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Through Those Open Doors

It was ten minutes to nine when George found his mom's unlocked front door. He pushed down on the curved door handle and made his way inside. His nostrils caught the rich, mixed scents of all the foods that his mom had prepared for dinner, which made his stomach rumble. That was another thing he'd been missing for quite a while - Louise O'Malley's cooking skills.

His jacket pocket buzzed. George stuck his hand in and pulled out his glowing cell phone. "MICHELLE," the screen read.

For the third time today.

He blew a breath out through his teeth, tapped the red "IGNORE" key, and watched the screen go black again. Then he shed his jacket, dropped the phone back into the pocket, and tossed the garment on the couch before wandering into the kitchen, letting his nose lead him. The table was cleared, except for the fresh white cotton cloth that covered it.

"Georgie?" he heard his mom ask from a distance.

"Yeah, Mom, it's me," he replied.

"Finally," she said.

"I said I was sorry when I called. You know those old co-workers of mine; they wouldn't let me get away."

"I'm just pulling your leg," she responded with a hint of scold, appearing in the doorway, dressed in pajama pants and an old Seattle Seahawks T-shirt that he recognized as once belonging to his dad. "I kept a plate for you in the microwave, if you're still hungry."

"Thanks," he replied. He stepped to the over-the-range microwave and tapped a couple of buttons, bringing the machine came to life. He smiled a bit, then grabbed one of the dinner rolls on the countertop and took a bite. The yeasty, buttery taste of the fresh bread made his smile grow. "God, that's good," he sighed.
Louise knew that expression; she'd seen it on his father's face almost nightly for as long as they were married. "You didn't eat? I would have thought that somebody would have ponied up to feed you."

"Dr. Bailey offered to take me home for dinner. I turned her down." George swallowed the last of his bread. "I wasn't kidding this morning when I said your meatloaf sounded good. Now it also smells good." He looked up at the still-glowing microwave. Three and a half minutes rarely felt so long. "Besides, I wanted to eat with you."

She was touched by the words and crossed the room to hug him. "Thank you, sweetheart," she said.

"You're welcome," he replied, relishing the embrace.

She rested her head on his shoulder. "Ronnie and Jerry said they were planning on coming by for dinner tomorrow. You'll be here on time for pork chop night, I hope."

"Of course," George said. "I don't really have anywhere else to be right now." As soon as the words passed his lips, he wanted to take them back. She'd been so excited about his endeavor that he really hadn't wanted to watch her heart break if he'd had bad news to deliver.

But that ship had sailed.

Louise couldn't hide her disappointment. "Doctor Hunt said no?"

George tried to find a way to spin the news in a positive way without getting her hopes up too much. "Not quite. He said he needed time to go over things. It's a budget issue, I think. Finding the time and space and money."

"Boy, things have changed over there," his mom said with a frown. "When you were first at Seattle Grace, didn't it seem like they couldn't stop hiring doctors?"

"I understand, though," George said as the microwave finished its cycle with a ding. He opened the door and gingerly removed the heated plate. "The economy didn't help the hospital, especially when they'd committed to a merger and new construction and whatever else."

"Still, Georgie, you deserve some consideration after all you've done, and with the offers you've got in front of you, they should be begging you to work there."

George didn't disagree, but wanted to keep her from getting wound up over something neither of them could control. "No one's saying that they won't be doing just that, but I have to wait and see what happens."

"Okay," she said. "If you can be patient, so can I."

"Thanks, Mom," he replied. "And thanks again for dinner. I'm really sorry I got home so late."

"Forget it, kiddo." Louise shuffled her feet. "Did you - uh - talk to Michelle?"

George groaned. "Mom..."

"She called here, said she wanted to talk to you and you weren't answering your phone."

"How many times do I have to say this?" he said, shaking his head in frustration. He turned his attention to the microwave. "It wasn't working, Mom. It wasn't. I knew it, she knew it - "

"Did she?" she replied sharply, raising her voice. "What did Michelle know, exactly?"

George felt heat build behind his eyes. He set his jaw and hissed, "That's not fair."

Louise's head dropped a bit. "I don't want to fight about this," she said softly.

George finally turned to face his mother. "So why even bring it up?"

"Because I don't think Michelle wants to fight either," Louise said, suddenly realizing that she was holding her breath. She let it out slowly and took another before she added, "In the year that you two were seeing each other, she and I - we talked more than a few times. And even when things were scary or sad around her - around both of you - I've never heard her sound scared or sad, Georgie. Not until today."

