The Nursery Door -(an excerpt from my memoir)

After the first ten weeks of the pregnancy, when it was confirmed that Clementine was growing and healthy, we chose which room would be hers. Our modest house had three bedrooms, one of which we used as a guest room and the other as a craft room. We opted for the craft room for Clementine, because of the luscious light that comes through the southeast-facing windows.  From when we first moved in, I knew this room was the best in the house. The lighting alone allows one to feel at ease here. The open windows look out to see the Meyer lemon tree producing so much fruit the branches droop to the ground. You can hear the frogs croaking at dusk from the stream nearby, and sometimes, you can make out the neighbor’s small windmill creaking as it circulates. An almond tree shades the yard from the south window, and in early spring, the white flower petals cover the yard like snow. Lesser goldfinches sing as they eat from the feeder hanging on the patio. Scrub jays pick out their favorite seeds and scatter the others across the ground while guarding their territories. And when the seasons change, you can hear the snow geese flying either north or south as they call out from their V formations in the sky. It was hard not to picture a great life here. 

Days turned into weeks; soon enough, it had been a month since Clementine died. The summer heat made the nursery scorching without any window coverings, and the heat made its way into the house, another reminder of the hell that waited for me. Avoiding the room became more difficult. I could make out bits of sunshine creeping under the door as if the light was trying to find me. My sorrow’s candle had become a torch. From my throne in the living room, I began allowing myself to stare at it. Looking only for a few seconds and then for a minute or two. Holding my gaze and breath, I wanted to investigate. My sensitivity escalated when walking by, and I could feel the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. The nursery became a stagnant pond that reeked of death. I could smell the odor floating throughout the house. I knew bringing life to the room would take the stench away, and I was preparing for fresh air.

Though the nursery door remained closed, I could so easily picture everything in the room, all the memories of the life that ended. The passed-down dresser, lined with colorful alphabet blocks, housed the clothes I had washed and folded. I made sure to use all-natural, sensitive-skin detergent to ensure the baby’s skin didn’t have a reaction. Handmade quilts draped her crib made by friends, decoupaged art sat on the shelves, and a complete library was set up near the oversized rocking chair, where we would read to her as we rocked her to sleep. The hope in there crushed me. 

Without realizing it, I’d need a blanket from the nursery or want to open the windows for a cross breeze in the house. It wasn’t until I’d reached the door that I understood what I was doing. It felt casual until my fingers wrapped around the doorknob. The warm, round, golden handle would send a shock through my hands. My muscles tensed and stopped my forward motion, and I stood frozen in the doorway. The safety I used to feel entering this room was gone. While the physical parts of myself returned to the door time and time again, my mind interrupted the flow. The disconnect between mind and body was unmistakable, leaving me alone in the hallway.