The Door
Kati Eisenhuth


 
You flit into the clinic, detritus from the Mississippi summer flaking off your shoes. You hardly notice the dried leaves and dead bugs that gather in the corner. You don’t pay attention to the way the door bangs shut, sealing out air so thick and damp you can wet your fingers just by rubbing them together. Inside, everything is different; it is cool enough to feel the energy tingle over your skin.
 
 You lose yourself in the bustle of the clinic. Children cry. Parents encourage. Nurses hurry patients into rooms. You see a 6-month old who smiles with his whole face. You cannot help but lean toward him and his illness. You fuss over his rash and his fever, consider meningitis, consider Roseola virus, consider Kawasaki disease. You touch the mother’s shoulder and assure her crinkled face you will get to the bottom of this. You will keep him safe.
 
You emerge from the room, buzzing on medical uncertainty. You search the hallways for your nurse, Jane, ducking your head into room after tiny room. You do not find her.
 
The sound is like plastic cracking and it is only when someone yells, “Gun!” that you take notice. You turn to watch the young mother fly out of her exam room with your 6-month old patient. You think to yourself, I have seen that look before. You realize you have seen it in your own mind, on a day when you sat, propped in bed, reading a book about a shooting. You watch the mother grasp your patient to her chest and curl around him. He smiles on, delighted with the game as she hurls herself into a fleeing stampede. You think of a snake whipping itself forward as her body swings widely from side to side, navigating the crowd.
 
Someone yells again. “Jane’s out there! Outside!”
 
Before she disappears into the mass of bodies, the young mother turns once again. You are a doctor, her eyes now say. Do what you do.
 
You grip your stethoscope and run the opposite way, toward the door and the crack of plastic and Jane’s weak scream that filters into your consciousness on delay. You crouch down in front of the door, the door you now see is broad and heavy. A barrier. It is closed but unlatched and you do not know what is beyond it. You do not know if there is a man with a gun on the other side and if he will point it at you. You do not know if he may be coming toward the door now.
 
You have a choice. The dead leaves and bugs with dangling legs cannot help you. You stare at them anyway.
 
You have young boys with blond hair, ages 3 and 5. You have boys with feet like puppies, too large for their bodies, with so much growing to do. You make a promise each day when you leave them at school, noses pressed to the window, blue eyes glossy but confident: Mommy will always come back. You have a husband deployed to Iraq, listening every day to sounds more menacing than what you have heard today. You have a husband who is 24 hours away, six plane rides to get to your boys, who will be waiting. They will be waiting if you are shot by a man with a gun outside the door.
 
You think that if you creep out that door and die in the grass in the Mississippi sun, they will not understand. You think they will not know the way the young mother looked at you. They will never know the way she saw you, the person you are. They will not know there is only one way you will not die right now, that if you hide behind the door, if you pull it closed and snake away from Jane and the gun, then you will have killed yourself anyway.
 
You think Jane is out there, dying. You think she may be laying there, alone, waiting for you to do what you do. She may be wondering if you will come.
 
You know you may hear the sound of plastic cracking again and it may be the last thing you ever hear. You know there may be pain.
 
You love your husband and the way you can feel his touch even on body parts nowhere near his fingers. You love your kids and their big feet and the way they sometimes call you “Mama” like true southerners. You love Jane but you do not choose her. You choose you.
 
You nod to the dead bugs and nudge open the door. The air is so hazy, you feel shaded in the sun. You see a man in jeans with a gun who looks the other way. He is twenty feet, maybe less, but it seems far. He is preoccupied, peering around the far corner of the building. You army crawl through the grass because they did that in your book. You reach Jane, lying face down in the grass, as though napping. You see her body rise with breath. You push her over and find the hole behind her ear with clots of blood that ooze. You tell her you are there, you won’t let anything bad happen. For a moment, her eyes look right at you and it is clear she knows you are lying. You watch her vomit up the salad you shared for lunch. You forget how to be a doctor. You do not apply pressure. You do not immobilize her spine. You pick up her arms, dig your heels into the ground, and tug her toward the door while her head flops around like a pendulum. You hear her cry out a little and glance behind you at the man. He turns and sees you. You watch him raise his arms.
 
Your belly stings. As quickly as you feel the pain, you push it aside. They will not understand. You did not choose her. You chose you. 










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About the Author: 
Kati Eisenhuth is a pediatrician in central Pennsylvania, where she lives with her husband and two boys. She timed her recent migration from Mississippi poorly and is currently digging out from the snow. Find her on Twitter @KatiEisenhuth.

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