It’s 8 p.m. and Deborah is reclining on her green La-Z-Boy chair — it’s hideous, and she doesn’t even remember purchasing it, but it’s comfortable and aimed at her TV. She’s watching the Phil Donahue Show. Donahue himself, with a mop of gray hair and glasses that cover his cheeks, is wearing a fine suit, as always, and a mauve tie with teal swirls that makes Deborah uneasy.
Was this a rerun? She glances around for a TV guide. On her side table is a leafy plant with a pink bow tied around its pot, and a book, On Death and Dying by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross. She doesn’t recall buying those things either. Deborah brushes them off as impulse purchases and, not seeing a TV guide, resumes watching her show.
Phil Donahue wades into his audience of mostly women. He stops near a brunette wearing a ruby-red blouse. The woman is 30-something, about Deborah’s age, but doesn’t have the crow’s feet she does. Donahue holds his elongated silver microphone to the woman’s mouth so she can ask the special guest — some politician — a question.
“As a devoted Christian man, what is your stance on abortion?”
Deborah hunches over the arm of the chair and vomits violently. The smell is putrid. Her nose drips and she gasps for air.
“Thank you for that question. While I believe in some instances—
Deborah’s own parents were staunch Catholics and raised her to share in their beliefs. While she continues to believe in God, she has come to view abortion as a private matter. And yet, that woman’s question stirred something deep and primal within her — from where, she does not know, which unsettles her further.
Afraid the carpet might stain, Deborah runs to the kitchen for cleaning supplies. Then on her hands and knees, she scrubs. Thankfully, her mess washes out easily — the rancid stench will fade. It would’ve been a shame; the carpet is a lovely shade of peach.
When she goes to return the supplies, she notices that something is missing. In the hall, between the living room and kitchen, is the narrow cabinet she inherited from her great grandmother. Set on it are framed photographs. The one on the left is Deborah on picture day in high school, with brown feathered hair and a peach top. The photograph on the right she doesn’t recognize. It’s her again, older but still young, with her hair in a tight bun and wearing her mother’s conservative lace wedding dress. In the center, there’s no photo, but Deborah’s certain a picture was there — the space is far too wide for nothing.
The TV blares a Playtex commercial as Deborah’s mind is flooded with questions. When and why was she wearing her mother’s wedding dress? What was in the missing frame? Why is it gone? And why can’t she remember?
She’s woozy again and fears for her peach carpet. She sets the supplies down then leans her back on the same wood-paneled wall the cabinet is against.
There, in front of her, on the opposite wall, is a door Deborah’s never seen before.
A wave of vertigo hits her. The door zips across her vision, then snaps back in place, over and over and over again. She closes her eyes and slides to the floor. She takes deep breaths — breathe in 1, 2, 3, 4, hold 1, 2, 3, 4, and out, 1, 2, 3, 4. The sense of spinning slows, then stops.
She opens her eyes.
The door is still there.
Her stomach sours at the sight of it. Deborah snaps her head away before the world starts to spin again. She staggers up then stumbles to the bathroom down the hall, keeping her eyes on the peach carpet when she passes the door. She doesn’t bother flipping the light-switch on until she’s locked in the bathroom. When the lights flicker on, Deborah recoils from the woman in the mirror. She hardly recognizes herself. A grotesque scar she does not know starts at her brow and disappears into her unkempt hair. She’s gaunt and pale. Dark bags hang from her eyes. Her crow’s feet are more pronounced.
There’s a yellow sticky note on the mirror.
Written on it in familiar handwriting is, TAKE PILLS, and an arrow pointing down to a yellow bottle on the sink. Printed in all caps is HENDERSON S. DEBORAH. Henderson? Is that her name? It doesn’t feel right. Dear God, why can’t she remember her name?
She catches herself on the sink — 1, 2, 3, 4 - 1, 2, 3, 4 - 1, 2, 3, 4 — she vomits in it. At least she won’t need to scrub again.
Deborah reads the bottle.
Amitriptyline 10 mg. Take 2 with water 3 times daily.
She inspects the bottle closer. It’s just like any other bottle she’s gotten from the pharmacy; opaque and oversized. She reads the note again. The handwriting feels like it’s hers. Deborah touches the scar on her head. It’s healed, on the outside, but is it on the inside?
