No More Bridges

Elsie's late grandfather unexpectedly left his old house to her name. As she picks apart his sad life through his leftovers, she has her own self discovery ahead.

When he dropped, there was no stir.  No neighbors to check up on the withered old coot, no nearby family to wonder why he didn’t return their calls.  Just another old face in the crowd to bleed away in the water color background.  An upper middle class home just a tad more distant than the rest, sitting up on a grassy hill and shrouded by the pious weeping willows.

When finally found, he greeted them with the squalid stench of meat long overdue, wafting decay and rot through any innocent nostrils.  Very few arrived at his ceremony; far away relatives that came out of simple obligation or pity, while the reading of his will had nothing to offer the bored attendants.  All he had left to give was an old house that, while not run down, was nothing new or pleasing to the eye.  

As his eternal bed melded with the ground, there was little to no tears. He descended, and the company he never kept went on with their day's; lives unshifted by his passing.

All except for one.

Only twice in her lifetime did they meet; each visit vague and awkward in her memory.  She could hardly remember the first time she was introduced to tired old man.  He had gazed upon her with a tightly laced smile, though his eyes were hazy and distant.  He wasn’t tall, barely a head above her mother, though to her he was a giant swathed in tweedy clothing.  Elsie hadn’t spoken much with him besides the obligatory greetings and goodbyes.  She hid behind her mother's chair the entire time, her eyes shooting to the floorboards every time he caught her staring.  During the full reunion, her mother had a permanent scowl etched in between her eyebrows.  He left shortly after.

The second visit was more impactful.  She was only eleven at the time, but unlike most children her age, she wasn’t nearly as communicative as she should have been.  Her mother used to sniff at her unwillingness to join in social gatherings, saying Elsie could have been his twin.  Her grandfather stayed longer this time, a light drizzle coated the windows in darkness.

Her mother was less forgiving, fixing her grandfather with a look of disgust, even as she invited him into her house.  Elsie came downstairs to a stilted conversation about daily life; tiptoeing around subjects she didn’t understand.  

The moment was shattered when her grandfather spoke of missing figures in her life.  The teacup cracked under the weight of her slam against the table.  “Stop it!”  Pain and anger laced the edges of her voice, almost like she was pleading.  Then, the fire drained away, “Please, stop it.”  Her grandfather was taken aback.

“Christi-”

“You have no right.”  Her mother ground out the words in distaste.  The fire was back, blazing brighter than ever.  She slapped her hands on the table, pushing herself to standing.  Elsie’s mother took in the small stature of the old man.  Elsie could imagine her mother’s line of sight, staring down at this father of hers like he was as pathetic as the filth she cleaned out of the bathroom.  Eyes narrowed and lips pursed, she gave a brief glance in her daughter's direction.  

Her mother stormed out of the room, not even bothering to slam the door behind her like usual.  Instead it swung absently, a tiny creak emitting back and forth.

Elsie was frozen in her spot, not daring to bring attention to herself.  She silently thanked the grating sound that filled the room.  She was jolted by her grandfather leaning forward with a sigh.  Shaking off his previous shock, he dug in his pocket for a lighter.

He flicked the switch as a bright knife of fire burned into his cigar.  Inhaling deeply, Elsie’s grandfather looked longingly at the doorway she had vacated.  Elsie switched from his gaze to the door, her eyes wide in anticipation.  When he looked back at the small child, all previous tension flooded out of the room.  Replaced instead, with sorrowful resignation.  Her grandfather plastered on a smile, yet there was no change in his eyes.  Elsie couldn’t place this mood, she’s seen her mother lose her temper more than not, but something about this occurrence held more weight to it.  His cracked lips opened, then closed, until they opened again to speak.  “She’s so much like your great aunt, I wish I had the right to be proud of her,”  he paused, “I want you to be better though, your mother is too stubborn for her own good.”  He sighed, and a puff of smoke trailed upward.  She watched the smoke hug the ceiling, spreading across the surface with relaxed motions.

