The Red Door

Francine didn’t wake up to the alarm. She’d been awake for an hour. She lay face up in the middle of the bed.

She stared at the ceiling emptily.

The way that people who have run out of tears stared at things. Vacant stares at the ceiling had not ceased.

Almost a year since Adam had wheeled his suitcase to the front porch and driven away without looking back. Because she requested it. No, required it. Neither she nor Adam had attempted to establish contact, and chat, work things out. Though, she’d blocked him on Facebook.

That was fine from her side.

Yet… the heart asked questions.

And it’s Valentine’s Day. Bloody Valentine’s Day, she thought.

She cocked her head to one side at the freestanding figure of Cupid on the bedside table. A present from Adam not long after they moved in together. Seemed so long ago now for Francine. The bow and arrow curiously pointed at her.

Francine snorted and revolved the figure a little.

Her stomach sank. She’d tried hard to convince herself that Adam was history and that’s okay. But inside, that thought stung at times. 

The morning sun filtered in through her curtains, dancing long strands of warmth across her floor. 

“Gorgeous day for today,” she mouthed sarcastically to herself.

Outside, the sky, so blue. She could hear birds chirping somewhere outside her window, happy and busy with their day. Valentine's Day lamenting inside the house ensued, not another simple happy weekend.

Francine was thirty-one. Dark hair that came to her shoulders, unruly morning hair. A year ago she was four months away from her wedding. It was what Julia, her friend and neighbour, had seen who killed it all on Valentine’s Day.

She stared at the ceiling and watched the memory replay itself again, like you rub a bruise intentionally, gleefully masochistic. 

Francine rose from her lazy Saturday bed and put on a dressing gown. Yawning, she headed downstairs to start a routine, a routine that felt normal but less than satisfactory.

To make tea that had no real taste these days.

Something in the corner of her eye.

The front door. A red door. Not her varnished door at all.

She stood there, dropped jaw, staring at this weird red door.

“What…the hell. This isn’t my door.”

Not the door she opened and walked out past many times. This was pillar-box red, not varnished oak. 

Francine stepped closer.

She moved forward. Inches at first, then half-stepping. 

She ran her fingers across the paint. And retracted her hand and stared at the pale stain left on her finger.

“Hello, Francine. Are you there?” A voice from the other side spoke.

She stepped back. Startled.

Perplexed by this strange red door attached to the frame, she composed herself and answered. “Ummm…yes…yes, who is it?”

The same friendly tone responded. “Sorry to bother you, Francine. I wondered if I may have a moment of your time.”

She began a nervous head shake. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”

“I promise you, I’m not a rogue trader, not a salesman, just someone with important information for you, just you personally. I mean…I can come back.” A pause. “No, wait, I actually cannot. Not until next year. Sorry.” He calmed his tone further. “One minute of your time and I’ll explain why I have to speak to you. It’s about Adam.”

She tentatively reached for the door knob.

He definitely said, Adam.

Anxiety billowed.

She grasped for the door knob and turned it with haste. Francine growled and pulled at the door.

He was young. Baby-faced. Smooth skin. Rolled up sleeves, shiny blue suit. Polished shoes. Blank and accepting enough face. A soft smile across his mouth. 

"Morning," he said. 

Francine wagged an angry finger. “What about Adam?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Francine’s voice broke somewhat as her anger swelled over why a red door hung on the frame. And now this, something about Adam.

“I will remove the door. I only wish… to tell you, well, ask you about something….”

“You…you did this. Bloody well put my door back now. Calling the police. You stay right there.” She withdrew her phone and dialled. "Who are you?" asked Francine. "And why did you remove my door? How did you get in, asshole, stay right there."

"This door isn't important," he replied cordially. "What's important is whether you want to open it when you next….leave your house."

She fixed him with a look. "I did open it. You're standing in my open door as we speak." Francine checked her phone, it rang and a voice started. “Hello, yes I want to….”

The man was gone. She looked around then stepped back inside.

Slam.

The red door shut as though spring-loaded.

Francine flinched. 

The man stood inside her hallway, tapping a foot on her wooden floor.

“Get out!” 

A voice from the police line was talking. “Hello…hello…what service do you need? Can I help you?”

Francine pointed the phone at him. “You’ve got seconds to leave. I’m answering this.”

“Please don’t draw attention. I have something about Adam that you need to hear. It’s not pleasant news for you, I’m afraid.”

Francine's face drooped and she disconnected the call.

“What do you mean? Who are you? How do you know Adam?”

“Well.” He tilted his head to one side. "Walk back through the door and you will see. And learn something that’s been hidden from you." He met her eyes.

"What?!" yelled Francine. “Some weirdo just put a door here and then, hah, sneaked into my house. Well…” A no-nonsense stare.

"That door," he said calmly, gesturing beyond her shoulder. “Leads to a truth.”

