A Knock on the Door
By Shelley Johansson
You hear a knock on the door at 8:30 on a cold fall morning. It makes you wonder. Especially if it’s your back door, because the backyard is almost enclosed and nobody invites themselves into that space besides deer.
You are puzzled to see a slight woman with an enigmatic expression. You wonder who she is. You crack the door.
“I moved here from Indonesia to live with the man in that house,” she says in a low urgent tone, pointing at the house catty-corner behind yours. “But now he has other women and I am afraid he will hurt me. I know no one here but him. Help me.”
Your mouth falls open. Is this an elaborate scam?
You glance down. Her feet are bare, and the morning is raw. You shiver and realize you do recognize her, that you’d seen her in that yard.
Your mouth snaps shut. You force a smile.
“Why don’t you come in for some tea,” you hear yourself say, extending your hand. Instead of shaking it, she holds it as she steps into your warm yellow kitchen. You lock the door behind her.
You show her to the table and fuss with the teapot, trying to be discreet as you text your boss to say you’ll be late. You call your husband and try to explain. You can’t believe the words coming out of your mouth and you have to repeat yourself.
Yes, you know it seems fishy. No, you’re not sure what to think. Yes, you’ll keep him updated. Your guest sits, head bowed.
The teapot whistles. She radiates calm as she tells her story. Her boyfriend had become aggressive after she caught him soliciting other Asian women online. After he left for work, she hacked into his computer to warn the other women before fleeing.
“You admire her courage and wonder what to do.”
You admire her courage and wonder what to do.
But she knows what to do and needs your help figuring out how. She has an undated return ticket to Indonesia. But booking the flight will take several days, and she can’t go back to that house.
In a flash of inspiration, you call a women’s shelter. You explain the situation and pass the phone to her. You patrol the first floor, looking out the windows. She hangs up.
She hurries back to the house to pack. You wonder if she is safe, if you are safe. You look over your shoulder as you load her battered suitcase into the car. You drive her to the shelter and equip her with your cell phone number. You worry her boyfriend will suspect you.
Some days later you and a friend pick her up from the shelter and drive her to the closest major airport, about two hours away. You chat in the car like you’ve known each other for years. The weirdest thing about the drive is how ordinary it feels. You wave goodbye as you drop her off.
You wonder if her boyfriend ever figured out how she left. You make an unsuccessful attempt to Google-stalk him. You glance at that house with trepidation for months.
You regret that you didn’t ask for her email address. You wonder where life took her next. You wonder if everything’s a coincidence. Or if nothing is.
There’s so much you’ll never know.
Her boyfriend moves away. As the years speed by, you forget her first name and even her face.
But you still wonder if she chose your door because she had seen you during her weeks living there, and decided you looked kind. Or if it was just that your back door was the closest to hers, and the lights were on.
Over a decade later, you remember her every time you catch yourself assuming you understand someone’s story—what their lives are like behind closed doors. You think of her and remind yourself to wonder.
This is the first in a series of snapshot essays entitled “Courageous Acts.”
Shelley Johansson's creative nonfiction has been featured in Rejection Letters, Schuykill Valley Journal Online, Lumiere Review and as an "editor's pick" in Longreads. She lives, writes and sews in western Pennsylvania.