She opens the bottle and clumsily shakes pills into her palm. One bounces out and into the laundry hamper. Deborah isn’t wasteful, so she digs out articles of clothes and shakes them. There, near the bottom, she spots it. A tiny blue speck on a mauve tie with teal swirls.
In her mind’s eye she pictures the tie around the neck of a man who isn’t Phil Donahue.
Shaking the vision from her head, she hastily snatches the pill and covers the tie with dirty clothes again. With a cupped-hand of sink water, she drinks her medication, then washes her second mess down the drain.
Deborah cautiously exits the bathroom, as if there were an intruder in the house. She’s alone, with the door. A Discover card commercial plays on the TV, “Time for a credit card that gives you a better deal!”
She gives the door space as she hurries past it and into the kitchen. She can’t recall when she last ate, but she knows her stomach’s empty now. In the cupboards are cans of soup and vegetables, dried pasta, a box of Hostess Ding Dongs, and a bag of Ruffles. None of that entices her. She opens the fridge. Stacked and lined in a perfect row are Tupperware containers. Each has a yellow sticky note with a weekday written on it. There are no Monday or Tuesday boxes, but there are 3 Wednesday boxes — a box for each meal?
The TV plays intro music for another episode of Donahue — so it was a rerun after all. Deborah glances at the oven clock. It’s 9 p.m.
Because it’s late, she concludes it must be Tuesday and she ate dinner already. Following her own logic, she takes the bottom Wednesday container. Inside is tuna casserole, with peas and cheddar cheese — her favorite. Not bothering with a plate or heating it, she takes her casserole, a can of Pepsi, and a fork to the La-Z-Boy.
She watches Donahue while she eats. The tuna casserole needs more mayonnaise, but she won’t go back to the kitchen for only that. She wants to stay as far away from that door as possible. Deborah tries to strike it from her thoughts and focus on her meal and show. But she can’t ignore the door’s presence behind her. It’s like she’s being watched. That door. It doesn’t make any sense in this house. Can it be yet another closet? Or a bathroom, so close to the other one? An extra bedroom maybe?
Oh God, could she forget an entire bedroom in her house?
Deborah jabs her fork for another bite, but it hits the container’s plastic bottom. She ate it all without even tasting it. The soda can is empty too. Donahue is almost over and she hasn’t registered any of it. All she can think about is that door.
This isn’t like her.
Enough is enough — she needs to know. Deborah steps onto the peach carpet and creeps to the hall. When the door is in view, nausea wells up inside her again, but she manages to keep her second dinner. She cautiously approaches the door, and shaking, really looks at it for what feels like the first time. It’s just an ordinary door, except for that it’s painted a lovely shade of peach. A softer, warmer hue than the carpet — the same color as the inside of a cheek.
She laughs at herself as she places a hand on the door’s round metal knob. While Deborah still doesn’t remember what’s behind the door, she knows in her heart that a peach door always leads to a lovely place.
She opens the door.
Donahue on TV says to his guest, “…she really had awful, awful pain. Um, did you know how bad her pain was?”
Inside is a lovely room, indeed.
A beautiful nursery, with peach walls and a white crib. A chair sits in the corner. It’s the type of chair Deborah loves, with round coiling arms and floral upholstery. Under the window is a wooden dresser she recognizes as her own from when she was a little girl. There, on the bottom drawer, she can still see where she scratched her name — Deborah, in handwriting she now knows is hers. On top of the dresser, lined in a perfect row, are many toys. Deborah’s attention is drawn to a pink elephant. Its long, fuzzy trunk obscures a word stitched on its belly.
There’s an uproar of clapping from the TV as the Phil Donahue Show ends. He says, “And we’ll be back!” and outro music plays.
Deborah gingerly picks up the pink elephant. There’s a queasiness in her gut as she moves the trunk aside.
It reads, Peach
An authoritative male voice on TV announces, “It’s 10 p.m. Do you know where your children are?”
Deborah remembers it all at once, like waking up in the morning from a dreamless night. The arguments. The screaming. Broken furniture and a punch through the wall. There! She sees it, by her nice chair, covered in fresh plaster! Then a punch to her head. Oh the awful sound. The sickening crack of her skull, and the gurgling in her chest as she writhes on the peach carpet. And he kicks and kicks her stomach, over and over and over again, until she can’t feel anymore.
She remembers the preterm delivery to try to save her and Peach. Her lovely, baby Peach — soft and warm, and innocent. And she remembers her husband, Johnathan, Peach’s father — a good Christian man.
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