The Door of Unmade Choices: Chapter 6

 

Chapter 6: Maps and Patterns and Doors! Oh, My!

I’ve never trusted patterns. They pretend to offer clarity, then quietly rearrange themselves when you’re not looking. Still, they’re all a metaphysical detective has when the universe starts its shenanigans. Metaphysical mysteries aren’t like those cozy mystery novels about some cute, eccentric baker who solves murders on the side. Maybe she has a cat or a sassy best friend.

In a normal case, maybe a man’s wife disappears, and you look for who benefits. You can track previous whereabouts. Look at her credit card transactions. Ask questions to see if anyone saw anything.  The clues point outward, toward suspects and motives, and if you’re lucky, a confession. Also, it is most likely the husband that caused the disappearance, statistically speaking.

In a metaphysical case, a man’s wife disappears and keeps showing up in his kitchen at night, asking if he remembered to lock the door. And there are no statistics about that.

One of those has a culprit. The other has unfinished business.

*

I spread the town map across my desk. This town in winter looked like a board game nobody wanted to play anymore. Growing up alone, board games were usually played solitaire style. I don’t talk about it much. I marked door sightings with a pencil: grocery store, alley, Frank’s backyard. A few near-misses Joe mentioned between refills and unsolicited advice.

The dots didn’t make a shape at first. Then I added timestamps for each instance. Then, I added Frank. Not his name but his movements. I identified work that no longer existed. The errands he ran out of habit because he has to do something to fill the time he normally spent as a cog in an office downtown. I traced the routes he walked because they were familiar and comfortable. These were the places a man goes when he’s trying not to think too hard.

The dots leaned toward him just enough that the longer I looked, the harder it was to deny.

I heard the knock before I looked up. Same polite knock as yesterday. Same hesitation between taps, like the person knocking wasn’t sure if being at my door was the right call. Frank stood in the doorway holding a paper bag from the hardware store he didn’t need anything from. He also held a second bag that was plain white.

“I brought coffee,” he said, holding up that white bag. “Regular. I didn’t trust myself to order a latte or frappe. Hell, I’m pretty sure a smoothie is out of my league at this point.”

“That’s wise,” I said, waving him in. He set the bag down and noticed the map.

“What’s this?” he said. “Planning a robbery spree?” He snorted at his own joke to break his own tension.

I didn’t smile. “It’s not a plan. It’s a confession.”

He frowned. “A confession to what?”

“To repetition,” I said. “To the fact that reality rarely improvises. It rehearses.”

I tapped one of the pencil marks.

“In a regular case, you map opportunity,” I said. “Who was where. Who could’ve done what. You connect dots.”

I slid my finger along the cluster of dots on the map.

“In this kind of case, you map attention. Where someone slowed down. Where they lingered. Where they bought black coffee instead of a frappe. Where the universe thought it might get a word in.”

Frank’s eyes followed my hand. “And those are all places I’ve been.”

“Not just been,” I said. “Places you stopped moving long enough to replay events from your past.”

He swallowed. “So, the doors are following me.”

I shook my head. “No. They’re listening.”

He waited.

“Think of it like this,” I said. “Most people move through their lives at a decent clip. Just fast enough not to hear the questions tapping on the glass. But when someone pauses—really pauses—the sound carries.”

I leaned back.

“That map isn’t showing where the doors appeared,” I said. “It’s showing where you hesitated.”

Frank looked at the dots again. “That makes it sound like this is my fault.” He plopped down in chair across from, probably hoping it would suck him into some void far from having to deal with life. Unfortunately, it wasn’t that kind of chair. That kind of chair exists, though. You don’t want any part of it, no matter how tempting it is.

“Fault implies intent,” I said. “This is gravity. Something heavy in you is bending the room.”

He exhaled slowly. “So what happens next?”

I met his eyes.

“Next,” I said, “we find out whether the universe is just clearing its throat… or getting ready to speak up.”

He stared at the map like it might argue back.

“I didn’t mean to do this,” he said. “I didn’t ask for it. I was just… thinking.”

“That’s usually enough,” I said.

He rubbed his hands together, even though the office was warm. “I keep wondering if people are getting hurt.”

“Not physically,” I said. “Yet.”

That didn’t help.

“I should stay home,” he said. “If I don’t go anywhere, maybe it’ll stop.”

“That’s not how anchors work,” I said. “You don’t move away from them. They move with you.”

He looked at me then. Really looked.

“You keep calling me that,” he said. “An anchor.”

“It’s not a judgment,” I said. “It’s a function.”

“Sounds heavy.”

“It is.”

He sank into the chair opposite my desk, the weight of it finally settling in. A sudden look of panic covered his face. “Am I radioactive now? I cannot be radioactive. That’s the last thing I need!”

“No,” I said. “You’re resonant.”

He laughed, once, without humor. “That’s worse.”

I didn’t disagree.

We decided to get lunch. Not because we were hungry, but because routine has a way of reminding reality how things are supposed to go. The Perpetual Egg was three blocks away. Close enough to feel safe. Familiar enough to be dangerous.

The diner was louder than usual. Clatter, chatter, the low buzz of a town pretending nothing strange was happening. Joe sat on the counter in its usual place, steam rising like a warning sign.

Frank slid into the booth first. I followed.

“You feel anything?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Just tired.”

Joe didn’t speak. That was new.

A waitress passed by, stopped mid-step, and frowned.

“Was that door always there?” she asked.

I turned. Inside the diner between the pie case and the restroom hallway stood a plain, white, perfectly out of place door. The room seemed to hold its breath. Frank’s hand tightened on the edge of the table. I met Joe’s gaze. Joe finally spoke.

“Well,” it said, “that answers that.”

January had finished drawing its map. And it had circled us.

*****

My new comedic sci-fi novel, Someone Else's Book Club, is available on my website or through Amazon!