The
Rooms I Will Not
Enter
by
Robert Scott Leyse
Estella
was always lively
and playful of
spirit. Even when
exhausted following
a lengthy shift
as a cocktail
waitress her sweetness
of disposition
would glow upon
her face, pervade
the tone of her
presence, and
lend charm to
her movements.
We lived in a
turn of the twentieth
century two-story
house, located
in a small town
on the northern
California coast.
I’d been
gifted with the
deed to the house,
fully paid for,
by an aunt who’d
remarried and
relocated to Spain.
I worked as a
bartender at the
hotel where Estella
worked, the only
one in town. Between
us we easily managed
to cover the property
taxes and sundry
expenses involved
in maintaining
the house, as
well as live quite
comfortably. Before
meeting Estella
at the hotel upon
my arrival in
town, I’d
intended to sell
the house and
use the proceeds
to establish myself
in Manhattan.
But I’d
fallen in love
with her instead—the
proverbial love
at first sight—and
chosen to keep
the house and
remain in town
when she more
than indicated
she returned my
affection. As
soon as I met
Estella Manhattan
no longer had
anything to offer.
Estella
was tall—nearly
six feet—and
had a cheerful
head of light
brown hair, verging
on red. She was
slender, with
a hint of voluptuousness.
She seemed to
have stepped from
a movie made in
the nineteen forties;
her hair was styled
that way and the
close-fitting
knee-length skirts
and plunging V-neck
sweaters that
she frequently
wore suggested
the same. She
was innately graceful,
like a cat. In
all the pictures
I have of her
there is the same
flawless poise,
impossible to
put a finger on;
even in those
where she’s
intentionally
being silly—making
faces, striking
comical poses—it
is there: a tone
of beautiful otherness,
being of the earth
but somehow also
elsewhere. But
what was most
striking was the
beauty of her
face. “There
is nothing breathtakingly
beautiful that
lacks an element
of strangeness
in its composition,”
says Poe (either
with those words
or words similar
to them) and Estella’s
face was a prime
example. Think
Garbo or Dietrich:
Estella’s
face easily bore
comparison. A
slight suggestion
of the masculine,
but indisputably
feminine, with
depths of emotion
as beckoning and
teasingly familiar
as they were distant
and elusive of
definition. A
face that I caressed
and kissed—oh!—when
sweet Estella
was among the
living and cuddled
up to me each
night in bed!
For
my darling Estella
is no longer of
this earth: a
month ago she
passed into the
next world. She
became noticeably
ill early last
autumn; cancer
was the diagnosis;
it had already
spread throughout
her body and there
was no hope. I’ll
forgo describing
the devastation
of this discovery.
I’ll likewise
forgo describing
the hospice program
I set up in this
house and the
naïve hopes
I entertained
that she’d
recover and we’d
be happy again.
Nor will I dwell
upon the days
and nights spent
languishing at
her side as she
lay in bed. Estella
died five weeks
after the arrival
of the new year,
in February, six
days after her
twenty-eighth
birthday.
Seventy-two
hours previous
to her death Estella
was still able
to sit upright
in bed and speak
of happier times
and smile and,
even, laugh. (She
never pitied herself;
never succumbed
to despair; never
cried: such things
were for me, sentenced
to a longer life,
to do.) She died
on a Thursday
night following
nearly a day of
delirious ramblings
in English and
German, the latter
being her native
tongue. She died
in my arms, I
vainly continuing
to speak to her
after the light
had departed from
her eyes. I had
to be pulled from
her body by two
nurses so that
the funeral home
director could
place her on the
stretcher and
wheel her from
the house.
But
I’ll forgo
further description
of that ghastly
night. Nor will
I linger upon
the wake, when
I was staring
disbelieving at
her empty shell
of a body—unable
to believe her
eyes would never
open again, that
their beneficent
light would never
shine upon me
again. Estella
is dead and has
been buried. I
no longer work
as a bartender
or socialize and
am alone in the
house, subsisting
on money saved.
I’ll be
putting the house
up for sale and
shall depart this
town, never to
return. But I’m
unable to leave
just yet. I need
to confront, and
endure, what has
happened to us.
I need to mourn
here. I will know
when it is time
to leave.
Estella
is dead and the
house has changed.
