The police just left my house. Not one. Not two. About eight of New York’s Finest.

I got home late tonight with my two children. As they rushed upstairs, I cleaned the cat litter and went to check the downstairs back door. My back door is always locked – and I have a metal bar jamming it so it can’t be jimmied open. Funny, I thought. The metal bar is not there. I walked to the door and reached to pull it open. I expected to be jerked back by a locked door, but it slid open to the backyard.

My mind raced back to when I lived in Santa Monica. My bungalow had one door in the kitchen that led to an alley and one door in the living room that led to the street. I used the kitchen door because I parked in the alley. One day I came in and heard something in my living room. I walked in and noticed the door was ajar. I rushed to the bedroom, called my friend George, and spat out what happened. Urgently he asked, “Where are you now?” I responded, “My room.” George never yelled – until that day. “Leave the phone off the hook and get the hell out of the house! Scream if anything happens and I’ll call the police.” It hadn’t occurred to me that someone could still be in the bungalow – or that the person would come back. Gripped by fear – I dashed out.

I don’t know why the door was ajar. Someone suggested it was the drug dealer who lived two doors down. When I first moved in I was leery of him, but he’d always been pleasant and respectful. Once I threw a Christmas in July party. I decorated my bungalow with a Christmas tree and all the trimmings. Green and red lights flickered in the kitchen and living room and Christmas music filled the air. But more than half of my arriving guests had mistakenly gone to the dealer’s house first. Turns out, when he had drugs to sell, he signaled prospective buyers by turning on the Christmas lights that hung outside his house year-round. So without even checking the address, some people were sure that’s where the party was. Who else would celebrate Christmas in July? Although he didn’t make any sales, the dealer was kind enough to point my friends in the right direction. And when he heard I was moving back to New York, he slipped a card under my door saying that he was going to miss seeing my smiling face in the neighborhood. Nah, wasn’t him.

But I digress. Tonight my mind was spiraling. Was someone in my house? Were they in the back room with the metal bar? Did they know I realized the door was open? Most important – could they be upstairs with my children? George’s words echoed in my mind. “Get out of the house.”

“JJ, Lara, come down here NOW.” They sauntered downstairs questioning my rushed tone. “We have to leave,” I whispered. “But we just got home – where are we going?!” they demanded loudly.

I was livid. Why couldn’t they just listen?! In my mind I imagined someone coming from the back room into the foyer wielding the metal bar. “Get the hell outside now,” I responded curtly shoving them both into the cold night – shoeless and coatless.

I know I didn’t leave the door open. I know I always lock my doors and check them twice, three times, maybe four times, and that’s even after turning on the alarm at night. Have I mentioned I’m a little OCD? So we walked to my mother’s house and I called the police. Then I railed on my children to come when I call, don’t ask questions and move quickly – especially if it’s something ‘odd,’ like leaving the house as soon as we get home.

Within 10 minutes four cop cars pulled up outside my house. I was and remain in awe of New York’s boys in blue. They combed through my house, looking under beds, in closets and in the attic. Thankfully, nothing was found.

But the unlocked door gnawed at me. It’s gnawing at me now as I write this. The only explanation is that one of my children left it open and forgot…or maybe decided it would be prudent not to tell me…that they left the door open. After seeing all the commotion it caused, there’s no way they’d come clean now and risk my fury. No, not yet. Maybe when they’re 30 the guilty party will fess up. But tonight I’ll be sleeping in the living room – with one eye open.

(c) 2014 September Mom