He kept quiet for just a little longer, contemplating his next words.  In this moment, Elsie indulged in the silence.  It’s difficult to say she knew what he was talking about back then.  His cigar simmered, and he plucked it out from between his lips, holding it away himself.  Elsie continued to stare, feet still planted in the same spot.  His eyes made contact with hers, and her gaze darted to the floor.  The chair creaked.

When she looked up again, he was still facing her, his body crouched forward.  “I don’t want you to make the same mistake I did.  My life has been nothing but a cardboard cutout for abandonment, and I…”  He stopped, and he glanced away for a moment.  A small crinkle formed in the middle of his forehead.  Shifting his attention back to Elsie, his furrowed brow remained as he spoke.  “You’re going to come across people who tell you to follow your dreams, to become passionate about what you believe in.  And, while those are some nice thoughts, at the end of the day, the most important thing you can do is keep moving.  Even if you don’t reach your wants and desires, if you keep walking forward, that’s how you’ll know you're still alive.”

Again, he paused.  An unfamiliar expression crossed his features.  Those old eyes of his shined and pooled, as his lips twitched in an attempt to stay still.  When he spoke once more, his voice was throaty, and held back what Elsie assumed to be a wave of emotion.  “When you stop in the middle of the road, you get hit.”

That was the last time she saw the old man alive.

Eight years have passed since then, and Elsie found herself in front of his secluded and empty home.  It was interesting to say the least when they mentioned her name in his will.  Even if she vividly remembered that visit, she had no concrete opinion of the old man.  Many believed he was a fairly traditional man, feeling that it was only fitting to hand down the house to the eldest grandchild, the only grandchild.  

She exhaled, and faced the victorian esque home that might as well be her own.  The wind picked up and swirled around her feet.  Taking a step, she eased her way through the dreary front lawn, scanning the flowers that have been untended for ages.  They were wilted, limp and colorless on the damp grass.  Elsie walked up to the porch, the peeling wood groaning under her weight.  She noted that that would have to be fixed sooner than later.  Elsie observed the front door with some interest.  A wayside style piece that was probably older than her.  She peered through the windows, the warped viewpoint making it nearly impossible to see a thing.  Elsie brushed her fingers against cold steel, then plucked the key out of her pocket.  

The door clicked, and reluctantly allowed itself to be pushed open.  A slight chill wracked through her body, the house letting out a soft sigh from being suffocated for so long.  However, she hesitated to cross the threshold for wariness.  Slowly, she swiveled her head from each side, ready for some threat to appear in broad daylight.  Though in reality, the only inhabitants were laced with dust and cushions.

She cleared her throat just in case, hoping that that would drive away any would be murderers.  She crept inside, and pushed shut the door behind her with a resounding bang.  Elsie froze.  When there were no signs of further movement from the house, her shoulders relaxed a little.  Calmly, she took in the surroundings of her new home.  Stairs to the second floor sat directly in front of the entrance, and each piece of the furnishings were covered with sheets.

The first thing to do was explore the first floor, maybe tidying things up while she did so.  Elsie went about her business, ripping off sheets from old cushioned furniture and  picking up any leftover garbage from the floor.  The home’s only been unoccupied for a few months, and already the dust took up most of the air.  No wonder he died, his lungs must’ve been too fuzzy to keep him breathing.  Still, even with the creaks and dust, the house wasn’t that bad looking, at least in Elsie’s eyes.  It was quite old, perhaps even a reconstruction of victorian era style homes.  The simple touch of classic style furnishings made it feel authentic, and Elsie couldn't help the skip in her step as she observed this new home of hers.

Reaching the back door, she disposed of the old sheets on the outside porch, briefly glancing over the garden framed by trees before stepping back inside.  As the door closed, she checked her phone for the time.  It was mid morning, so she’d have plenty of time to spare before her mother picked her up in late afternoon.  Best to make a run though upstairs.  A she passed through the kitchen, she noticed how much bigger it was than the one at her moms house,  An island centered the room, with a silver chandelier hovering above it.  Much fancier than she was used to.

