After Knocking

The three of us stood outside his bedroom door, none wanting to be the first to knock. Well, Sam did, but I voted against it because I knew that if Michi did answer the door, Sam would manage to say something insensitive enough to get the door slammed in our faces. Will wasn’t opposed to knocking, but he wasn’t exactly close with Michi—despite them being two of the three guys to split the suite at the end of the dormitory’s sixth floor hallway—and figured if Michi looked through the peephole and saw him, he wouldn’t even bother acknowledging us at all.

And then there was me—what would he do, or I do, if he looked through the peephole and saw me and opened the door? My hands felt cold but slippery with sweat, my heart beat so hard I felt its every thump in my throat, and my teeth chattered. Everyone in our program knew what was going on, and I’d been getting looks all day. It started after those of us with classroom windows facing the sidewalk had seen Dr. Waskie, the chaperone for our university’s 12-person addition to an international summer language course in Germany, leading Michi out of class and muttering under his breath, looking agitated. Michi followed with his head down, his hair greasy enough that I could see its sheen from where I sat in my classroom, about 20 yards away.

In the two weeks Michi and I had known each other, we’d stayed up late enough, enough nights, that I knew his hair only got that oily when he hadn’t slept, or maybe only put his head down and dozed for an hour or two. I still remember the afternoon during the first week when Sam invited us to the school’s practice room to listen to him play piano, and as he played Chopin and got lost in his own thoughts, Michi and I both put our heads down, saying we hadn’t slept well the night before. The last thing I remembered before I drifted off was staring at the back of his head, feeling something warm and almost familiar creep through my chest when I realized he was already asleep. I think I could like you, I thought, and the next thing I knew, Sam was scolding us both for having slept through his little performance. But we smiled: we didn’t quite know it then, but the moment would become just one of dozens that made up the tiny little universe of which we came to be the sole inhabitants.

Standing in front of his bedroom door now, though, I remembered what Will had said as soon as we all broke for lunch earlier that day, about two hours after Dr. Waskie and Michi had left. He was in one of the beginner-level classes with Michi, and they always finished early. My advanced class had let out late, so I was worried that by the time I threw my backpack onto the grass next to him, Sam, and a few of our other classmates, I would’ve missed any gossip about why Dr. Waskie had dragged Michi out of class barely an hour in. As I pulled a sandwich out of my bag, though, Will picked at tufts of grass in frustration and interrupted someone else by turning to me. “Do you know what happened?” he asked, and I paused with the sandwich halfway to my mouth.

“With—with Michi?” I felt myself blushing, because I knew he and I were obvious. Neither of us had said anything about our feelings to each other, but our classmates pointed out how we always stared at each other even when talking to other people, and Sam bluntly told us he hated hanging out with us when we acted “like that”—when the three of us would be together, but Michi or I would say something to which the other related, when we’d never met anyone else in our lives who could relate the same way. We’d stop talking and stare at each other, dopey grins on our faces, and Sam would sigh and look away, waiting for us to come back to earth.

“Yeah. I assume you know?” Will said, watching me closely.

“No, we didn’t hang out last night. He said he hadn’t slept in a few days but thought he could probably manage to get to sleep early, so Sam and I hung out in his room for a while. I just saw the same thing you did, that he left with Waskie this morning, during class.”

“Yeah, because he fucking…” Will looked up at the sky and tore at the blades of grass near his feet. “Can you talk to him, maybe? He told us this morning when we were eating breakfast that he finished the rest of his medication. Like, at once. When there was a lot left.”

Their other suitemate, Matt, nodded next to him. “Yeah, he seemed kind of slowed down and sped up, but like at the same time? Like he didn’t really seem to know how to move his arms or legs, like he had to concentrate on it, but he had this look in his eye that just kind of freaked us out. Maybe manic, almost.”

I stared at Matt, then at Will. “What medication was it? Did you ask?”

“Yeah, we did.” Will shrugged and continued, “He said it didn’t matter, and honestly, does it? We’ve barely been here two weeks and he’s either drinking or taking a bunch of pills every night. I don’t know how nothing knocks him out so he can just fucking sleep, but it’s getting out of control. I don’t want to wake up to find—”

“Okay, yeah, got it.” My sandwich was still in my hands, but I realized I’d white-knuckled the ingredients out of the middle, a sad piece of ham flopping onto my thigh. I tossed it behind me for some birds, trying not to become absolutely furious. Michi looks manic, he admits to taking way too much of some prescription medication he’s on, and these little shits just let him walk out the door? “So Waskie took him to the doctor or something. He'll probably be back in his room when you get there.”

