This would be our last Thanksgiving at Bridge Street. The house, nestled in the heart of North East Philadelphia, was sold and for the first time in over 85 years, a non-Diehl/Keegan would call it home. Bridge Street, which was affectionately named after the street it sits on, had been the childhood home to not only my grandmother, but to my mother and her eight brothers and sisters. Everyone made the journey to Philadelphia that year; even Uncle Joe and Aunt Melissa, all the way from Virginia. No one wanted to start this meal, knowing it was the last. But everyone, eventually, took their seats and began. Tears were shed, over the turkey no doubt, but laughs and a few drunken bars of Sinatra--PopPop’s favorite--certainly brightened the mood.
I sat, begrudgingly, at the kids table. I was seventeen at the time and definitely no longer a child, but would most certainly remain so in the eyes of my aunts, uncles, and older cousins. I firmly believe that if your family is too big to sit at one table, which mine definitely was, then tables should not be used. It would avoid the whole separate-ness that, in that moment, I felt. Watching my family, from what felt like a mile away, I could sense the profound loss at this being our last holiday. It may sound ridiculous, it was only a house, but to everyone there, it was so much more. The house, with its red brick, bay-windows, and big white door was everything and had such a past. It stood the test of time! It saw Graduations, Weddings, and Birthdays. It’s the last place anyone saw my Pop-Pop alive. This house grounded all of us; it was our one common bond. The house held so many great memories, that Bridge Street really was part of our family.
I hate Bridge Street.
For as long as I can remember, I never liked my grandparents’ house. I would cry, complain, and beg my parents to let me stay home. Usually, I won the fight - probably just to get me to shut up. Other times they dragged me in the door, kicking and screaming. Once inside, I would talk to no one, but cling to my Mom’s side; eye constantly on the clock, asking to leave every five minutes. The house just eerked me in a way I could never explain. I hated how cold the porch was in winter. I hated the “old-people” smell that stuck to your clothes, and remained days later. I hated the rigid furniture that was never comfortable to sit in. Most of all, I hated going there because we would never leave. Like a Black Hole, Bridge Street pulled you into its grasp and held you there. I just hated everything about that house. I always have. Probably always will.
As I sat there, exiled with the other “non-adults”, my eyes wandered and I started to think. Why did I really hate this house? I should feel drawn to it, like everyone else but I don’t and never have. Everything in life has a beginning, even hatred, but when did this deep loathing start for me?
I was four years old, but I do not remember my Mom being pregnant. I have no memory of seeing her expanding stomach, or hearing that a new sibling was on the way. I was young but it should have been a significant moment in my life. New babies are always a big deal, but it was not. Maybe my parents were superstitious; Mom had given birth to three beautiful girls, but it was a struggle for her to get and remain pregnant. Before my oldest sister, Mom had two
miscarriages and a still borne, whom she still mourns for. It’s as if she held her breath every time her doctor told her, “You’re expecting." She never got her hopes up. She prayed and waited.
The baby was early. Way too early. And Mom was sick. So sick that two and a half months before her due date, she was hospitalized and the doctors feared she would not only lose the baby, but also her life. Quick decisions were made about the three young girls at home. Daddy needed to work, but none of us were in school yet and someone needed to be there. The three of us would stay with relatives. Separately. For as long as Mom was in the hospital.
This is what I remember.
The door opened to Bridge Street and I, clasping Daddy’s hand, stepped into my Grandparents living room, for what I thought was a quick visit. The house had not been a home to children for decades, so there was a stiffness and formality in the air. I knew, even then, not to touch anything. Pop-Pop walked out of the kitchen to where we stood. Words were exchanged; reassurances to keep Daddy’s spirits up. I did not understand. I did not know that Daddy was leaving me here, alone. I did not notice the suitcases he held; his hands gripping the handle for dear life, as if that was what he was doing.
Holding on for dear life.