Through the parlor and back to the main entrance, Elsie began her path up the stairs.  She cringed at the loud creak they emitted, at least she’d be awoken to any intruders instantly.  Maybe she should get a roommate, or just head back home with her mom.  Living at home would disperse any interaction with a stranger.  Once she reached the top, Elsie toured the rest of the rooms, deciding which would be best for a bedroom, if she were to move in, which was still up for debate.  The vacant spaces had little color, and Elsie briefly glanced over them.  However, the master bedroom had a little key on the dresser, which she left sitting there.

At the end of the hall, the last room had a door that stood out among the others.  When Elsie came closer, she noted the differentiating paint that was a lighter shade of brown.  She brushed her fingers against the wood, stopping at the aged door knob.  It opened with a click, and she stepped inside.  

The room was entirely classical, with hints of her grandfather's own sense of style splashed throughout.  An embroidered desk lie next to the window, with parchment paper stacked neatly on top.  The room itself wasn’t very big compared to the rest of the house, yet it was by far the most personalized.  Elsie took in the well worn books lacing the walls on a shelf.  She reached over and swept off some dust caught on the lamp.  

She looked to the right side of the study, and saw various papers pinned to the wall.  Humming in interest, Elsie inched over to the display.  She shuffled some print.  There newspapers from years ago, printouts of government files, and college brochures.  Elsie could feel some of her previous adrenaline fizzling out, given she anticipated something noteworthy.  She saw two letters stuck together, one was a college acceptance letter, and the other was from some lady.  What she found underneath caught her attention.  It was so colorful in contrast to the rest.

It was a medium piece of parchment, containing a rough sketch of a woman.  She was in a standard position, her arms on spread slightly on both sides of her body.  She wore a large button up shirt that swamped her form.  Her expression was of neutral contentedness, yet the most prominent thing in the picture was her hair.  Elsie resisted from gliding her fingers over the vibrant red hair that bled along the other water colors.   

“Mall” was written at the bottom, next to the year.  1979.  Elsie tugged on the picture, spilling the rest of the papers on the dusty floor.  She sighed and resigned herself to picking up the clutter.  The letter from the women stood out, and Elsie quickly found herself reading through the words.

Dearest Paxton,

This country really is far more beautiful than I could have possibly imagined.  There’s something to be said about an ocean that sparkles under the sunshine, instead of the one back home.  Even after graduation, I don’t think I can bring myself to leave.  Still, there are times when I miss you and the rest of the family more than anything.  Yet, it’s so gratifying to finally be doing something on my own for once.  I want that for you to, and I feel like we separated too abruptly.  Though you and I both know we could have never stood side by side forever, else it would’ve killed the both of us.  

I want to know what it’s like at home without me; is everyone sad like I hope?  Ha, just kidding around, I hope everyone’s doing well, perhaps only missing me a little.  How are you doing?  I heard from Myrtle that you were had your applications sent out, she told me she caught them responding in the post office.  You should update me on every school that admitted you, I know you’re good enough even if you don’t seem to think so.  I want to know everything about it, please don’t hold back on me.  

I’m so happy here, and you know I want you to be too.  So don’t even think about getting sad over me, cause I’ll come all the way from Germany to bop you one!  I hope you find what you’re looking for brother, I know it’s been hard for you.

Love, Mallory

Elsie stared at  the name at the end, readjusting her grip on the sketch.  SHe said nothing about it, but there was an obvious connection going on.  She set the letter on top of the picture, and scavenged the rest of the room.  At first glance, the study was cluttered and inconsequential.  However, Elsie found that the more she observed, the more details she found about her grandfather.

Lazy sunlight poured over the desk, and she basked absently for a moment.  Unlike the empty barren halls and rooms, the study felt incredibly personal, and Elsie allowed her shoulders to relax a little.  The desk had a tiny drawer in the middle with a key lock.  Her eyes widened in a recognition, and she shuffled back to the master's bedroom.  There, the tiny bronze key remained, and she picked it up before returning to the study.

Elsie unlocked the drawer, and found some possible drama material.  A shy smile graced her features at the thought of a mystery.  She plopped the letter and drawing on the flat surface, fishing out the diary.  She fingered the worn greenish color cover.  The faux leather peeled at the corners, and the diary felt too full.  With careful precision, she opened it up, and hungrily consumed the words.

