Chimamanda Achibie leaves me feeling like like I did when I read The Lady and the Tiger, wondering what happens after the door opens. She forces us to write our own ending or endings … forces the thoughtful reader to notice what it is we wish for on the other side of the door. In all the years since I’ve read Frank R Stockton’s, The Lady and the Tiger, I’ve never settled into knowing what I hoped was on the other side of the door, and in fact the genius of the story is that our wish for what resides on the other side of the door may change over years of living. So in similar fashion to what followed The Lady and the Tiger, I am irritated – not with the story or the author but with my own vacillating … my own carefully nurtured reasonableness that makes many options possible, desirable even. Reasonableness cultivated to avoid being tossed on the waves of irrational emotions. I tamp down fears that I will be shipwrecked by my familial sickness, and that I will undermine whatever life I build. Pulp fiction calls me back after this battering at the doors of my psyche.