DEATH BY CLOSET

by Mariane Holbrook 

My obituary could have read "Death by Closet-phobia."

Our house, a split-level that went out of style with the Edsel, was placed on the market for sale. We had our sights set on moving to the beach and living a life of comfort and ease, something our preacher-friend, Joe, with tongue-in-cheek called, "Sufferin' for Jesus." Tough life, but somebody had to do it, we reasoned.

So we spruced up our house, patched the millions of nail holes in the walls where I'd changed my picture arrangements every week. I could hear John muttering every time he discovered another small nail hole. By the time we'd scrubbed and painted and had the carpet cleaned, we were ready for a realtor's sign and John was ready for a divorce.

The first showing of the house was uneventful. The potential buyers were somewhere between whelmed and underwhelmed. John was teaching school and I stayed at a neighbor's each time the house was shown.

The next showing of our house nearly caused my demise.

After the showing, I watched the realtor and her clients drive away and I returned home from my neighbor's to change clothes. I was upstairs in a semi-a-la-nude state when my front door opened and the realtor and her clients reentered, talking loud enough for me to hear. As they started up the steps to the bedrooms, in sheer terror I jumped into the smaller of our two master bedroom closets (John's) and hid beneath the packed suits, shirts, and shoes. (It served me right for insisting that I have the walk-in closet when we first moved in five years earlier.)

The buyers wanted to measure the upstairs bathroom and I wanted to die. Then they proceeded to our master bedroom where I cowered with fear and trembling in the closet. I held my breath, determined not to cough or sneeze and scare them to death or worse.

They sat down on the side of the bed and began to discuss what they price would offer us. I knew this was not something I should be hearing but I had no room to lift my arms to plug my ears. A couple of eternities seemed to go by.

With my long history of claustrophobia, I was sure my death was imminent. I wondered what their reaction would be when they heard something crash to the closet floor in a dead heap.

My breathing became shallow. I started hyperventilating all over the place, wondering what piece of clothing I could substitute for the usual brown paper bag to breathe in.

I contemplated sliding to the closet floor to breathe under the door but the floor was covered with John's shoes and rolls of Christmas wrapping paper that I still hadn't put back in the attic. "Organization" was not my middle name.

Still, the realtor and her client talked. And talked. And talked. Twenty-four hours went by, then several weeks and years. They wondered aloud how quickly we could vacate the house if they purchased it. I could have told them "immediately or sooner--how long does it take for a coroner and hearse to arrive?"

My breathing grew more and more rapid. It was a hot July day and the closet was NOT air conditioned.

I knew I had to come out of the closet and soon. I thought of jumping out of the closet, throwing my arms into the air and yelling. "TA DA."

I thought of stumbling out and pretending I had amnesia and didn't know who or where I was.

As my whole life passed before me, the front door downstairs suddenly opened and John yelled, "Hello, anybody here? I'm John."

The three quickly got to their feet and hurried downstairs to say hello to John and continue their discussion in the car.

There is a God.