When she’s gone, and I’ve closed the door after her, I touch each lock lightly. The desire to slam each one closed is overwhelming but I batten down the urge and back away. Instead of returning to my little study and my work, however, I sit on the stairs and watch the door.
I’m worried I’ll hyperventilate – it’s happened before – but if I put my head down between my knees to calm myself then I won’t be looking at the door. Someone might come in. Someone might hurt me. I know it’s illogical – I’m hardly in the crime capital of the world. I keep a close eye on the outside world and the last publicised local crime that wasn’t white collar involved a hit-and-run near the town square. That’s hardly about to happen to me.
None of this is to do with logic though. Fear is rarely so pragmatic.
Some people probably imagine my agoraphobia is a result of a trauma: a brutal rape or maybe a mugging that landed me in hospital. Perhaps it didn’t happen to me and I simply witnessed it. The sad truth is that nothing happened. I wasn’t hurt and I haven’t been traumatised by any particular event. Other than a few minor schoolyard skirmishes, I’ve never been attacked. My life has never been in danger. I simply went to bed as a happy twenty-three year old with a nice boyfriend, a wedding on the horizon, a good job and lots of friends – and woke up on my twenty-fourth birthday unable to step outside my front door. I knew that if I did, I’d die. I have no idea where the thought came from but it was – and still is – a deep certainty that is rooted in my core.
Adam, my boyfriend, tried to understand but things got worse. My condition was exacerbated by three well-meaning friends who, in some amateur attempt at aversion therapy, tried to push me out of the door. That was when I retreated to my bedroom and refused to leave my bed. Adam eventually gave up, not that I blame him. Who wants a girlfriend who is afraid to go outside? In the end it was a blessing when he stopped coming around.
I still have a few friends who visit occasionally but I can tell they don’t really want to. It’s not that they don’t like me – they just don’t know what to say. They start telling me about work or a party or a new shop and then falter when they realise I can’t experience those things. They’re so awkward around me that I no longer encourage the friendships. It’s just not fair on them.
So it’s probably a good thing that I enjoy the silence and detailed beauty of boredom.
*
I’m not sure how long I sit on the uncomfortable step. It feels like an eternity but I’ve experienced enough within these four walls to know that what feels like hours may only be a few minutes. As anyone who’s been in an accident will tell you, terror slows time down, or maybe it’s just the adrenaline.
I don’t wear a watch because I don’t mark minutes, so when my phone starts ringing in the study, I don’t know how much time has passed. I stare at the front door, then the study, then back again. By the fifth ring I manage to stand up.
I catch the phone just in time, answering it as I return to the hall and my vigil. ‘Hello?’
‘Zoe, how are you?’ Jerry’s voice is warm.
‘Uh, good.’ He doesn’t really want to know. With Jerry, as with many other people, ‘How are you?’ is nothing more than a formality. It’s funny how I never noticed that until I became housebound. ‘The website? Have you gotten anywhere yet?’
I feel guilty. I should be working. ‘I’m getting there,’ I say quickly. ‘But I’ll need more time.’
‘This client is rather anxious. Do you think you’ll manage it by tomorrow?’
I make a few quick calculations. It should be possible. I can’t risk letting Jerry down so I no longer have to worry about stopping my mother’s little test, even if it’s not yet been a full hour. I have bills to pay, after all. ‘I can do that.’
He exhales loudly. ‘Super! I knew we could count on you.’
‘It’s what I’m here for.’
‘You’re a trooper.’
‘A super trooper?’
He doesn’t register my little sarky comment, merely responds with warm agreement. ‘Absolutely.’
I say goodbye and hang up. ‘Lowest form of wit, Zoe,’ I mutter. Jerry is a good guy; he doesn’t deserve my snide remarks. I’ve learned to be content with my existence, but I sometimes wonder if my enforced isolation has made me lose my good manners. At least he wasn’t offended.
I gaze at the door again, my eyes travelling over its familiar veneer. There are a few scratches on the bottom panel where the Chairman sharpened his claws once or twice. I run my fingers over them, before pressing my ear against the wood. Other than the chirping of a few mating birds, I can’t hear anything. Maybe it wouldn’t do any harm to leave it unlocked for another fifteen minutes while I return to bytes and coding.