When the Wild Came In

“Don’t open the door.” Father scolds me for the umpteenth time as my hand unconsciously reaches for the worn brassy knob leading to freedom. I can’t control what it does. The outdoors calls to me, shaking my very soul. Father doesn’t even have to look at me now to know what I’m trying to do. What my hand is trying to do. The closest I ever got to opening the door even the tiniest crack, the rusted metal squeaked against the white-painted wood, alerting him to my intentions. Ever since then, he grew a sixth sense that allowed him to know exactly when I was attempting an escape.

“You can’t keep me suffocated in here forever,” I grumble, letting my hand fall to my side. It twitches slightly before calming down. I curl it into a fist to stop myself from trying anything again. When I glance over at Father, busily peeling a clementine into a perfect swirl at the kitchen table, a shadow falls over his face, though I could swear his eyes darken briefly too. I sigh and take my seat across from him on a rickety wooden stool. I take a clementine for myself from the fruit bowl and begin peeling it much less gracefully than Father. The pieces pile onto each other in a pitiful heap. As I eat my meager breakfast, I peer around our decrepit house. The stink of the peeling wall paint and mildew thriving in the corners of the moist wooden floorboards mix in with the pungence of the dried ornamental orange peels hanging from the ceiling. The only other splash of color–of life–is the tall glass vase on the table between Father and me. A young iris sits in the water, its stem curving wearily toward the gentle morning sunlight streaming in through the front window.

Father and I don’t talk much during our meals. The only sound is of our fingers softly separating our respective clementine slices. When Father finishes, he tosses his peel onto the counter to dry and turns on the small flat screen right above it. Father never watches television during a meal. The house fills with the noise of the on-screen news reporter, and I eat faster. As per usual, the news story is about another “wild invasion,” though I try not to pay much attention to it. For all I care, the sensationalist coverage Father fills himself up with every day just further compounds his grief.

Hastily, I sweep my unaesthetic clementine peels into my palm and head to the compost bucket in the cabinet next to the sink. My less-than-artful peeling skills would never be enough for the ceiling. As I pull out the bin, a flicker of green tinted with ruby in the bright window catches in the corner of my eye. But when I turn toward it, I don’t observe anything unusual. The field grass–now too tall to make out much past it–sways with what I can only imagine is the perfect breeze. It looks the same way that it has for years, just more overgrown. Father doesn’t cut it and not just because he refuses to leave the house. I know it is really there to hide the city.

Though the past is but a hazy figment of my imagination, I at least know that I was a child who breathed that air as much as I could. I would roll around in the dry grass, which was tall then without being overbearing. In the distance, the forest stretched on forever. Father would laugh along with me and point to the bright purple flowers dotting the meadow so I would notice the hummers zipping around and drinking from their juicy nectar... And then there was Papá. It was like that saying I kept hearing over and over again. When life is too good to be true, it probably is.

The forest started burning, but it wasn’t a wildfire. No, it wasn’t that good kind of fire that was terrifying at first but brought forth new life after it calmed down. It was the kind of fire that was terrifying and stayed terrifying because it brought death. It brought destruction in the veneer of construction. It brought the city and with it, Papá’s pain. I don’t know the truth behind why he left this world so soon after the city was finished, but I’ve always theorized that it was his pain. My world was never the same after he was gone. His absence created a chain of events that led Father and me to where we are today. Trapped in the very place that should be full of love and light and laughter but is instead empty and dying. At least there is still the sun.

“The oatmeal is ready, Charlie. Can you please serve it?” Father’s voice startles me. I didn’t even notice the news still in the background.

“Yes, Father.” I grab two ceramic bowls and scoop the watery, gray slush from the small pot on the stove into them. I turn off the heat and grab a rag to hold onto the poorly insulated bowls without dropping them. Although my tolerance to heat is low, I can’t stop myself from wanting to step into the tall grass outside and bask in the sunlight. I can’t stop myself from stealing glances outside, hoping to catch the green and red again.

“No chocolate today?” I ask as I set down Father’s bowl in front of him.

He cracks only the slightest of smiles. “Charlie, I know it’s everywhere, but it’s still a delicacy.”

“You mean, it was,” I correct him as I set my bowl down on the other side of the table and take my seat across from him. It’s warmer now than it was when Papá was still around, so I just assume that there’s more cocoa available to grow and process into chocolate. But I also know that Papá loved the candy, which is likely why Father avoids it when he can.

He returns his attention to the news, which is beginning to wrap up for the morning. I bring the dull oatmeal to my mouth and blow on it, contented by the minuscule ripples I create in the dip of the spoon. I marvel at the steam as it continues to curl and fade into the air when I spot the flash of color in the window again, but it dashes away before I can get a clear glimpse of it. I drop my spoon without eating anything, and it hits the rim of the bowl with a clatter.

“Charlie...” Father warns.

“Sorry, Father,” I mutter and clean up the little spill I made on the stained tablecloth.

Father’s eyes are practically glued to the screen, so I don’t ask for his permission to leave the kitchen. As quietly as I can, I excuse myself and slide into the backroom. It’s full of long-ago useless antiques, a closed piano coated with a fine layer of dust, and a fireplace with empty frames on the mantel. I always find this room to be fascinating, but Father doesn’t like when I stay in it. I don’t want him to think I’m stalling here, so I quickly exit through the other doorway and into the hall. Taking a turn to the back of the house, I make it to the bathroom, which has a window in the direction where the colored thing or creature or whatever went.