December 21, 2002

I can’t say I have the best commitment to these journal entries.  I suppose it would be quite unnecessary to write everyday anyways with the lack of activity in my life.  The most I've done in a regular week is buy eggs at the local grocer.  I think, that over these past few months I've been catching myself staring off at nothing.  And while this is not an odd occurrence, for anyone I believe, I’ve noticed my eyes searching for..something.  I feel something akin to a trance, rather than me zoning out.  I’m quite sure it’s nothing, but I get the feeling I should be doing something.  Even if I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to do.

Besides those few events scattered across the year, my routinely dread of the holidays has crept upon me again.  I should start closing up shop, at least before the carolers start flooding in.  God, the last time I had someone over for the holidays was with Mallory.

September 23, 2004

My home has been making strange noises in the night.  Don’t get me wrong, they’re not loud ghostly noises that come from the basement, nor are they shuddering wails and whispers that stick to your back in the light of day.  These sounds are fairly subtle, only making themselves known when my bed is bathed in moonlight.  I didn’t catch them at first, but when you tend to lie awake for hours every night, most of your senses are hyperactive.  

They start at the base of the house, deep underground, where not a shred of light can survive.  A deep rumble heaves through the ground, breaking through and intruding in my home.  On the dirt floor of my basement, it breaths and boils for a moment, before it shuffles with shocking speed across the ground, dust flying in its wake.  When it reaches the stairs, it officially makes it’s presence known.  The old wooden stairs creak under the weight, splintering with a moan.  The moonlight peeks out from under the door, as it scrambles up the stairs with graceless motions.  Yet, even though it’s speed is erratic and quick, only those that listened correctly could hear its movement.

Breaching the confines of the musty basement, it sprints through the ground level, viewing my home's items with hungry fervor.  It circles the the floor till it catches the the trail to the next level.  It limps up without resistance.  The dry groan of boiling water being its only noise, added only by its obnoxious footfalls.  It reaches the top, then the hallway, croaking and choking.  

It turns, and sees my bedroom door.  The sound grows with its anticipation, and one nail barely scratches the chipped wood.  I shoot up into a sitting position.  My head wracks to the right, eyes burning into the door.  All noises cease.

November 18, 2005

In a strange move on my part, I visited my daughter today, as well as meeting my granddaughter for the first time.  It was a huge and impulsive step for me, I surprised myself.  I think though, I just had to get out of that nightmarish house of bad memories.  As awkward and uncomfortable as it was, I can’t say I regret the time I had.  Yet, Christine is so much like Mallory, I was almost glad that I left earlier than expected.  She’s made a name all by herself, Christine never needed me to be amazing.  I could see the resentment in her eyes, even as she smiled and acted courteous; as she would with any guest in her home.  

Almost identical to Mallory, a true spitfire.  Her daughter however, was something far more familiar to me, even if I did want to admit it.  Elsie.  That was her name.  A small little girl as flowery as can be, pigtails and all.  She was so quiet, and I caught her staring in interest a few times.  Her stare was far too calculating to be just simple observations.  I can only hope that she’ll make the most of her youth.

She was the perfect reflection.  I might just visit them again soon.

June 3, 2007

This morning was just horrendously tiresome.  First I woke up later, groggy and irritable.  Then my toast got burnt, and I realized I was out of butter. After getting to the grocery store, little children snickered at my old fashioned attire, I left feeling dejected.  Upon returning, I saw that my burnt toast was the last I had of bread.  I finally just gave up on breakfast altogether.  Later in the afternoon, I stumped my toe on a nail, and I had to treat a bleeding broken nail.  Evening pulled around, and I suppose I felt a bit exhausted.  I shouldn’t really be so worked up over a mildly annoying day, but it’s only a highlight because nothing else has happened in a while.

