Behind the Web

CW: Grief

The cobweb stretches as if it alone holds the door closed, it also shows how long it has succeeded. Yet a web is only an illusion regarding the passage of time. It could have been a century or a day old. However, I know for a fact how long it truly has been since eyes have seen the inside of this room.

They say she went insane, her screams resonating down the street. Disrupting the suburban dream of an ideal picture-perfect neighbourhood. There is always some truth to rumours, but mostly they are just rumours. I wasn’t there so I cannot separate truth from fiction. I would not blame her had she gone insane, I almost had. We locked away the memory, sealing the room moments after the police finished their investigation.

The question I ask, and not for the first time, is why do I find myself standing in front of it again?

My heart beats faster as I push a little harder, a fading crack of light breaks through, then I stop, fearing to go further. Within a red neon glow from the setting sun pulses like burning coals in a blacksmiths forge, while particles of dust dance upon a thin beam of light as if life still existed within. A high pitch howl whistles when a stale waft of air squeezes between the old wooden door and cracked painted jam. Still, I can not open it further, nor back away, my hand freezes to the brass handle like a child’s tongue to metal in the heart of winter.

My nostrils fill with a reminiscent aroma of time, it is the same sense you get walking into your grandparents home, the smells may differ, but the emotions are the same.

Turning to my left, I have a view of Beth curled upon the loveseat. Shadows move across her sedentary body as flames from the stone fireplace dance and sway to a rhythm of its own design. The only sounds in the room come from the crackling snap and pop of dry logs burning, while she hums a song from a tune only she hears. Sometimes people are not ready for responsibilities of such magnitude. The fault lays with me, she should never have been placed in that position.

Every year on the anniversary I try to enter the room, and every year I fail. This is the furthest I’ve come so far. Yet my muscles atrophy with fear of the unknown, or fear of the known I cannot say. Lately the urge to know has become overbearing. At night I swear there are sounds, a soft humming coming from behind the sealed door, the same song she now hums. I glance over to her and see her staring back at me, red vacant eyes pierce through me, I am no more than a pane of glass, an invisible fragile force on the brink of shattering into a million pieces.

My hand pushes until a creak breaks the silence, and I pause once more. Time pauses while my eyes become distracted by a lone spider repelling from the top door frame. It floats to the floor and quickly scrambles past my foot. My eyes follow the arachnids path where once again I see Beth glancing in my direction. Pale complexion, wild untamed hair, a lost soul looking for compassion that she feels she doesn’t deserve.

My feet follow the same direction of the tiny eight-legged creature until I find myself standing next to her.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“I’m fine.” She lies. “You?”

“I’m fine.” I lie in return.

I am tired of this same non confrontational comment, both of us walking on eggshells desperately trying not to hurt the other. We hurt enough as it is. My eyes wander back to the room in the hall. An auburn glow emanates from the crack, stretching long tendrils like a flickering flame in a furnace.

“It’s getting late, are you hungry?” I ask.

“No, not really.”

More of a distraction than an urge, I walk to the liquor cabinet and pour myself a single malt scotch, being generous with the amount. Then sit across from her. I don’t indulge, instead I become hypnotized by the clear amber liquid glowing in the warm light of the hearth. Suddenly a clarity that has long since been absent with in me burst like a ray of light through dark clouds. Finally seeing a truth that has been denied me. I’ve been trying to answer the unanswerable, pressuring myself to problem solve instead of listening and ended up making things worse.

Grief is messy.

Beth will stand in front of the door just like I do but walks away when she hears me. We both pretend she was never there. Not today.

“I saw you this morning by the door.” I mention.

“Oh?”

“Did you go in?” I ask, knowing the answer.

She shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I reply. “I’m glad you keep trying.”

She sits up. “Really?”

“Yes, I think it is good. It makes me feel like I’m not alone."

Tucking slender knees up to her chest, her arms wrap themselves around them, she rocks while staring at me. I realize how much she has grown, and I am unsure when she changed from a child to a young woman.

Grief is blind.

“I though you would be angry, mom always was.”

Instantly I set the drink upon the table, rise and sit beside her. My arms envelope her tiny frame, her muscles shiver against my body and for the first time I realize how little I have done this. Hugging your child should be as natural as breathing. I was afraid she would have refused, so I refrained.

“Mom wasn’t angry with you.” I assure her.

“Sure fooled me. Mom hated when I asked to go in the room. If I suggested it she would yell at me.”