Formerly, all
of its rooms dispensed
cheer and were
a delight to be
in. Now, many
of the rooms have
declared themselves
off-limits, on
account of the
searing memories
of lost joy they
conjure forth.
If I venture to
enter these rooms,
the adverse reaction
is physical as
well as mental:
I shiver and shudder
and shake, as
if I’m stark
naked outside
on a frigid winter’s
night; my breath
becomes short,
seems on the point
of deserting me;
my heart pounds
so furiously I
begin to fear
it might cease
beating. I dash
from these rooms
as if from the
flames of a conflagration.
In
particular, our
bedroom is impossible
to enter. I have
attempted it several
times, in order
to gather mementos
of our life together
and pack them
for shipment elsewhere.
The moment I step
into our bedroom,
dark veils appear
and commence to
twist and wind
about. In vain
do I stare at
the floor, seek
to limit my field
of vision and
ignore the dark
veils: they only
surround me in
greater profusion
and press closer.
Although the room
is well-illuminated
by the bright
lights I turn
on and cheerfully
decorated in bright
colors, the air
acquires dim depths
from which gloom
emanates and overspreads
every detail—I’m
suddenly observing
everything through
a thick pane of
translucent gray
glass. And then
comes the empty
feeling in my
breast, as if
I’m falling
into a chasm within
myself—a
sense of loss
and longing so
strong it’s
as if knives are
twisting in my
nerves while they’re
being ground into
a sputtering mass
of dying sparks.
The dark veils
begin to hiss
and brush against
me; it’s
as if they’re
enwrapping and
squeezing every
sinew of my body;
every inch of
my skin seems
to catch fire;
I feel as if I’m
screaming, even
though no sound
escapes from my
throat. So far,
I’ve been
chased from our
bedroom before
obtaining a single
memento.
The
house has divided
itself into areas
that I’m
allowed to be
in and areas that
I’m not.
The first floor,
with the exception
of the add-on
room that replaced
the front porch,
belongs to me—which
is to say, I’m
permitted to dwell
in the kitchen,
dining room, living
room, and downstairs
bathroom without
suffering unendurable
attacks of grief.
The second floor
is far more problematic:
I’m permitted
to walk the hallway
and enter one
room only, the
guest bedroom
with the balcony
that faces the
sea. I don’t
dare to so much
as glance at the
closed doors of
the other two
bedrooms and upstairs
bathroom: it’s
only by rapidly
striding by them,
doing my best
to pretend they’re
not there, that
I escape hints
of what I’ll
suffer if I enter
them.
Allow
me to describe
the routine that’s
been imposed upon
me by my loss
of Estella. I
awaken at onset
of dusk in the
upstairs guest
bedroom with dread
tearing at my
chest; it’s
as if there’s
an empty space
in my body and
psyche that I
must fill. The
first thing I
do after being
literally jolted
from the bed by
fear is switch
on music and turn
it up loud—the
music gives my
attention something
to wrap itself
around and thereby
lessens, although
by no means disperses,
my dread; next
I turn on every
lamp in my areas
of the house,
both upstairs
and downstairs,
so as to eliminate
all trace of darkness,
even the shadows
lurking in the
corners; then
I eat and shower
in a mechanical
manner without
any noticeable
enjoyment, simply
because I realize
these tasks are
essential to maintain
health and hygiene;
lastly, I brew
a cup of tea and
return to the
guest bedroom,
where I stand
before the easel
I’ve placed
in the center
of the floor,
with the brightest
of the lights
directly above
my head, and resume
working on a painting
as the music continues
to blare. I’ve
never been as
focused on my
art as I am now,
nor produced higher
quality work.
I take credit
neither for my
unwavering discipline
nor for my newfound
way with the brush:
I simply have
no choice in the
matter—it’s
the only activity
that keeps my
pain at bay. I
work on the painting
because I must
do so, and wield
the brush with
greater skill
because I must
do so: while painting
it’s as
if I’m racing
to stay one step
ahead of unbearable
memories of Estella’s
last days, and
awareness of the
general blackness
of my life.
My
painting is of
the scene before
me, the room I’m
in and open balcony
door I’m
facing—the
bright light of
the room gives
way to the view
of the night sky
outside the door.