That is, until I watched the sun go down over the horizon.  That bright yellow ball of fire disappeared behind the trees, and an odd sense of dread filled me as the last bits of light darkened, and the streaks no longer covered my face.  Before the cold and unwelcome shadows even greeted me, I rushed to my bedroom and locked the door.  I don’t think I have a logical explanation for my actions.  Even as I write, I still can’t come up with reason for my childish behavior.  As comedic as this day was, I can’t say my sleeping patterns have gotten any better.  I’ve spent nights wide awake, forcing myself to stare at the door.

With these words, I hope I can keep myself from looking behind me.  There’s a weight on my back that I can’t shake, and this paralyzing fear forces me to remain still.  This...thing, is haunting me.  God, I don’t know what to do.

May 15, 2009

I thought if I went to see Christine and her daughter again, I could shake this...whatever it is from my psyche.  However, Christine wasn’t nearly as forgiving as last time.  I thought if I could talk to someone, and let out all of my problems over the years that I could finally get some closure.  My child, she wasn’t having any of it.  As soon as I brought up Carol, she had officially shut me out.  I’ll never be able to make up for her life without a father.  I deserve it all, but I thought if I could just get her to listen, she could help me.  Though, I believe she might be right in pushing me away, to her I’m an omen.

I saw Elsie, she was bigger than the last time I saw her.  Her chocolate hair covered half of her face, and she struggled to make eye contact with me.  I tried talking to her, hoping that my words could trigger something, even if she didn’t understand them.  I don’t want her to suffer like I did.

When I left her house for what I assume will be the last time, the pang in my stomach returned at the thought of going home.  It’s funny, I never understood the fear of living alone, perhaps because I liked my solitude.  Now though, visions of my sister lurk in the back of my mind, as I too pace the corridors of this house.  What can I do to fix this?  Can I fix this?

I loathe the night, as it hides all of the answers I need to find a peace of mind.  I have to write.  He’s watching me.  I have to tell someone, even if they can’t say anything back.

October 18, 2017

I did it.  Mallory knows everything now.  I’m so glad.  Now when he gets here, I don’t have to worry.  Even as my hand shakes while I write this, I know no I shouldn’t be afraid.  I turned off all the lights in my room, so he can see better.  My only source of light is the comforting candlelight of the moon.  A while translucent blanket covers the polished wood of my writing table.  

I don’t think I can breath properly.  I can hear the footsteps now.  I wonder why I didn’t notice them before.  Thank you Mallory.  Carol.  Christine.  Elsie.  You all deserved to know the world without someone like me.  I can never apologize for the dreadful mark I may have left on you lives.

Ah.  There’s a knock at my door.

The last page was ripped out.  Elsie’s vision burned into those last few words.  The last breath of her grandfather lie on this page, and she had been the one to release it.  Even with this new information, the discovery was almost regrettable.  Those few entries left her feeling as empty as the home he deserted.  She tentatively set the journal on the desk.

She got up from the chair, as the late afternoon light centered on her.  She quietly left the study, not bothering to pick up the previous items.  Before, the home creaked and complained under her weight, but it was silent as she walked through.  Elsie’s thoughts drifted to her grandfather and his joke of a life.  To him, this house both protected and imprisoned him.  He couldn’t find salvation in his sister nor daughter.  The only thing left for him at the end was death.

And here she was.  A new vessel with just as much potential, with the same lack of motivation.  Elsie could very well meet the same fate, with her own mother standing idle.  She entered this house, and used Paxton’s tragedy to give herself some clarity.  

Elsie heard the familiar sounds of a car horn.  Her feet hit the last step, and She saw her mother’s vehicle outside.  Before she opened the door, Elsie glanced at the house, face neutral. Then she left.

Outside, there was an envelope in the mailbox, unsent.  Without word, Elsie brought it with her on her way to her mom’s car.  “Finally!” Her mother squaked, “I’ve been waiting for you forever!”  Elsie looked down, brow furrowed.  Her mom took no notice.  