He knelt down to my eye level, but could not look me in the eye. The pain showed too clearly in his face and he knew that if he looked at me, he would unable to do what he knew he had to.
“Be a good girl, for Daddy," he said, trying to seem strong.
“Daddy, where are you going? Can I come?” I asked innocently, still clutching his hand.
He never answered but dropped my hand, gave me a kiss, a hug, and left the room. As the door to Bridge Street shut behind him, I still felt the warmth of his hand in mine. I stood there, staring after him, still not comprehending what was going on. It was decided, again, that Daddy would stay away; it would be too hard for me and my sisters to see him. More than likely, for him to see us as well. I did not know this. I thought he was running out for a bit, and would be back soon to get me. I was in the dark. Completely alone and separated from everything I knew.
That night, I slept between my Grandparents in their large four-poster bed. I lay there for awhile, trying to fall asleep. I stared at Pop-Pop’s flaring nostrils as he breathed in and out. Slight snores told me he was asleep, as they did from my Grandmother’s direction. Except for that, the room was silent and dark. The dark was ominous; it covered every inch of the room like a tent and even the biggest night light in the world could not quench it. I prayed I would not have to pee during the night; other than the dark, the bed was about four feet off the ground. There was no hope I’d get down alone. I stared straight ahead, hoping sleep would come and Daddy would be here in the morning to take me home.
Daddy stayed away and I remained at Bridges Street. My grandparents really did not know what to do with me. Both were still working, but my great grandmother was there to keep an eye on me. I was alone a lot and unnerved by the silence in the house; no screaming or singing, just dead silence that scared me. There are specific things I remember about this time. I played with the generic toys Bridge Street had collected over the years, while desperately missing my own, my clothes itched and did not fit. Daddy, in such a hurry, must have packed my little sisters clothes for me, which were two sizes too small. I’d sit there, in my small clothes with toys that were not my own, and play for hours. I created little worlds in my head and acted them out with what ever surrounded me. I took solace from the games. These distractions helped, but I was never far from the door, and home was always on my mind. I stared at the door to Bridge Street for hours, waiting for Mommy to come get me. I opened the door periodically, hoping she was pulling into the driveway, big smile on her face and waving. I cried when she never came.
One day, in particular, my Grandmother took me to my Aunt’s. I walked in the door and saw my little sister sitting on the floor, completely content. I ran past my Aunt and Grandmother and clung to my sister’s tiny, two year old body. I never hugged her on my own before, but that day I would not let go. She was my reminder that I did have a home. She was real. My family was real.
Hours turned into days and days turned into weeks.
“Things are not going well,” the doctors told my family.
Anxiety hung in the air, hovering over our lives like a plague.
I was running a fever and crying. I lay, cradled in my Grandmother’s lap, as my Aunts tried to sooth and figure out what was wrong with me. I was not sick, that was for sure. I had a very high temperature but nothing else seemed to be wrong. I cried and cried and nothing calmed me down. I had had enough. I wanted out. Out of Bridge Street. Out of this situation, that I still did not understand. The room silenced and the only thing heard were my whimpers of pain. I looked towards the door and saw him.
Daddy.
I jumped out of my Grandmother’s lap and ran to him, fever completely diminished as I reached his arms. He swooped me up into a bear hug, and I clung to him. He was real. He was here. I laughed, the first in a long time. He stroked my hair and carried me towards the door, leaving Bridge Street, again. No one was left behind.
“Hey! Hey! Earth to Penny,” a voice called me back to reality, “What’s your problem?”
I turned to my youngest sister Liz, born 2 ½ weeks after my Dad left me at Bridge Street; the day I first felt abandoned, the last time I slept at another person’s house for the next six years, the hardest thing my Dad ever had to do, and the experience that my Mom almost gave her life for.
I smiled back at her and she turned back to her meal.
I don’t hate Liz. I never could.
But I do hate Bridge Street. And that will never change.
