Almost is Never Enough

She slid down the inside of the front door until the floor met her, heart racing, the air crisp with salt and damp wood. Her hands were empty, limp in her lap. She stayed there, counting her breaths while the house settled around her, the quiet tick of the clock on the wall, the wind outside worrying the eaves. When the sound of her own racing blood in her ears calmed, she could hear the distant slap of water that never fully went away.

Inside was still. Inside was safe.

When the shaking eased, she stood and checked the door locks, touched the sliding chain for reassurance, and turned the locks again. And for good measure, snicked the door hook down that she had inexpertly installed herself. Then she pulled a nearby chair under the doorknob, knowing this wasn’t necessary, but did it every time.

She crossed to the narrow window, pulling the thick curtain aside, and saw the mailbox way across the road. It leaned where it always did, the rusted flag half raised, sending a mixed message. She knew from past experience that it couldn’t stand straight up and wouldn’t go down all the way. It was surrounded by at least a foot of water, which rose and fell with the tide. Water that used to never be this close. Her lips pinched, she reflexively swallowed the inner shame of loss and failure. There could have been something in there, something important that could change everything.

The water rose higher at night, littering their yard with clots of debris that lay scattered about like the aftermath of war. Over time, the storms had gotten worse, shaking the house with screaming winds that left behind the scent of rot and salt. She could not trust the water, though; it followed its own rules.

There had been other houses, once seen in the distance if she squinted hard, not anymore. Her yard was sprinkled with some of their remains. A seaweed-covered scramble of once treasured items mocking her, daring her. She beat that dare once. Slipping, sliding, running ten yards out to rescue what she thought was a cat, but was a soggy teddy bear. It was her prize now. Her constant companion, despite the winds' howl for it.

On the sofa, knees pulled up to her chest, the bear sitting near, she allowed a sniffle.

Earlier, she had believed it was possible today. Today, the wind was silent, and the water receded. She had opened the door warm from the morning sun, the smell of spoiling seaweed sharp, and stood on the threshold longer than she meant to. It was better to be moving.

The water lapped out beyond the fallen yard fence, close enough that its slaps felt loud and jeering. She took one step down, then another, watching only the ground directly in front of her. The world sprang to life all around her, too much sky, too much sun, movements of grasses and distant waves making her dizzy, and she tilted a bit, clutching her scarf and coats. She always put on several layers, considering them her shield against too much of everything.

Her mind had traced the path she needed to take, reach the first sandy patch near the fallen fence, just get there first. Not the road, not even the mailbox yet, just one step at a time. But she felt herself tip as her frozen legs had stopped moving. She was falling, falling, mouth open in a silent scream. She tried to breathe, tried to let it find release from her chest, but it remained caught. The world started to turn gray, dimming.

It had been a deafening blur from there, but she remembered crawling up onto the porch, actually crawling into the house like a child. She had used the door jamb to help her stand as she slammed the door and tried to engage the locks, her hands trembling violently. Then she had fallen to the floor again, shaken and ashamed.

Much later, she lay down on the sofa, where she had been sleeping, too afraid to use the bedroom and leave the house unattended. She lay quiet in her defeat, staring up at the sagging ceiling. It was only when she lay unmoving that the mailbox came back to her as it used to be.

How long had it been since she used to run and skip to the box, delighted to pull out whatever was inside, smiling back as her mother waited at the door? It was like a mystery box of joy, sometimes filled with papers, and sometimes with boxes stamped with curved arrows, each containing surprises or necessities. Those boxes had mostly quit coming when the subscriptions stopped being paid. Sometime after, her mother had never returned home. There had been food, sometimes soaps, toothpaste, and then razors, which she never used. Every now and then, there had been letters, those she saved, she tried to read the slanting, hooked script over and over, most words impossible to decipher.

The hope that something, anything, would be in there called to her constantly.

In the dark of night, she lay wide awake, listening to the water, and realized it sounded the same as it always had. The house hadn’t fallen down; the walls hadn’t given way. Even the wind moaned as if it was lost too. And nothing, not one thing, had followed her inside to change her world. Her body slowly relaxed. Her thoughts did not. They moved through her mind like tiny tornadoes, tearing at words, lifting memories she didn’t want, leaving the same questions behind.

She remembered her mother scolding her. “Almost is never enough,” she would say. “You have to do it.” It applied to everything—homework, chores, all of it. She knew she should try again. She would try again.

By morning, light came in pale and thin, making the water outside look gentle.

Almost.

Already her body suspected what she wanted to do. It started to tighten before she reached the door, reminding her of yesterday and how quickly the world could grow too large. She stood there anyway, hand on the knob, listening. Her fingers moved to undo the locks. The house creaked gently, her own breath calm and steady. She turned to the teddy bear on the sofa and spoke, her voice cracking with disuse,

“I’ll be back in just a minute, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, she stepped out onto the porch.

Everything still looked the same outside. Far ahead, the mailbox still leaned on the other side of the road, but there was no water at its feet. Oh, she could see the waves out there reaching towards her and sliding back, but she stood up straighter, moving her feet carefully down the path, stepping around debris. She counted her steps, one, two, three, four, to quiet the fears that waited.

When her feet finally crunched on the sandy road, startling her, she almost stumbled and fell onto the mailbox with relief. Her fingers reached out, touching its cool, wet metal, feeling it give and sway beneath her. She glanced quickly around in disbelief that she had actually made it. She saw her house in the distance, the front door open, waiting. Overhead, a gull cried. She watched it dip out towards the ocean.

She did not open the mailbox right away. Being there was enough, enough to know the distance could be crossed, and she curved her lips into a small smile. “Almost is never enough,” she whispered, naming the rule she had once lived by, her fingers moving to pull the latch.