“You’re leaving.” Francine grabbed the door knob and opened the door. She pointed at the outside street. “And I want my door back. No idea how you broke in. Still calling the…police….”

Her eyes widened.

“What in the…what?”

She walked outside. The sky. Bright and powdery blue earlier. Now low and oppressive, bruising the rooftops. And she panicked at the empty tarmac spot where her car was always parked. It was there just a minute ago. The new car, bought only a month ago. 

“What? Where’s my car?! Oh no. No!” She clutched a sore head. “Red door. Car stolen.” She chuckled. “I’m still asleep, must be. That guy isn’t real. This isn’t.”

Francine stood on the doorstep thinking my car’s been stolen in her disconnected, raised mourning voice. Then a car parked up.

She almost stopped breathing.

She knew that car was Adam's. Why is he here? Watched as it slid to a halt, then the driver’s door opened.

Adam. 

In his work jacket, laptop bag over a shoulder. 

Odd that he’s here, she thought. And that warming sensation began. She’d wondered how she’d feel upon seeing him again. It hurt. There was something about seeing Adam after many months that made him surreal. His posture. The way his blond hair fell just so.

“Adam.”

Francine took a step closer and then, he stepped through her.

She yelled out.

Through her. Not past her. Through. And into the house, oblivious, and shut the door behind him.

Francine stood on the doorway with her arms hanging slack at her sides.

And it struck. This was a memory. Last February was dreary and grey on Valentine’s Day.

She walked back through the red front door, shell-shocked and with a jaw locked in awe.

“Adam.”

The front door waited patiently for her then once again, shut.

She frantically walked around checking all the rooms.

“Adam!” She called out.

Emptiness. No sign of him at all. The strange young man claiming to be responsible for the red door was also gone.

Francine regarded the red door.

“What the hell is going on?”

She opened it.

Adam was standing on her doorstep, turned away from Francine. He was talking to someone. Francine stepped forward, enough to see her. Dark large eyes that glistened with tears and what Francine knew to be the wrong side of devotion. She had her hands clasped together in front of her body. It was another day.

Oh no, that day, Francine thought.

When he spoke, his voice was calm but Francine could hear him straining. “You have to stop this, Kirsty,” Adam said. “The third time. I’ve told you. I’m telling you again.” 

“I can’t control how I feel,” Kirsty replied.

“That’s not my issue. Sorry, that was wrong. What I’m saying is…” He was running his hand along his neck. “I’m taken. I love Francine. What you’re doing is… it’s not appropriate, Kirsty. You understand that, right? It’s not appropriate.” 

Francine felt her teary eyes start to burn. And her chin began to quiver, as it does before the crying starts. Adam sighed. And then he dropped his voice another octave. 

“Come in.” He gestured at the open door. “Five minutes. Then this stops, and that’s it?” 

Kirsty came inside. Francine followed behind them.

The red door closed.

She watched them sit opposite each other in the living room and watched Adam lean forward, elbows planted firmly on his knees on the couch. Kirsty sank into the couch at his side. 

“Nothing has happened between us since I met you at my company Christmas party. We chatted. And that was it. I’m not interested in you, not like that. I love Francine. I’ll be in trouble over nothing. I like you. But then you looked for me on Facebook, and I have had constant messages and emails, they must…”

Kirsty left the couch and nodded. “I’m leaving, never mind.”

“So it has stopped, yeah?” Adam shouted as Kirsty left the house. Not even glancing back.

Francine could only be the ghostly onlooker, only listen. Those words: nothing has happened, trouble over nothing.

That stung.

The sound of Francine’s name from Adam echoed clear and sharp inside of Francine’s rib cage.

Adam sank back into the cushions. Eyes shut, he allowed relief to exhale like he’d held his breath for hours.

And then Francine blinked and he was gone. The lounge, her usual room.

A knock at the red door. 

Francine strolled over and opened it. Julia, her folded arms, an expression that shouted she had something to say. 

Someone walked through Francine from behind her.

It was her.

This was a memory again, though.

It was her, but from a year ago. 

Francine wanted to retreat back into her hallway. She stared at herself on the doorstep and listened. At this awful memory.

“I didn’t want to say anything,” Julia was saying. “But I couldn't not tell you.” 

She couldn’t stand to hear it and walked back to the hallway. 

The red door stayed open. 

Back pressed against the wall, she listened as this flash from history played out. Francine listened as Julia spilled all on what she thought was happening as an onlooker from across the street: Adam, Kirsty. Francine toppled down into a sitting position with knees drawn up to her chest and her face buried in her hands.

Julia continued. All the words recalled by Francine. “I have to tell you. Can’t hold back. Look. I saw Adam.” She paused and exhaled. “Saw him with a woman, right here, they seemed close and then he….invited her inside…. and…I can’t say it any other way.”

Julia had seen something, but her eyes lied. She’d seen a woman on the doorstep and then later had watched that woman walk back down the path. She’d connected those dots.

Who wouldn’t?

