After Cecilia knocked on the front door of her childhood home and waited for the people who had lived there now twenty years to answer, she reached out and touched the stucco wall next to the door. It was the same beige that it had been when she was a girl and was rough to the touch, as if the builders had poured lots of sand into the mixture and barely stirred it up. She remembered the day that her father pushed her up against that wall in anger; she had scratches on her arms and legs for a week afterward. She remembered, too, how her mother had stood behind the screen door watching the whole thing and doing nothing.
The door opened and there stood a woman about her mother’s age when they had lived there, probably forty, at the most. She had a suspicious look on her face and latched the screen door before saying a word. “Yes?” she finally said. “Can I help you?”
Cecilia felt awkward, as if she was at the woman’s counter at the department store, waiting to be helped with make-up, rather than coming for what she knew was an odd request. “I know this sounds strange, but I used to live here a long time ago and I’m an artist and I’m working on a painting that is centered in my childhood room. Is there any way that I could see my old room again, just for a minute? I’m not a weirdo or anything, I’m just trying to get some closure on something that happened and…”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Absolutely not. I don’t know you and I’m certainly not going to let you walk into my home.”
Cecilia expected this, of course. Why would any sane person let a total stranger into their inner sanctum? She could be a murder or casing the joint or a stalker. Everybody knew people didn’t open their doors and say, “Sure, come on in, strange woman. What some coffee?”
A male voice behind the woman called out. “Sarah, who is that?” A moment later, a old man pushing a walker hobbled up and peered through the screen. “What are you selling, young lady?”
Cecilia recoiled. The harshness in the man’s tone took her back to her childhood and that very porch. “I used to live here, sir.”
“And?”
She reminded herself that she was not that little girl anymore. “I am an artist, a wife, and mother of two sons, and I have a need to see my old room for about five minutes. I have a painting I’m working on based on that room and I…”
“What’s your maiden name?”
“Barton.”
The old man nodded. “Yes, we bought this house from the Bartons back in the early ‘90’s.”
“Yes.”
The man unlatched the screen and opened the door. “Come in then. How is your family?”
“My mother died recently. My father has Alzheimer’s.”
The woman, who had been so cold, was now leading the way down the hall. She opened the door to the standard tract home bedroom, just large enough to accommodate a double bed, chest of drawers and a chair. “This is my sewing room now so excuse the mess.”
But Cecilia wasn’t looking at anything else in the room. “May I sit down on the bed, please?”
The man, who had now joined them, exchanged glances with his wife. “Of course,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”
Cecilia sat down, slipped off her shoes and lay down. She stared at the couple, who could have been her mother and father so many years ago, then sat back up and slipped on her shoes. “Thank you,” she said. “You’ve been very kind.”
“At least stay for coffee,” the old man said as they walked back to the living room.
“No, thank you. You’ve already been more than generous.”
As she stepped out the front door and back onto the porch, the woman, who had left her husband sitting in the living room said quietly, “May I ask what closure you needed?
Cecilia was surprised at the gentleness of her tone. “I needed to see how the light came in from the window and the door.”
“For your painting?”
“No, for me. I’ve been haunted by shadows.”
The woman’s face softened. “I’m sorry.”
Cecilia reached out to shake her hand. “But now I know what was real and what wasn’t.”
“Just from the light?”
“And perspective.”
“You really are an artist?”
“Yes,” Cecilia said, then smiled. “And so much more.”
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