It could be a
doorway on death,
but there’s
also much of hope
in the painting:
stars crowd the
sky—the
world outside
is as beautiful
as it is potentially
threatening. I
feel the open
balcony door is
more of a window
on wonder and
mystery than a
window on darkness
and danger. The
comforts of home
are no longer
comforting, and
the starry night
beckons—new
unknown experiences
beckon. Estella
would want me
to have these
experiences, live
my life in wonder
while never forgetting
her. As mentioned,
I’ve never
painted in this
manner before,
where I’m
convinced it’s
necessary to the
maintenance of
my sanity, the
only means by
which to remain
relatively balanced.
The open door
also allows the
sea breeze to
flow about the
room in steady
rhythm, as of
breaking waves,
and the heat is
turned on high:
hot and cold air
clashes and combines
on all sides of
me—cold
will be hugging
my legs while
heat is streaming
over my back and
then the two will
trade places:
while painting
I’m physically
engaged with the
world outside
the door from
head to toe.
As
long as I’m
standing before
the easel, conjuring
form and harmony
into being with
colors and lines,
recollections
of Estella politely
approach and remain
at a bearable
distance; she
somehow keeps
me company instead
of reminding me
of the loss of
her company; an
unbroken stream
of emotion-charged
pictures of our
life together
somehow comforts
me instead of
stinging me. I
paint all night
until about noon
the following
day, only pausing
to eat, brew fresh
cups of tea, and
visit the bathroom
and these tasks
are performed
as quickly as
possible—pausing
from painting
is dangerous,
from an attacked-by-grief
perspective. Even
when I need to
mix more paint
and am no longer
actively involved
with the canvas
the memories become
more insistent
and dark and threaten
to overtake and
paralyze me. When
I complete one
painting I begin
another—always
the same scene,
with a slightly
different tone
to it. And I work
on more than one
painting at a
time—others
are of dawn breaking
outside the open
door, or of full
daylight outside
the door, depending
on the hour. I
feel the theme
I’m absorbed
in—the tension
between security
and mystery: the
uncertainty of
security and the
lure of mystery—is
inexhaustible.
When I lie down
to sleep for five
or six hours in
the afternoon,
after painting
all night and
morning, it’s
as if the empty
space in my body
and psyche has
been filled, for
the time being.
When I reawaken
in the evening
the emptiness
is there again
and I must begin
the cycle anew.
Unfortunately,
the above-described
routine doesn’t
always hold itself
together and stay
within its allotted
hours, due to
the fact I often
become too wound
up from painting
to be able to
sleep. It’s
then that I’m
in trouble: too
frazzled to paint
satisfactorily
and too aflame
inside to sleep,
I’m left
with no refuge
and become easy
prey for the grief
I’ve been
holding at bay.
It doesn’t
take long for
icy realization
that my darling
Estella is gone
forever to grind
at my nerves,
smother my thoughts
with gloom, and
grip my chest
in a vise of dread.
The dimensions
of the guest bedroom
become oppressively
small and I flee
to the largest
room in the house,
the living room
downstairs. I
end up curled
up on the floor,
unseeingly staring
into the blindingly
bright air, breathing
erratically, and
half-wishing for
death. It’s
when I’m
emotionally stranded
in this manner,
with no place
to go that offers
any amount of
relief and in
desperate need
of something to
preoccupy myself,
that I make bold
to enter the rooms
which have declared
themselves off
limits. I do not
do so on account
of a wish to make
my torments greater;
I do so because
I feel my torments
cannot possibly
be greater and
I’ve nothing
to lose; I do
so because it’s
a means of squarely
facing off with
my sorrow, continuing
to hope my sorrow
will subside.
Mostly, I do so
because it’s
a means of repeatedly
shocking, and
eventually exhausting,
myself. I enter
the forbidden
rooms again and
again, stay within
them for as long
as I’m able,
race from one
to another, never
ceasing to move—I
do so until I’m
thoroughly spent
physically, and
out-and-out collapse.
Three
or four days ago,
after painting
extremely well
for nearly twenty
hours, I found
that my reward
for such labor
was inflamed nerves
that wouldn’t
allow me to sleep.