A son's eyes met his mother's. George felt her emotion pour into him through that connection and his heart softened. "Fine," he sighed. "If she calls, I'll talk to her."

"And if she doesn't?"

George grimaced, like he was tasting something sour. "And if she doesn't, I'll call her." He gave her a slightly stern look. "But I'm not doing it for her, understand?"

The corners of Louise's mouth turned upward into a sad smile. "I know. But thank you anyway."

On cue, the microwave dinged. "Saved by the bell," George said quietly, opening the door and reaching for the plate, which was burning hot to the touch. "Ah!" he cried.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," George replied, flicking his hand through the air before grabbing a potholder that was laying on the counter. "Can't believe this old microwave still works so well."

"Yeah, well, your dad cared about quality," Louise replied. "Not as much as he cared about us, of course, but..."

George could see tears forming in her eyes, so he opened his arms for her, and she accepted his embrace. "I miss him, too, Mom," he said.

She sniffled a bit as they hugged, then pulled away, wiping her eyes and yawning. "It's about that time for me. Just leave your dishes in the sink and I'll take care of them in the morning."

"Sure thing," he said firmly. "'Night, Mom."

"Good night," she replied, shuffling away.

George watched her disappear around a corner and listened to the stairs creak as she walked up to the second floor. Then he blew out a breath. Agreeing to talk to Michelle again had not been anywhere near his immediate plans - or his distant ones. But his mom's words about Michelle sounding scared and sad had gotten through. So, yes, he would talk to her. And yes, if she didn't call him, he'd call her.

His stomach groaned at him, reminding him that he didn't have any calls to make right now. George opened the silverware drawer and found a set of utensils. Then it was over to the fridge for a glass of ice water from the pitcher. He finally relaxed into a chair at the kitchen table and looked at his plate. The rumbles in his stomach grew louder. "Easy, fella," he said softly. "You're about to be happy again."

As he speared a forkful of perfectly prepared meatloaf and gravy, and was mere moment away from letting the joy of his mom's home cooking spread through him, he heard knocks on the front door. There were three of them, in steady succession, and they pulled George and his protesting stomach away from the table.

At first, he considered that they could belong to one or the other of his brothers, but those two didn't tend to knock on the front door of this particular house unless the door was locked, and when they did, they used their fists, so the raps were hard, like they were trying to beat the door into submission. These knocks were soft, like the person on the other side hadn't quite decided if he or she wanted anyone to know that they'd actually been there.

George wasn't rushing to the door; his rumbling belly was slowing his steps now, filling him with the urge to ignore the intruder standing between him and his dinner. But he knew he'd get there soon enough, and once he answered the door, he'd be a lot closer to finally satisfying the hunger that was crawling through him.

As he reached the foyer, he could see the barest outline of a person through the translucent glass bricks around the door, and he or she was patiently standing under the porch light. George wondered if it was a neighbor coming by to check on his mom; since she'd had surgery recently, a number of ladies from the church had come by to see how she was "pretty much nightly," his mom had said. This must be one of those visits, he decided.

He heard his phone buzz again, just as his stomach loudly repeated its complaint. "Settle down," he muttered. "I just have to take a look." He grabbed his jacket and found the phone. "MICHELLE," it read for the fourth time. Fine, he decided. You want to talk, I'll talk. I just hope you don't mind me talking with my mouth full.

George pushed "ACCEPT" and put the phone to his ear. "Hello," he said, as his other hand found the door handle.

And then, right in front of his eyes, there was Izzie, standing on the front stoop. The soft warmth of the porch light spilled over her, making her skin and hair simply glow. She smiled that smile at him, the one that seemed to come from deep inside her, the one that radiated from every nerve and fiber, the one dazzled him and dazed him and made him feel like he was flying.

"It's true," she said. "You're home."

His stomach had forgotten about food. His head had forgotten about Michelle. George's heart had seemed to overtake every part of him. He wanted to speak, but words just wouldn't come.

The silence was deafening. "Aren't you going to say something?" she asked.

Finally, George stepped onto the concrete slab, and put his arms around her.

As he held Izzie in his arms, secure in the comfort of their mutual embrace, he heard Michelle's voice come through the phone: "George? Are you there?"

To be continued...