“Yeah, probably, but that’s not what I’m worried about. Since you’re…you know—” he waved a hand at me and the air above my head, “friends or whatever with him, can you talk to him? I don’t want to be roped into any of his shit.”

Of course that’s what he cared about, being associated with the crazy kid once we get back to school in the US next semester. “Yeah, sure. But it’s your suite, too. You’re coming with me. And,” I said, reaching behind me to where I knew Sam was sitting and grabbing his arm, “so are you.”

That night, we stand in front of the door to Michi’s bedroom, hissing a whispered argument for a minute before Will and Sam both stop talking and stare at me. “Fine,” I mutter, my pulse quickening and my stomach clenching, “I’ll do it. Just—just stand a few feet away, okay?” They step back, and as I drew my fist toward the wood, I blink. In the span of maybe two seconds, I afford myself one last internal debate.

You’ve known this person for two weeks, if even. Probably more like 11-12 days.

-So?

So, this is some heavy shit you’re getting into, you realize that, right?

-I’m not getting into anything. He’s my friend, and I care about him.

You can’t even think those words with a straight face. Friend? Care? Stop lying. Admit it. You’re falling in love with some fucked up kid who’s going to do nothing but get you weird looks and put you in more situations like this. How long until you turn around and run, leaving him cold and confused like you always do?

-I don’t do that. I—

Yes, you do. Maybe this is the first person you think you could actually, really love, but you know you’re still going to do it. You already feel shame when people look at the two of you together, giggling like he’s not suicidal and insane and you’re not also messed up for liking him. You’re going to decide it’s too much, just a big ol' burden, and shrug him off and leave him alone with his pills until he—

-Oh, fuck you. Watch me.

I knock on the door. Just once, and Sam sighs behind me and tells me a butterfly could’ve knocked harder. I knock again, maybe a bit too aggressively this time, and we freeze when we hear a thud, like someone dropping a stack of books or falling out bed. “Michi?” I call, and after a pause, I hear his feet shuffling. “Michi, hey, can you open the door?”

He walks over to the door—at least, I think those are his footsteps, but they’re so slow and shuffling it’s hard to tell—and stops right in front of it. I swear I can sense him there, just a few feet away from us. I glance back at Will and Sam, who take another step back. I try again. “We—I just wanted to see how you’re feeling. And if you wanted to talk about anything, like from today, or anything at all, I’m always here…” I trail off as I hear the wood of the door creak, like he’s leaning against the door, looking through the peephole at us, but it appears empty, so I press my ear against the door. “I think I can hear you, Michi. Are you okay? Just let me know you’re okay, and I can leave you alone. You know, if you want.” A sniffle, more shuffling, and I swear I can feel him walk away from where the three of us stand on the other side of the door.

I look back at Sam and Will again. “What if he has more,” I whisper, “like, a different medication or something, and what if he took it, and that’s why he’s not talking? What if he’s about to overdose?” Will starts wringing his hands, groaning, so I shush him and turn back to the door.

“Actually, if you don’t let us in, we’re going to go downstairs and ask for a key. We just want to make sure you’re okay.” As I say it, I turn the doorknob. I just want something to do with my hands while I wait for something, anything, from Michi—and to our surprise, it gives easily. I push the door open, and for that moment between being in the hallway and seeing into his room, I feel lighter. Whatever is beyond this door, he’s there, and that’s all that matters. He must have unlocked it for us without us noticing, so he’s in there and alive. We aren’t intervening in an overdose, and the person I think I could fall in love with—who I swear I’m not embarrassed by, whom I won’t abandon when he needs me—is right here, just beyond the doorway, and he’s going to tell us it’ll all be okay…

There’s a cold wind whipping my hair into my eyes. I put my hand to my forehead, where I feel something warm and wet, and when I take my fingers away, there’s blood on them. My eyes go wide and I quickly suck the blood off my fingers in case Michi sees and starts to worry, but when I look up, there’s the blankness of a residential South Philadelphia street late at night sitting empty in front of me. “Michi?” I turn around, looking for his bedroom in that Soviet-era dormitory building in former East Germany, looking for him giving me his small, almost sad smile in his room in the suite at the end of the sixth floor hallway. He’s not here—it’s just the apartment I share with my sister…but when did I get back here? I turn back to the street, feeling more blood drip down my forehead. “Michi…Michi…” I keep whispering his name, until there’s an arm wrapped around my waist where I’m doubled over. It drags me back inside, and I hear my sister trying to calm me down, but I can’t go, I can’t just leave when Michi might need me.

