatives that
I
was invited into
506 E. Elm.