I attempted to
return to the
easel and resume
working, but was
far too agitated
to focus—the
colors on the
canvas were blurring
and running together,
vanishing in the
brightness of
the lights. I
no longer had
an outlet for
the accumulated
distress inside
me, there was
no eluding the
fear nipping at
my heels. The
dam of my grief
burst, the loss
of Estella singed
and stung and
pummeled every
cell of my body—with
a cry I flung
myself face-down
on my bed, gave
way to sobbing
with my arms folded
over my head.
When, I wondered,
would the pain
subside? And would
I be capable of
remaining sane
until it subsided?
Would it ever
subside? Would
I emerge from
the loss of Estella
with my life?
It was then that
I resolved to
enter our bedroom,
with none of the
usual advance
mental preparation—I
was neither informing
myself I had nothing
to lose nor that
it would be beneficial
to face my grief
head-on: blind
panic-fueled compulsion
is what whipped
me onto my feet
and into the hallway.
I
was yanking open
the door to our
bedroom within
seconds. (It was,
curiously enough,
adjacent to the
guest bedroom
where I was permitted
to paint and sleep.)
No sooner did
I enter, than
I advanced to
the foot of our
bed and observed
the rumpled bedspread
and sheets, unchanged
since Estella
was moved to the
hospice-provided
bed in the add-on
room downstairs
three months before,
and started as
forcefully as
if I’d been
punched in the
chest. Wheeling
about on account
of being unable
to endure the
sight of our forever-to-be-empty
bed, I found myself
staring straight
at Estella’s
nightstand, something
I hadn’t
dared to do since
her death. Instantly,
I recalled how
she’d sit
there applying
makeup, her unclothed
body resplendent
in the lamplight—a
sight as bliss-inspiring
as any I’ll
ever know; instantly,
I envisioned her
seated there again
and took a couple
steps forward
as if she was
actually there,
my arms automatically
outspreading to
embrace her. Seconds
later, the futility
and sadness and
desperation of
this gesture became
apparent to me—Estella
was gone, never
to return! Why?
For the love of
God, why? I screamed
as this too vivid
reminder of what
I’d lost
hammered my heart
into erratic beats!
I didn’t
even feel I was
willfully bolting
from the room—it
was as if I was
violently shoved
out of it by invisible
arms: I have no
idea how I managed
to remain on my
feet.
I
don’t recall
descending the
stairs to the
living room—what
I recall is that
the recollection
of Estella seated
at the nightstand,
smilingly combing
the waves of her
hair, followed
me there and continued
to rend my heart.
I could do nothing
but sit in the
center of the
living room on
the white carpet,
surrounded by
bright light,
while shuddering
forcefully enough
for my teeth to
chatter. It was
as if I’d
partaken of a
drug that altered
my perceptions
of time and space;
although I saw
on the wall-clock
that barely five
minutes here—two
minutes there—another
five minutes there—had
passed, it seemed
as if I’d
been sitting on
the carpet for
hours; as for
my vision, it
was as if I was
situated inside
a cylinder of
thick glass, so
that I couldn’t
help but gaze
through it regardless
of which way I
turned: all objects
were blurry and
distorted of outline
and an alteration
of position of
my head, no matter
how slight, would
cause the features
of the room to
erratically bend
and shift, reflect
light like moving
water. And the
air of the room
was as warm, humid,
and clinging as
that of a sauna.
But what was most
alarming was my
inner state of
affairs: steady
stings, as if
from thousands
of hot stabbing
needles, were
radiating from
the center of
my chest towards
my ankles and
wrists and the
top of my head,
engulfing my body.
It was as if I
was being repeatedly
flung against
inner walls of
blazing electricity.
No!
I yelled as I
sprang to my feet
and began swiftly
pacing in tight
circles, jumping
up and down, slapping
at the ceiling
with my palms.
But this attempt
to dissipate my
distress via physical
activity, far
from being met
with any success,
only made matters
worse by compelling
me to realize
the futility of
such. Where could
I run? Where could
I hide? Short
of shedding my
body, there was
no means of altering
my predicament!
How does one escape
memories of a
lost, desperately
missed and longed
for, loved one?
When the love
of one’s
life comes calling
after her demise
and reminds one
of joys never
to be had again
the entirety of
existence becomes
a gaping chasm
into which one’s
falling!