People did that. They always did that. You see what you could see and you make up the rest from there. 

And Francine knew she was a good friend.

But Adam. She’d asked him to go away and refused to listen to him.

And as Julia’s words ended, the red door closed with a click that filled the hallway.

Francine looked up from her tears-covered hands.

The red door was no longer there.

Her usual door back in its place, the varnished oak and brushed-steel letterbox and tiny, tasteful circular window. Everything as she’d always remembered it, and for that reason more painful.

The young man appeared and was next to her, kneeling so he was at eye-level. She hadn’t noticed him coming. His hands were clasped together; his face sculpted into the sympathetic sorrow of a person who already knows how a sad story ends.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to hear it like that.”

“I believed her. I just saw it all. But we were so wrong. And Adam…No.” Francine looked up at him. She wanted to say something cutting; something that blasted away the emotion festering in her chest. Instead she asked: “Where did you go? Earlier you varnished.” 

“I was always here, well, observing from… another place,” he replied. He stood up. “But my work is done here.” He paused. “You and Adam. I thought it was for life. I am sorry.”

Francine made it to the sofa. She couldn’t remember walking across the room. She sat and cried, not silently, not like she had any of the practised restraint she’d insisted on enforcing over her sorrow for the last year. This was a release of sadness and regret that wrenched her guts. She’d never felt this undone.

And then she heard wings flapping. 

Nearby and sudden, sharp wings beating with a dry papery rustle against the air. She lifted her head. 

The young man had varnished. 

The sun streamed through the windows, painting the room in long amber rays just as it had been doing when she woke up. Everything looked exactly the same, loathingly, pitilessly the same.

A thought. Had Adam returned to his parents’ house only six or seven miles away?

She didn’t stop to consider herself. She shoved shoes over her feet without bothering with socks. Keys were grabbed, and she drove. 

Upon arrival, Francine peered out the window at the front door of Adam’s parents’ home. White-knuckled on the wheel, she hoped, she prayed, that it was time to correct the hurt caused.

She knocked on the door of the red-brick house and as she knocked, the thought came. 

This is what I should have done months ago. My pride. My short-sightedness. No, no, what else would someone in my boots think? No, no, no. I should have come to his parents when I messed up. Should have knocked and pleaded for a talk.

The door clicked open. It was Terry, Adam’s father, big lump of a man with equally large hands and a face like an open book. Terry had always taken to Francine. She’d loved him for it. She saw his eyes flutter when they landed on her this time, fondness swept away for something darker-edged.

“Francine.” 

“Terry.” Francine recognised her own voice coming out wispy. “Is he here?” 

What Terry didn’t say hung between them for several seconds, long enough that she didn’t need the words.

“No, love.” Terry half-turned away from the doorway, leaned on the frame. “Been gone a few months now. Moved out, found a job in France. Lyon. Got offered a job, a really good job and, well, after everything…” Terry gave her this pitying look that made Francine wish he’d simply yell at her instead. “He just wanted some time. Needed space to breathe. And to start over.” 

“I just wanted to….” Francine choked up. “I wanted…him to know, I’m sorry.”

She said no more.

“He needs to breathe.” Terry shook his head, cleared his throat. “Can’t give you his number,” he sounded angry now, hurt which was infinitely worse. “He… insisted. Said he couldn’t deal with the accusations. Said you wouldn’t give him the chance to explain.” Terry settled his hands into fists at his sides; this had hurt more than her and Adam. “I’ve never seen him more upset about anything. Look, don’t want to judge. You were told something and….”

“It wasn’t true.” Francine covered her face. “I should have trusted him. But…” 

He sighed, shook his head again. “He started over. Sorry. Those were his words.” 

“Yeah.”

“Look. You probably want to find him but if there’s any chance at all he’ll want you back, leave it to him to decide for himself.”

She cried and nodded, feeling helpless. Beaten and hollow inside, Francine headed back to the car.

On autopilot, she drove home again. And sat in the sudden silence of her car and she remembered the last morning Adam had spent in the house. His expression as she told him just go. The way he paused at the door, turned back to her and said Francine, please. She had said nothing, and that was the last time she saw him as she closed the door.

He had been right here. And she had sent him away.

She sat in the car for ages. 

Choices. She thought about choices. 

She had stood on a seesaw and had pressed down on the wrong side and this was what made it untenable, unchangeable: Adam had needed her to trust him.

She could write him a letter. 

Yes. She considered it. She could Google around for an email address. Find him on Facebook. Unblock him. She could send a message to him. 

She could try. She didn't know if she would or if it mattered or if doing so would be for his sake or her own forgiveness.

Francine shook herself out of the car and walked towards her front door. Pressed her hand against its solid varnished oak. 

Somewhere in the garden, a robin had begun chirruping. Probably didn't have a care in the world. Just had a song to sing and it was going to sing it.

She paused for a moment before turning the handle and going inside.

And the door closed.