It was true, after the event Laura became angry and tense. While I became withdrawn and silent. “Mom had a hard time dealing with it.” I say.

In a muffled voice she says. “So did I, but no one cared.”

Squeezing her I whisper. “That’s not true, we cared, unfortunately we did a shitty job of showing it.”

“Mom left because of me, because of what I did.”

Grief is misunderstood.

This conversation is long overdue. It never seemed like the right time, but that is also a lie. I put it off because it is easier to ignore than to face a truth.

“No, your mom left because she couldn’t live in this house anymore, and I can’t leave. To her it was no longer a home, only a painful reminder of what we lost.”

“I don’t want to leave. I can’t, not until….” She lifts her head, and her eyes stray towards the room. “Dad, I am so sorry… if it wasn’t for me…”

Cutting her off. “It was not your fault. The Doctor said it was natural causes, something we all missed.”

Maybe she was too young at the time. We let her argue the point about being old enough to watch her younger brother. After all, three of her friends were already babysitters. Her mother and I were proud of the way she spoke.

We were only gone for three hours. Three hours too long.

“Dad, I didn’t know what to do, except scream. Maybe if I would have called for help sooner or checked on him earlier…or …or... phoned you and mom.”

Gripping her shoulders, I look her in the eyes and with a calmness that surprises me. “There was nothing you could have done, there was nothing anyone could have done. I am sorry you were the one who had to be here. Your mother never forgave herself, but she never blamed you, I never blamed you.”

For the first time in forever I see a light in her eye, awareness, understanding, forgiveness, I don’t know.

“It wasn’t me?” She asks.

“No. it wasn’t you.”

With a vigor that shocks me, she pulls away. “Can I tell you something?”

Here is where I would always say ‘it isn’t necessary.’ This time I nod. “Of Course.”

Sitting straight she takes a deep breath and begins. “I feel that if I enter the room again he will be there, as if nothing happened. I tried every night after it happened but could never find the strength.”

I don’t reply but listen as she continues.

“Later I would swear I heard him calling me and then find myself outside his room. I imagine listening to him humming that same song Nana would sing. But I could never open the door.”

I reach for her hand. They are chilled but steady.

With downcast eyes she says. “I’m afraid to open it and he won’t be there. That he is really gone, forever.”

When she remains silent I find my voice. “Amo te semper"

“What?”

“Amo te semper. Nana cried these words at the service, I had no idea what they meant, yet the passion and pain in which she said it mirrored my own. I later found out it means I love you always.”

I watch her mouth the words repeatedly. In the quiet, only the ticking of the mantle clock and fire crackling echoes in the hollow home. We are both frozen in time. When she finally looks up, I sense a change. There is a light in her eyes.

Grief is acceptance.

Suddenly words explode forth, for years she was as silent as the night. Instead of her normal two-word answers she speaks as eloquently as any poet. Beth spoke of the last night with her brother, how they watched a movie, ate popcorn, and snuck a root beer to share. How they laughed when he drank too fast and the fizzy pop poured out of his nose. She spoke of things I had long since forgotten, of memories I buried. I found myself smiling as well. Words flowed as freely as water from a river. While she talked I listened. Many times, my mouth almost opened, thankfully my jaw was wise enough to stay shut.

When she finally became silent, evening had come completely. Along with a sense of serenity. A peace crept into our bones like sinking into a warm bath. In the dim light her eyes grow wide, moisture pools upon her lashes reflecting the dying fire.

Her jaw shivers uncontrollably. “It wasn’t my fault?”

I swallow hard before answering. “It never was.”

I hold her again, soon both our cheeks are damp from the release of buried pain. How long had she lived with this guilt, a guilt that was never hers. I hold her until her body goes limp, and exhaustion over comes both our souls.

Grief heals faster when shared.

I lay her on the couch, cover a blanket across her enervated body, her chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. I collapse upon the chair opposite her, drain the scotch and stare for a long time at my little girl, wondering why it took so long for me to be the parent I needed to be.

I realize, sometimes it is more than a locked door that needs to be opened. All along she wasn’t asking for our forgiveness. She was wondering how to forgive herself.

Rising, I walk to the room, the door still slightly ajar. Peeking inside where dusk has long since eased into night. The room dimly lit by the evening moon casting its lunar light like a halo upon the untouched belongings, now covered in dust and memories.

Grief is reality.

I’m tempted to close the door and seal away the pain for another year. Instead, I glance once more at Beth, a child who finally found her peace. Hoping to find mine, I step inside and whisper. “Amo te semper".