The Last Answer, Part 3
By the time the house came into view, the sun was gently lifting the dark horizon like a blanket. My dry eyes strained to bring it into focus. The house leaned slightly as if it were either resisting the wind or on the brink of collapse. But the air was still, for now, allowing it a moment of respite.
I crept the last several yards to my bedroom window and pressed my hands on either side of the weathered frame. I froze. Through the glass, I could just make out the shape of my mother sitting on the edge of my bed. I searched cautiously in the darkness for her eyes reflecting mine before realizing her back was to me. My tired heart grew nervous once more. I racked my mind for an explanation she might find acceptable.
Maybe I could say I was just feeding the chickens? I thought to myself. But how long has she been there?
There was no time to vacillate, for I knew she must be sick with worry by now. Her shift ended hours ago. I used to be blind to it, but as I became aware of my own anxiety, I began to see it clearly in her.
Finally, it became clear that “feeding the chickens” was all my fading mind would capitulate. I hurried around to the front of the house and clambered up the front porch steps, whistling an improvised tune that fell somewhere between “Swing Low Sweet Chariot” and “Bingo Was His Name-o.” The old screen door slammed into the frame behind me as I stepped inside, stopping dutifully to wipe my soles on the tattered “Welcome” mat. I peeled off my shoes, expecting my mother to emerge from the bedroom at any moment in response to my nonchalant commotion. But as I waited, unshorn, in the deepening colors of dawn, the hallway remained undisturbed. It occurred to me that I had stopped whistling.
I slipped out of my jacket and slung it on one of the vacant bronze hooks. I peered down the hallway for several more moments, but the door to my room remained no more than slightly ajar. And so, reassuming the confidence of innocence, I moved toward it, evoking a symphony of protests from the ancient floor.
The moment her gaze came into view through the gap, it grasped mine. Without hesitation, I pushed the door open and flipped on the light in one, smooth motion.
“Oh, hey mom,” I said, appropriately surprised. “What are you doing in here?” I took a seat on the chair next to my desk and began peeling off my socks.
She continued following my movements without a word.
Freshly barefoot on the threadbare carpet, I returned her gaze, eyebrows high with curiosity. Internally, I debated whether I should instead be concerned.
Mom?” I said, emitting the syllable like a sonar ping from one submarine to another.
Her eyes gradually signaled recognition. “Oh, hello, Eli,” she said, smiling as though only now noticing two wrestling puppies. “Good morning.”
Feeling the need to explain, I began delving into the details of my morning spent feeding the chickens. But, before I could finish, she stood and moved toward the door, blooming orange sun glinting off drying tears. I wanted to ask if she was okay, but my tongue remained paralyzed, realizing it should offer only as much help as it could provide.
The sound of her door closing released me. Quick as a mousetrap, I stood and peeled off my pants. I could now see they were far more soiled than necessary to feed chickens. Not to mention the thorns and briars they had collected. I eyed the crumbs of mud on the chair’s seat and sighed.
I removed my shirt and climbed into bed, running my hand over the warm spot she’d occupied as if to prove her visit hadn’t been imagined. The act summoned the memory of her wistful expression as she departed. Each day seemed hellbent on devouring a week of her beauty.
I rolled to one side and allowed my thoughts to drift to the portal once again. Soon, my mind became a traffic jam in all cardinal directions. All signals were red.
The red beacon.
The hand.
The rowboat.
What do I become when I enter the portal?
A vague memory of completeness was the only orientation I had, and I clung to it like a guide rope in a cave. Even the fear I felt there was warmer than the fog of apathy covering this town, invading the lungs with every inhale.
I tried to imagine her, she who spoke to me from the light to no avail. It was like trying to summon the likeness of the sun.
Eyes closed, I watched my mind’s exertion, straining to map my experiences. But my memories of that place were like designs on the water’s surface. The more I interacted with them, the more nondescript they became until I despaired I would never determine their meanings.
Maybe Karl knows, I thought, but recoiled from the thought of telling him. I wondered if he could be trusted and bathed in the ensuing wave of guilt.
My thoughts began to converge upon me like fighter jets on a target. I rotated fitfully, away from the window and away from the portal I was starting to wish I could forget.
Eventually, like the last snowflakes of a storm, the fighter jets began falling from the sky. Sleep, in the form of two billowing inky clouds of smoke, enveloped me, graciously sparing me further confrontation with the waking world.