I
remember I slumped
to the floor like
a wounded animal
and rolled onto
my back: I was
staring at the
bright stark white
ceiling. And then
the ceiling began
to become indistinguishable
from the space
of air between
it and myself,
so that it appeared
to be descending
and spreading
outwards and engulfing
me—the light
of the room brightened
and the disturbance
in my breast increased:
I was literally
being pounded
into the floor
by fear. And then
the air was as
uniformly white
and blinding as
a blizzard’s
unbroken sheets
of snow, and all
depth perception
vanished—suddenly
the extent of
the perceivable
world was an amount
of terror that
neither my senses
nor mental faculties
could sustain:
I blacked out.
My
next recollection,
following I’ve
no idea how great
a span of unconsciousness,
is that Estella
was framing my
face with her
fingers and gazing
into my eyes with
the sweet look
of love I knew
so well: it had
been a long time
since I’d
deliciously trembled
and surged inside
in response to
her touch and
the benevolence
in her eyes—far
too long!
We
were lying side
by side on our
bed: how heavenly
to glance about
our cheerful bedroom
with the rose-patterned
curtains, flowers
overflowing the
vases on the dresser,
windowsill, and
nightstand as
the gossamer swish
of Estella’s
hair upon my face
and neck and shoulders
stirred shimmers
into my nerves.
Our lips joined
in a kiss, tongues
lovingly stroked
one another in
reciprocal rhythm:
how starved I’d
been for our kisses!
How we’d
always poured
our souls into
our kisses—communicated
our abiding love
with our kisses—washed
away all care
with our kisses—imparted
an overwhelming
sense of safety
and security with
our kisses—joined
one another to
the wellspring
of life with our
kisses!
And
then we embraced:
what yearnings
were appeased
when Estella pressed
herself against
me! It had been
an infinity since
I’d known
the paradise of
clasping her close,
wrapping my arms
and legs about
her as she did
the same, being
awash in the rippling
urgency of our
love! I fell into
the bottomless
blitheness of
her eyes as our
tongues continued
to caress in unison—as
her hair twisted
and splashed and
sparkled in the
light—as
her thighs wrapped
their satin smoothness
about my waist—as
she spoke to me
in the soul-caressing
tones of unquestioning
love!
Sensations
I’d once
been blessed with
every day reawakened
within me. Again,
I knew what it
was to be enveloped
in an all-pervasive
aura of well-being;
again, I was an
inhabitant of
a delight-inundated
world; again,
I was thriving
in a place of
endless wonder,
aswirl in rapture
the Gods would
envy! The loving
regard darting
back and forth
between Estella
and I was strong
enough to lead
me to believe
my very flesh
was dissolving
for sheer joy!
Estella
and I couldn’t
get enough of
rejoicing in one
another—the
very sound of
her voice was
caressing every
last love-deprived
recess of my body,
stirring my nerves
into fountain-bursts
of bliss. We didn’t
wish to discontinue
kissing and caressing
one another—we
wished to unite
in surrender for
a night without
end—but,
alas, we were
only human and
so exhaustion
eventually overtook
us and we slipped
into sleep, cradled
in the warmth
of our affection...
When
my eyes opened
in the morning
I wasn’t
sure if I still
dreamed or not.
I knew it was
morning because
the rising sun
was flinging glistering
red-orange at
the eastern window,
but who’s
to say it was
a morning occurring
in the waking
state? It was
the discomfort
of my physical
positioning—the
fact my right
ankle was trapped
under my left
thigh, aggravated
by the weight
of the latter—that
eventually informed
me I no longer
dreamed. Upon
sitting upright
I was surprised
to find that my
usual greeting
upon awakening—dread
hammering at my
chest, emptiness
and loneliness
and desolation
tearing at me
from the inside
out—wasn’t
there. I felt
like a whole man
again; for the
first time since
the discovery
of Estella’s
cancer, I relished
the onset of a
new day—thrilled
to the flow of
blood in my veins
and serenity of
my thoughts. Estella
had paid me a
visit—we’d
embraced in joy,
exchanged vows
of undying love—so
how could I not
be happy?
That
Estella’s
visit had occurred
in my dreams wasn’t
something I chose
to dwell upon:
the all-pervasive
sense of well-being
I enjoyed wasn’t
inclined to undermine
itself with the
reflection it
had been acquired
by means of fantasy.
