Set Fire To The Rain

Uninvited, Unasked for

Cassie

I heard the doorbell ring, and then five seconds after it did, it rang five more times.

This wasn't the type of ring for 'Sorry I'm running late dropping off your package' or 'I accidentally got your mail in my box.'

This was the kind of ring that meant urgency, of which the doorbell ringer knew exactly who they wanted and where to find them.

And given the emotional state I was in, my first thought was that maybe there'd be an officer standing on the other side of it, and that I was going to jail for what happened 10 years ago.

The stress of meeting Carter at the cabin, the anxiety of feeling like me and Noe were being watched, the fear of losing everything in a heartbeat.

It was all too much.

This life I had with Noe was all I knew. All I loved.

I kept thinking what if today were the end of all that?

What if I'm dragged away to prison on the charges Carter accused me of after opening this door? What if this morning, arguing over stupid things like yogurt and paintings, was the very last time I'd get to kiss my husband goodbye?

What if the next time I saw his face was through a wall of bars?

What if that were the last time?

The doorbell rang again.

Should I answer it, or keep pretending this would go away?

Shouldn't I confront Carter for having the audacity to bring this to my house, when Noe might've easily turned his truck back around and accidently stumble into him at our door?

Was Carter really stupid enough to risk losing my testimony by showing up here unannounced?

I stood up from my easel and walked purposefully toward the door.

"Carter."

No one answered me.

I knew I should've asked again, but my shallower breathing made it harder for me to make a sound against my pounding heart as I reached the door.

"Will you just leave us alone, please?"

"Sorry, I think I got the wrong apartment," came a woman's apologetic answer.

I stood on tiptoe against the peep hole to see her quickly retreating from my doorstep.

I didn't recognize her from our floor, but dressed in black nursing scrubs with an ID badge hanging backwards on her front pocket, I finally took a deep breath, realizing she wasn't a cop.

An elderly lady with COPD stayed a couple doors down from us, so I figured maybe she'd gotten a new in-home nurse who was now lost at my door.

I turned the knob and slid the chain through the deadbolt, peeking out into the corridor to find the lost nurse studying the numbers on each apartment door, before referring back to a folded paper in her hand.

"Are you here for Miss Janie?" I asked her. "She's in 615."

Her prominent protruding eyes were like cold coffee when they looked at me. A profoundly deep brown that stood out shades darker than mine, against her sun-kissed tan complexion. Her raised thinly penciled brow caught somewhere between surprise and smugness as her study of apartment numbers turned into an intense study of me. I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt, and assume that strong demeanor of confidence in her face was an honor badge for the some odd years of age she seemed to have on me. But the way she stared back at me with that self-assured middle part against her blonded balayage swirling from her darkened roots, I couldn't justify what gave her the right to "judge" a complete stranger for misinterpreting her reason for being there.