The Blue Door by Erica Ocasio

The color of my life was a washed out gray. It wasn’t anything spectacular, merely a life to mutter under your breath and shrug. That’s what I’d usually do to people who only pretended to listen. Their gazes often drifted away from me anyway.

I would have liked to tell them about my love for art. Art was poetry to me. The crimson red and golden yellow stood out in my grayness. It was my haven. I got lost within each stroke, within the way I could paint the fields of grass so that they looked like ocean currents undulating within a wind that I could choose to make visible. But, my father often crushed my dreams. I’d find my paintings crumbled and my art tools frantically put away as if they all were a curse.  

***

I placed my brush down and examined my work. I painted the same picture over and over again, never getting it right. The same blue door stood out alone within a golden wheat field. Tall trees surrounded the perimeter of the field, not foreboding, but waiting patiently. Nevertheless, it wasn’t the field or the tall trees stretching their limbs skyward, it was the door. Despite my efforts, I couldn’t seem to paint it. Within a picture-perfect painting stood a blur of sky-blue, soft and gentle upon the golden crisps of wheat and acute leaves of reddish browns and burnt orange.

I wonder if that often happens when someone tries to paint their dreams. My blue door was a reoccurring one, often times a lucid dream. I spread my fingers apart to feel the all too real grains of wheat. I stood there within the silence, but this silence was like music to me. The sweet breeze flirted with my skin, making the tree branches dance. I smiled; my gray eyes searching for what I already knew would be there. The fading sky-blue stood in the middle, waiting for me to approach. My heart fluttered eagerly as I began stepping closer to it. I raised my hand slowly, watching how the sunlight illuminated my pale skin, and soon tried to push it open. I could almost feel the rough wood underneath my fingers, until the dream melted away and my eyes opened to darkness. Every time I drifted off into a welcomed slumber, it was the same. I dreamt of my door only wake back into the night.

“I can’t stay here, Clare; I’m selling it and moving to Chicago.”

The abruption of my father’s voice snapped me out of my familiar disappointment with my art. I silently stood up from my small desk cramped beside my bed and tip-toed to my own chipping, bedroom door. I knew if I tried to open it, it would groan in protest, alerting my dad that I was there trying to listen in. Therefore, I settled for the classic ear to door, focusing my attention on his voice.

“It’s been three years, I can’t keep doing this. I…” he paused, sighing, “You’re right, but…” I could tell he was on the phone, his pauses becoming more frequent as Clare, I guess, kept interrupting. His voice sounded pained. I could imagine his salt and peppered hair tousled and dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep.

“Clare, I can’t stay here. Things aren’t right. Being here just reminds me of them.”

I heard rustling of paper. Ever since my mom left, my father always kept the kitchen table cluttered with miscellaneous items, the majority being past-due bill reminders. I yearned to reach out to my dad, but he never acknowledged my comfort. My fingers might as well have been made of ice. Every time I tried to reach out to him, he stepped back, as if my touch were poison ivy. I didn’t understand, but it only hurt trying to make sense of it.

I soon heard a quick click and a tap, suggesting that the conversation turned sour and my dad hung up the phone, placing it on the counter. I couldn’t stand here listening to him suffer anymore. Even if I knew he would pretend I didn’t exist, I had to try.

I opened the door wide, stepping into the musky sunlight that filtered through our kitchen window. I glanced around, eyes finding my dad leaning against the table. He looked just how I imagined him. His eyes were laden with a burden I couldn’t comprehend. The bright blue swirling around his pupils was set with worry. His thick hair was still ruffled against his face. The wrinkles on his forehead were etched into his skin, deepening with each passing moment. I slowly stepped closer to him, one foot in front of the other, waiting for him to glance up.

“Dad?” I whispered his name softly, hoping it would be enough to grab his attention.

He looked up, his expression clearly startled.

“Dad…I just…”

“This needs to stop.” He stated, slicing through my words like a knife.

“What?” I was confused, perplexed by what he meant.

He moved past me, goose-bumps rising on his skin as he did, slamming my bedroom door shut with sharp movements, making it seem like something deeply unnerved him.

“I can’t do this anymore Nessa. It’s time to move on,” he replied, his voice quivering ever so slightly yet bitter. He just left me to stand there in the kitchen as he briskly walked past me again, shivering into the darkness of his own bedroom.

***

When the moving day came, my dad began packing up the house. Boxes unmarked and marked, sealed and left open were scattered or piled all around our home. I silently slid in the backseat of his car without a word. That was the first time I waited for him. I waited for him to open the ebony door to his car and watched how he slowly slumped into the driver’s seat. His eyes quickly flickered to the review mirror while he started the engine. I looked away from him and out the window. My dad blasted the heat as we drove away. The sun blazed against the car without a cloud in the sky. No matter, he made us suffer in the heat, even though it was early June. I pleaded for him to turn the heat down, but next came music. The classical music drifted through the car, louder than it ever needed to be. All my dad had to say was that he hated me, that it was my fault that mom left. All it took were words.

I dreamed of the door again as we rode away from everything I knew. I got closer this time, my hand flat against the harsh wood. I was almost ready to push it open until I heard the car door slam shut. I drifted slowly out of my golden field, away from my blue door, and back to the purgatory that some cruel God placed me in.

 I didn’t understand where we were. We weren’t remotely near the highway. I took a look around and studied the stone angels, eyes casted down in sorrow. Flowers covered their feet to decorate the grounds. Trees aligned by more white stones etched with names of mothers and daughters, beginnings and ends.

“Dad, why are we here?” I inquired, clearly confused as I followed him. He remained silent, as usual, leaving my question unanswered.

“You need to move on Nessa. You can’t stay here anymore, and I can’t live hoping you two will come back. Go with your mother now,” he whispered as faintly as the wind blew.

I followed his eyes down to the round stone that read me and my mother’s name. I read two beginnings with the same ending.

***

The color of my life was a washed out gray. But, in my dream, all colors existed. The door stood, waiting for me to be ready. I was finally able to push it open when I heard her. My mother stood behind my door in a world where colors melted into one. I didn’t have to wake up anymore because I realized that I had never slept.