“You’ll have to come back here to clear that garden, no good realtor’s going to take that on otherwise.”  Elsie shifted back to her mother’s tanned face.  She spoke with some rust, “Actually, I think I want to keep it.”  Her eye twitched in attempt not to take it back.  Even more so when a dark look shadowed her features.  She knew this dance well, but unfortunately for her mother, this would not be one of those times.  “Elsie don’t be crazy, there’s no way we can keep this beast.  Now I-”

“You don’t have to keep it, “  she interrupted, “I can do this on my own.”  When it looked like she might argue, she went on.  “I want to do this on my own.”  Hesitation glowed in her mother’s eyes, and her lips pursed.  “Well..” trailing off.  The wrinkles at the edges of her face tightened.  

Elsie watched as her mother’s line of sight connected with her own for what seemed like the first time.  Pent up oxygen inflated her chest.  “I suppose you do.”  Elsie exhaled.  It wasn’t quite an agreement, but it was an acknowledgement.  That was more than she ever imagined.  

Elsie couldn’t contain her grin, even as her mother nodded her head to the other side in gesture.  She climbed into the car, a smile engraved.  The car pulled away, leaving the house in the distance.

Mallory,

I’m sorr  I know that it’s my fault you went to the docks that day, and I know you were trying to help me in my stupidity.  I’m going to be honest, we never had a healthy relationship; something I know you tried desperately to alleviate so everyone could move on.  And you had your fair share of blunders when doing so, like when you insulted me to push yourself away, or when you kept quiet while things went from bad to worse.  Though, I can never say that you stopped trying, even when I did.

We both know that mom wanted to keep us apart, maybe since it was for the best.  I’ve spent a lot of time in this empty house, realizing that I can never go back to those days where it was just the two of us hanging out together.  Maybe if I ha  I know if I had done something different, I could’ve seen you again, you and everyone would still be smiling.  I can’t even remember what I was so afraid of back then.

You were right about me, I was miserable for no reason.  Treating you like an outlet for my frustration, and a person I could value anyway I wanted.  You leaving jarred so much of my life, I didn’t know how to function without you.  I think that if I had the tools, I would have followed you to the ends of the earth, thinking that it would all be better if I could just be by your side again.  I’m sorry.  I can never

You know dad recently died a few months ago, and I had know idea until Myrtle showed up on my doorstep.  I haven’t seen her since the last funeral, so I think I was pushed into clarity when she slapped me.  She said I was ungrateful and unfair to the family.  Then she just left after giving me location info.  I remember coming to to service, earning glares from our cousins and aunts and uncles.  I didn’t really talk to anyone while I was there, they would just talk at me.  I can’t quite recall what they were saying, but everything carried the same broken tune.  Pathetic, ungrateful, cruel.  I’m not sure I know the meaning of those words anymore.  Isn’t everyone all three of those at some point?  Are you defined by them we you let them consume you?  Or could it be a way to view others around you at convenience?

After the service ended, and everyone flooded out of the room, I was left with my father.  He was a lot older looking from the last time I saw him.  His hair was silver, receding away from a wrinkled forehead.  His lips were cracked and pale, still visible under pounds of makeup.  The crows feet on the border of his closed eyes pointed downward.  I suppose you would have laughed and said his face looked like a raisin.  And yet, even with all of these obvious signs of age, he didn’t look nearly as old as I felt.  His life had held meaning to others, and the only truly happy memories I can remember were the times I had with you.  I left before they buried him.

I suppose this letter to you is an apology, to everyone.  I can never undo the hurt I’ve left on others.  But I don’t deserve to say sorry unless I can fix the problem, and I’ll never be able to.  Not now.  You, Carol, and mother were the ones I left behind.  Or maybe I just didn’t follow along with you, since I haven’t moved from the same spot since you flew miles away.  I’ve given up everything for nothing, and I know that I’m too old to do anything about it.

I can feel that shadow on my door, and he’s going to find the key soon enough.  I don’t think the fear has left, it never has, but I think I’m willing to accept the next change in my life.  Well, it’s the least I could do for you.

Paxton

Author's Note

This was a prototype short story for school, and I plan on finishing it to its full glory in the future. Until then, this is what I had to offer to my teachers. I wrote it while I was struggling with my own self doubt about the future. Though, as I get used to taking criticism into account with my writing, I realize that my journey is more or less the same. No one really knows what's going to happen in the future, and I can at least take some comfort that everyone is as clueless as I am.