It was our last Thanksgiving on Bridge Street.
The house, nestled in the heart of North East Philadelphia, was sold and for the first time in over eighty-five years, a non-Diehl/Keegan would call it home. Bridge Street—which was affectionately named after the street it sat on—had been the childhood home of not only my grandmother but also to my mother and her eight brothers and sisters. Everyone made the journey to Philadelphia—even Uncle Joe and Aunt Melissa ventured up I-95 from Virginia—for our last family, sit down dinner. The table stretched from the kitchen, well past the dining room and practically touched the opposing wall of the living room; we were forty-five deep that year, with barely any elbow room between seats. Which was part of the reason no one wanted to take their seats—you were stuck the second your butt hit the fold-up chair. That and no one truly wanted to start our last family celebration on Bridge Street. Everyone kind of just hovered behind their assigned seat, clutching glasses of wine—or cans of soda—talking over the table. Some tears were shed, along with laughs and a few drunken bars of Sinatra—Pop-Pop’s favorite—as the table was laden with side dishes and, finally, the turkey. With the staple of Thanksgiving laid on the table, there was no postponing the meal any longer; everyone had to take their seat.
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 til I was at least twenty-five. 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—that was never locked—was everything and had such a past. It stood the test of time! It was the cornerstone of three generations; it saw births, graduations, weddings, birthdays and even deaths. That house grounded all of us; Bridge Street was its own living and breathing entity. A member of the family.
I hated Bridge Street.
For as long as I could remember, I’ve never liked my grandparents’ house. I HATED going there. I would cry, complain, and beg my parents to let me stay home. Usually, I won the fight—probably just to shut me up. Other times they dragged me in the door, kicking and screaming. Once inside, I’d talk to no one and cling to my Mom’s side; eye constantly on the clock, asking to leave every five minutes. The house just irked 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. I hated that there was only one bathroom—one bathroom for twelve people BLOWS my mind—and there was always a line when you had to go the most. I hated that there wasn’t central air and only one room on the first floor had a window big enough for a wall unit—summer parties were horrendous with the heat, and I’d set up a chair right there and stay put. 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 hated everything about that house. I always have. Probably always will.
As I sat there, exiled with the other non-adults, my eyes wandered from room to room, picking out specific things that held memories for me. I started to think. Why did I really hate this house? I should feel drawn to it, like everyone else. Everything in life has a beginning, even hatred, but when did this deep-seeded loathing start for me?
And I knew.
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—especially at that age, when things start to click. Plus 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 remain pregnant. Before my older sister, Mom had two miscarriages and a stillborn, whom she still mourned. It’s as if she held her breath every time the doctor told her, “You’re expecting.” She never got her hopes up. She prayed and waited.
And this pregnancy was no different.
The baby was early. Way too early. And Mom was sick—severe dehydration from constantly vomiting. So sick that nearly three 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 little girls at home. Daddy needed to work, but only my older sister was in school and someone needed to be home to watch me and my younger sister. The three of us would stay with relatives. Separately. For as long as Mom was in the hospital.
That 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 there, alone. I didn’t notice the suitcases he held; his hands gripping the handle for dear life. Because 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’d be 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 that Daddy would stay away; it would be too hard for me and my sisters to see him. More likely for him to see us as well; a forced and renewed goodbye would be required each time, adding salt to a very fresh wound. 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. 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 Bridge Street.
My grandparents really did not know what to do with me. Both were still working. My great-grandmother was there to keep an eye on me but 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; in a chaotic haze, Daddy 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 whatever 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.
One night, I was running a fever and crying inconsolably. I lay, cradled in my grandmother’s lap, as my aunts tried to sooth and figure out what was wrong with me. I wasn’t sick. 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. That’s when 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 to take me home.
“Hey! Hey! Earth to Jena,” a voice called me back to reality. “What’s your problem?”
I turned to my youngest sister, Liz, born two and a half 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 probably always will.