But there is only more dry grass reaching for the sky. Nothing out of the ordinary. Disappointed, I prepare to take off. Then, it happens again. The same colors as before flash past in a blur, though now I’m sure it has to be an animal. Whatever it is, it’s probably a bird or large bug trying to find a way in by making its way around the house. But why? Before I can even think of what to do, my feet take me back to the window in the sitting room. Again, there is nothing but swaying grass.

“Charlie?” The sound of the television has disappeared. I know Father can see me and worse, see me up against the glass. “Get away from there.”

Just as he speaks those words, I detect the flash of movement again. I have to keep following it. Trying to ignore the creeping thoughts of how I know Father will react, I rush into the kitchen, past the table where I sense him glaring deep into my soul. I slam into the ledge just in time.

It’s a hummingbird. Just as quickly as I come to that realization, it flutters away to search for another entry point.

“Charlie... Stop this instant.” Father’s temper rises, but I don’t care. I chase after the tiny bird into the room that acts as both an office and living space. The hummer isn’t there, so I scramble over to the last place in the house with a view of the field: the bedroom I share with Father. I still have no sight of it. I am about to bolt out the room when I nearly crash into Father’s looming figure blocking the doorway.

“Charlie Sheridan Hopper,” he growls. “Are you trying to get me to board up our windows too?”

I stare at my feet. “You know your iris wouldn’t survive,” I nearly whisper. I don’t need to see him to feel the change in the atmosphere. I wouldn’t be surprised if Father decided to slap me right then and there. But he doesn’t.

“Don’t... don’t say that.” Father’s voice trembles. I think I know what that flower means to him. There’s only one thing I can think of to say.

“I’m sorry.”

It takes a moment of silence before I peer up at Father. His eyes are wet as he fights what he’s been holding back for years. The same way I’ve been holding back for years. But we’ve been suppressing completely different things. I bite my lip and brush my long locks out of my eyes.

“Charlie.” Father shifts uneasily. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

I merely nod and watch as he takes a seat on his bed, patting the side for me to sit next to him. I do as he asks and gaze up at his face. He doesn’t look me in the eyes but instead stares out the window. It’s like I’m seeing him for the first time, for his messy stubble and eyebags are features I could only notice this close to him.

“I know... you don’t understand why I’ve locked you in for all these years. Or how your Pa passed away. But it was for the same reason... The city.”

“The city?” I gasp. I know Papá was devastated by it, but what does it have to do with me? I realize then that I don’t even know what the city is called.

“Yes. Sheridan had a condition that made it hard for him to breathe. And when the forest was being burned, it just got worse. When the city was finished, he didn’t get better. It got so bad that there was nothing left that I could do. That air destroyed him. Little by little. And what did they build in place of the forest? The worst atrocity of humankind.”

I struggle to follow along, but it makes sense, doesn’t it? “Couldn’t you have gone to the city though?” I blurt. “Don’t they have hospitals where they could’ve helped Papá get better?”

Father shakes his head bitterly. “They don’t treat people like us kindly. It wouldn’t have been worth it. I just wish Sheridan didn’t have to go...” The tears start to stream down his face.

He still hasn’t told me how this is connected to my imprisonment, but I don't press him. It’s hard enough for me to grasp everything he’s saying.

After a strange hiccup, he continues. “The city has these power plants, and I know it’s far, but that air–that poison–can still reach us. I couldn’t let what happened to your Pa happen to you. I didn’t want you to go outside because it’s too dangerous.”

My body itches uncomfortably. “But I don’t have a condition like Papá, d-do I?”

Father shakes his head again. “It doesn’t matter, Charlie.” He makes eye contact with me now. “Condition or no condition, you could still get sick.”

“But you didn’t get sick.” Father’s torn expression gives away his need to counter me, yet he is ultimately at a loss for words. Before he can say anything, I go on, pushed forth by an unfamiliar jittery sensation. “You have to let me try. A couple of minutes can’t hurt, can it? I saw something out there today that’s just waiting to come in. Whatever those ‘wild invasions’ you keep watching on TV are, that won’t happen to us. I promise.” I grab onto his rough, mottled hand and stare into the depths of his dark hazelnut irises. “You have my word.”

An eternity passes by, and Father’s eyes pierce me curiously, unlike how they used to for so long. It’s as if he’s calculating every possibility and weighing the options. He gives me a small nod and says, “I trust you, Charlie. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

He leaves our bedroom without looking back. Unable to contain myself, I let my legs take me to the door, all the while my hand twitching in anticipation. I finally turn that tempting doorknob and swing open the door so hard that it hits the wall.

“Let the wild come in!” I yell and throw my hands up in a grand gesture. I pant heavily as my heartbeats echo in my chest. Nothing happens at first, but then the hummingbird whisks by me and into the kitchen where Father is seated.

I turn toward it and can’t help but smile. It’s eagerly sticking its beak into the iris, drinking up the first beads of spring nectar from between the light purple petals. Father is staring at it, but I can’t read his expression. As quickly as it entered, the hummer flies out the door, having gotten what it wanted. I watch it become a pinprick in the distance before I take in a full, deep breath of the open air, which has a scent that I can’t exactly describe. I don’t stall any longer so as to respect Father. Without another thought, I shut the door and make sure to lock it.

When I glance back into the kitchen, Father is still staring, but now, he’s staring at me, not the flower. I grin weakly, unsure of what he’s thinking. But he smiles, and all my worries fade away like the hummingbird flying to who knows where. I take a seat across from him, and he touches the top of my hand.

“Thank you, Charlie.” A pause. “For letting the wild come in."