Strangers: A Novel(5)

I pull myself together. I have to find out. I rush over to the front door, open it, and take a look outside. Everything’s quiet. I close it again and decide to lock up, just to be sure. Then I climb the stairs, taking firm steps. I want Joanna to hear me, I want her to know I’m coming. I want to find out once and for all what’s going on here.

I look into the bathroom: nothing, it’s empty. With grim determination I approach the bedroom door, firmly grip the handle, and push it down. Locked.

“Joanna.” My voice sounds forceful. Not angry, but enough so she’ll realize I’m serious. “Joanna, will you stop this nonsense! Open the door so we can talk. I’m not going to hurt you, damn it.”

Silence. I wait. Ten seconds, fifteen … Nothing. “Joanna, please, will you think about this for a second? If I really wanted to hurt you, do you think this pathetic little lock would stop me from getting into the bedroom? One kick and that’s that. But I don’t want to break down the door, because it’s my door as well, you see? We live here together. And if that doesn’t seem right to you, then we’ll … Joanna. Are you listening?”

I realize I’m speaking very quickly. That’s something I always do whenever I have a thought I urgently want to tell somebody about.

“I have an idea, Jo. Are you listening? Ask me something. Something only I could know. Something I’d have to know if I really live here with you. OK? Then you’ll see. Come on, ask me something, anything.”

Again, nothing but silence for a while, but then I hear something behind the door. At the door. A click. The handle is pushed down, the door slowly opens and swings inward. Thank goodness.

Joanna is standing there in front of me, a little off to the side. She’s looking at me, frightened, still holding on to the handle. My eyes move past her and into the bedroom. A hand, as cold as ice, reaches for my heart. And, for the first time, the thought crosses my mind that maybe the person who’s lost their mind here isn’t Joanna, but me.

My blanket, my pillow … My wardrobe … Everything’s gone.





3

I did everything wrong, everything, one mistake after the next. I realize that now. Now, while the intruder is rattling the handle of the bedroom door.

Dead end. No way out. Why didn’t I run outside instead of imprisoning myself? Because I felt safer in my own bedroom? What a fallacy. I’m sitting in a trap here; there’s no exit, just the window.

“Joanna.”

I close my eyes, press the pads of my thumbs against my eyelids. Go away, I think, just go away.

“Joanna, will you stop this nonsense! Open the door so we can talk. I’m not going to hurt you, damn it.”

Of course not. After all, we are engaged.

I feel a sudden urge to laugh, out of pure hysteria, and if I do I know I won’t be able to stop. I take a deep breath and bore my fingernails into the palms of my hands until the urge subsides.

What do I know about people with delusions? Nothing, really. That you should agree with them, not provoke them—I think I remember that much.

“Joanna, please, will you think about this for a second? If I really wanted to hurt you, do you think this pathetic little lock would stop me from getting into the bedroom? One kick and that’s that.”

I immediately back away from the door. He keeps talking, saying something about how it’s his door too and that’s why he doesn’t want to break it down, but I’m well aware that he’ll do it sooner or later if I don’t open it.

I frantically look around. For a weapon, something heavy. Next time I’ll hit the mark. Really take him out. Except there’s nothing in here that I can use. I would have to take a curtain rod apart, but there’s no way I have time for that.

“I have an idea, Jo. Are you listening? Ask me something. Something only I could know. Something I’d have to know if I really live here with you.”

I have to get to my cell phone. Or make it out onto the street, but neither of those will be possible unless I open this door. And that would mean taking all the risks that come with doing that.

I feel sick.

“Come on, ask me something, anything.” The man on the other side of the door sounds hopeful now.

Maybe he’s dazed. The paperweight had hit him, after all, and I’d thrown it as hard as I could. Surely I have a chance against him now.

OK. If I’m going to do this, it has to be quick. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. I turn the key and open the door, and at that moment I realize I’m still standing there in my bathrobe … such a stupid, stupid fool.

For a moment the man smiles at me, then his gaze goes past me into the bedroom behind. The smile vanishes all at once, and is replaced by … Bewilderment. Disbelief.

Who knows what he’s seeing, what his illness is leading him to believe. Maybe he’s on drugs.

The opportunity is too good to let slip away because of fear. I edge through the door, squeezing past him, I’m almost at the top of the stairs now, and then …

I make it exactly two steps, then he’s beside me again, grabbing my upper arm.

“Stay here.” His tone sounds more pleading than threatening, but his grip on my arm doesn’t slacken. “We’ll talk now, OK? Jo? Let’s talk, please.”

I try to wrench myself free once more. If I could just get to my phone and lock myself in the downstairs toilet …