Minna B

She shut the door behind her. They shut the bedroom door when they were fighting so the children wouldn’t hear. They shut the bathroom door when doing their individual business, but never for any other reason. Doors always remained opened in this house. “There should never be anything to hide, therefore, all doors stay open,” the parents would say.

But today, the stay-at-home-mom, the care taker, the house wife, the misses, the mother, shut the bathroom door with a bottle of booze and a bottle of pills.

They had been fighting—the mister and the misses. They had been arguing for days, weeks, months; since they first moved into the house, mainly over fidelity. The mister had been unfaithful in the past, when they lived in Venezuela, now he suspected his wife of doing the same.

She told him she was leaving. He didn’t know where. She told him to pick up the kids that day. So he did. But while he was gone, she shut the door behind her and looked in the mirror. She questioned their marriage, her looks. She’s gained a lot of weight, she thought. She’s getting old, she thought. She’s miserable, she’s bored. She stays at home while he works and then enjoys cocktail hour with his staff. Wait, what staff? She questions her new life, her new home. She has so many questions and no answers. This is why people must drink, she reasoned.

So she went to her husband’s bar in the formal living room, found a bottle of liquor and closed the bathroom door behind her. She opened the medicine cabinet and reached for the aspirin. This oughta show him, she thought.

With the bathroom door closed, the misses begins to swig straight out of the bottle. She makes a face. She looks in the mirror. How the heck do people drink this stuff? She gags. So she pops a few pills and takes another swig. This time the taste wasn’t as bad. She looks in the mirror. She sees no difference. Isn’t this supposed to make me feel better? She questions. Isn’t that why people become alcoholics? She wonders.

The misses takes another swig, pops a few more pills. She looks in the mirror. She smiles. She laughs. She doesn’t think about her children. She thinks about her husband. She thinks about her son’s hockey coach, Mark, but not about her son.

She takes another swig. She looks in the mirror. She’s crying. She thinks about her children. She thinks about her husband. She cries. She takes another swig and collapses on the porcelain bathtub.

The mister is home with the children. The house is silent but the tap tap of a young boy at his computer. He’s clicking away at the mouse while his mother lays unconscious in the tub. His father returns asking where his mother is. The young boy’s not paying attention.

The mister is calling from just outside the bathroom door. The misses is knocked out. The mister calls each time growing more nervous, anxious, worried. What has she done? He wonders. Dear God let her be OK, he pleads. He has his left shoulder on the door, his right hand on the knob. He breaks the bathroom door. He sees his wife in the tub. She is unconscious. He sees the pills, the bottle of liquor, he kneels down before her.

He calls for her, gently tapping her face, calling her name. He carries her to the bed. She is cold. He wraps her in blankets. She sobs. He weeps. They never closed the bathroom again.

They are old—older. The mister is sick. The misses cares for him. Because they love each other. And they never close doors anymore.