Estella was dead
and buried, and
yet she’d
returned to heal—bestow
very real peace
of mind and body
upon—me:
why call her healing
into question
with the observation
that I’d
never see her
again while in
the waking state,
or touch her with
my flesh and blood
hands, or hear
her voice travel
through real air?
Joy
was upwelling
within me so pronouncedly
that I—again,
for the first
time in months—found
myself eager to
be outside. I
went for a long
walk on the beach,
delighted in the
sight of sunlight
on the sea and
sound of the waves.
I rolled in the
sand and was thankful
for the giddy
gift of life;
I gazed skywards
and felt my senses
soar into the
endless expanse
of blue; I took
deep breaths and
stretched and
dashed about,
savoring the swell
of fresh air in
my lungs; and
in the background
of these sensations
was the picture
of Estella’s
face aglow with
love—her
eyes brimming
with the munificent
light of love.
It
wasn’t until
I awakened on
the following
day after a night
of undisturbed
sleep that the
threads of the
snug emotional
cocoon woven by
Estella’s
dream-visitation
began to unravel,
and I became prey
to feelings of
emptiness again—that
grief resumed
stabbing at my
thoughts and flaying
my nerves. All
too brief had
been my taste
of nepenthe: the
waters of Lethe
receded and I
was once more
abandoned and
inconsolable in
the house I once
occupied with
my beloved. Estella’s
dream-visitation
had displaced
misery with an
influx of joy
and made me feel
complete again—loved
and safe again—but
now sorrow, seemingly
redoubled in strength,
was sweeping her
beneficence aside
with a vengeance.
Overcome by desperation,
I shouted at one
point, Estella
must continue
to visit and love
and nurture me!
but I was uncertain
if such would
come to pass.
*
* * * *
Nearly
a fortnight has
passed since Estella’s
dream-visitation,
and that brings
me to my present
frame of mind:
now an utter stranger
to what passes
for pride and
self-respect in
the regular world,
I’ve approached
my aunt for a
stipend to live
on and been granted
it and given up
all plans of leaving
this house—abandoned
all hope of emerging
from my state
of mourning and
becoming a socially
adjusted human
being again. Estella
visited me once:
I’m determined
that she shall
do so again. Yes,
gone is all desire
to rejoin the
world outside:
I only live for
the moment when
my anguish once
more becomes acute
enough to conjure
Estella forth
from the shadows
so that I may
be awestruck before
the light in her
eyes and live
again in her embrace.
I don’t
care what horrors
of emptiness and
fear I must endure—how
long I must wait:
I’m remaining
in this house
until I’m
rewarded with
another night
of Estella’s
love.
It’s
said Paradise
is girded about
by swords: I’ll
willingly brave
all manner of
swords for another
night with Estella—willingly
enter our bedroom
and watch the
black veils writhe
in the air and
hear them hiss
as my chest constricts
and I labor for
breath while noiselessly
screaming; willingly
court insomnia,
encourage sensory
and emotional
disorientation,
plumb the depths
of dread, brave
the limits of
my sanity; willingly
watch the white
ceiling descend
and envelop me
as my nerves flare
and electric needles
sting me from
head to toe while
the din of inner
tumult assails
my ears. I’ll
willingly do all
these things,
and more—multiply
distress a thousandfold—in
the hope that
my undying love
for Estella will
bring her back,
however incorporeally,
to the land of
the living and
reunite me, however
fleetingly, with
the joy I once
experienced every
hour of every
day.
Those
who accuse me
of avoiding the
responsibility
of reacquainting
myself with society
and carving out
a productive future
for myself—accuse
me of living in
an irrecoverable
past, existing
in a state of
unreality, being
nothing but an
addict endlessly
craving doses
of bliss that
prevent me from
maturing emotionally
and moving forward
with my life—I
say to them: love
as I have and
lose that love
as I have before
presuming to judge
me.
It’s
almost midnight—the
sea-breeze is
rattling the windowpanes—I’ve
been awake for
nearly two days.
I’m unable
to sleep, dread’s
erupting in my
breast, and the
walls of the house
are closing in
on me. I’m
going to do my
best to further
unhinge myself
by paying our
bedroom a visit:
will I succeed
in spending another
night with Estella
in life-sustaining
dreams?
The
Rooms I Will Not
Enter
©
2006 by
Robert Scott Leyse
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