“Gina.” She sits me down on the couch, and her little dog comes over and sniffs at my hand, where I hadn’t managed to clean away all the blood. “Gina, it was just a dream.”

I try to look at her, but my vision is double, and the living room lights form an unnatural halo around her head. “No, no, he was—I think he took all his Klonopin, but no one would tell me, but he’s just in his room, right there.” But as I say it and point to the door, I see it’s still open to the night, and it’s very much Philadelphia, not a dorm room in Germany one year ago on a warm June night. I force my gaze back to my sister, and I feel like I’m turning into an animal that slowly realizes it’s trapped in a cage it can’t open from the inside. Before I can ask what the fuck is going on, she holds a wet paper towel to my forehead.

“Gina, you were dreaming. You drank a pint of vodka when you got home from work, and when I asked you if maybe you should stop, you told me you just wanted to drink until you were ‘with him.’” She winces before she continues. “I didn’t know if you meant in your dreams, or…you know…so I sat in your room with you until you fell asleep. And then I went to my own room got into bed, but next thing I knew, I heard breaking glass, which I guess was the empty vodka bottle and you tripped over it or something.”

“And then I was just…outside?”

“Yeah. You were just standing there, like really glazed over, and it sort of made me not even want to bother you because I had no idea how you’d react. But then suddenly you were screaming his name over and over and I had to bring you inside before any neighbors came out.”

I was screaming? I thought I’d been whispering, but I guess I was totally blacked out. I bent forward and rubbed my hands over my face. God, how I wanted to go back to before she dragged me inside, before I opened the door and there was nothing but cold winter air on the other side. I wanted to go back to that warm, late spring night, Michi shuffling around on the other side of an old wooden door, my heart beating out of my chest and my feelings written all over my face. But I couldn’t, and my sister knew what I was thinking, so she sat beside me and finished bandaging my forehead while I stared blankly ahead.

“You know it’s not your fault, right?”

“No. I don’t.” If one more person said that to me, I swore I would actually, finally lose my mind.

“Just because you weren’t there that night…”

“Don’t.”

She stops flattening the bandage against my wound and leans back into the couch cushion. “You can’t keep drinking any minute you aren’t at work. It wasn’t your fault. He was going to do it whether you were there or--”

“Please. Please, just stop.” She was wrong—everyone was. It didn’t matter that Michi was okay that one night, it didn’t matter how many times I was there for him after that. All it took was one fuck up, and I lost the person I loved most in the world, and now I’m just here, drunk and bleeding and so, so alone.

She doesn’t say anything, just picks up her little dog and looks me up and down before making sure the door she’d finally shut a few minutes ago is locked. “Hopefully next time you’re too drunk to figure out the deadbolt,” she says, and then she’s gone, down the dark hallway and into her bedroom. I stare at it for a moment after she’s shut it, remembering that moment when I opened the door to Michi’s dorm, when I’d felt briefly, weirdly happy.

I hadn’t known what state Michi would be in, but I knew he’d be there. It was easy: I wanted to see Michi, I knocked on a door, and there he was. That night, he gave me a tired smile, and we laughed about nothing while we waved away Sam and Will until we were alone. He sat on his bed while I looked up at him from where I lay on the floor, and he told me he didn’t exactly want to die, but he didn’t really want to be alive, either. And then he stared at the ceiling for a while, and I thought he was done speaking, but he turned his head toward me slowly, tears leaking down his cheeks as our eyes met. “But you, Gina. You…you give me pause.”

And I thought, maybe it’s me. Maybe together, we can both be a little happier, and maybe it’ll be just enough for him.

I sit on the couch, thinking of the times I was there to help him—hell, even sometimes to stop him—until one time, I wasn’t. Every second feels as though I’m getting further and further from a door where he’s just on the other side, maybe looking through the peephole and seeing it’s me, and he smiles through his constant sadness and welcomes me inside, laughing.