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a few deep breaths to try and calm
myself and tried to remember what the people on those shows had
done to stop people from going completely into shock. The first
thing I remembered was that I needed to get a blanket wrapped
around me, so I figured it would be a good time to try ascending
the stairs again so I could get to my bedroom for a blanket.
    I stood very carefully and reached out
blindly with my left hand to find the banister. I pawed the air
like a cat pawing at a piece of yarn dangling just above its head
until my hand finally connected with the rail. Once I had it in my
grasp I put a death grip on it and began to pull myself upwards,
feeling carefully with each step to make sure I didn’t miss a step.
After the day I had been having, the last thing I wanted was to
take a tumble down the stairs.
    I ascended the stairs like a geriatric old
man, reaching slowly out with my left foot for purchase on the next
step then pulling myself up with the aid of the banister. Using
that forward momentum I’d lift my right foot up behind it so that
both feet were on the same step. There were only twelve stairs
between the basement floor and the door above that led to the
kitchen but it felt like it took half a lifetime to reach the
top.
    Once I reached the top I stood for a second
with my left foot resting on the topmost stair and my right foot
resting on the stair just below it, catching my breath. I was still
shivering and feeling a bit nauseous and the exertion and fear that
came from climbing the stairs had completely exhausted me.
    Fear seemed to be such a constant companion
to me since Joe died that I regarded the feeling with a certain
level of reverential awe. As I sat there panting at the top of the
stairs I wondered if it was only exhaustion that kept me from
reaching out and opening the door. I decided it was more than
exhaustion after all.
    I turned my body carefully to the side and
placed my left ear against the door and listened intently for my
Mother’s footsteps or any other sound that would let me know she
was in the vicinity of the door.
    Hearing nothing except the muted ticking of
the large wall clock that hung in the kitchen directly opposite the
door, I finally summoned up enough courage to open the door. I
pulled my head away from the door and released the death grip I’d
had on the banister and felt around for the door knob. When I at
last had a handful of cold brass I leaned in and listened again.
Nothing but ticking was audible on the other side of the door. I
turned the knob slowly with a feeling of apprehension growing in my
chest. I wasn’t certain why I was so terrified but I was powerless
to stop the feelings.
    When the door knob turned to its maximum
limit, I heard the small click of the catch being released from its
hole in the door jam. Then a tsunami of images roared through my
head. I could almost see my mother standing silently on the other
side of the door, wearing that damned wedding dress, her face
puckered, glowering at the door; waiting.
    Just standing there waiting for me to open
the door so she could begin her horrid screech. I played the whole
scenario in my mind. The door would open and there she’d be. She
would screech; she would raise her arms out in front of her and
lunge at me. Both of her hands would catch me square in the chest
and knock me backwards down the stairs. As I tumbled head over
heels down the stairs I would catch glimpses of her standing there
with her arms now crossed over her breast with a sardonic,
triumphant smile on her face.
    I would lay broken at the bottom of the
stairs staring up at her and she would close the door, leaving me
yet again in the darkness. Then she would silently stand there
again, waiting, just waiting for me to climb to the top and open
the door so she could push me down again.
    I blinked my eyes closed hard and shook my
head violently back and forth, trying to chase away the dark
fantasy that was playing through my mind. I only