In limbo.

Most people just drive by without as much as a passing look at me perched up at the top of the hill. The years took away my color; it used to be yellow, not a shiny lemon but a deeper Ecru shade, like a well worn silk. The subtle luster is gone now replaced by brown streaks like wrinkles on an aging face. The front door carved in dark wood took the worse hitting by the passing years; the wood dried and lost its color. Still it stands there strong and proud willing to fulfill its mission and guard against unwanted intruders oblivious to the fact that there is no longer anyone to guard.

I still remember the day they left and closed the door behind them. It made a soft clicking sound the way it did every day for fifty years.  I was sure they will be back any minute. There was nothing different about them. They did not stand and look around the way I saw some people do when they try to etch the views into their head. They did not say anything different to each other.  True she did not stand with her back to the front door moving her eyes slowly along the burgundy rug and up the wooden staircase like she did anytime they left on a long trip. She used to do this ritual with the eyes and whisper under her breath something that sounded like a prayer for a good journey. She never missed it even when he, as always rushed, would scream already from the other side of the door “Come ‘on Eva, we are going to be late”. She smiled her special little smile and tucked her hair behind her ears, wave a half wave in no special direction and then turned around and walked through the door, not this time.

In the beginning I was sure she just forgot or was preoccupied, she looked distracted in the few months before they left, and unlike her usual meticulous habits kept leaving things like books and coffee mugs lying around. He more stressed than usual, kept giving her instructions. I thought nothing of it, they left so many things behind it did not make sense they were not going to come back for them.

But slowly as the quiet crept from one room to another I realized that this was it and the finality made me feel cold and frozen inside. Ice was covering everything outside that first winter and in some places got inside and I watched helplessly as it climbed on the front steps then under the door and through the window sills. The first window shattered in the middle of the winter. There was a loud noise as if something hard hit it and the sound of shattered glass filled my ears. It was the long painted glass window on the stairway and I thought how upset she is going to be when she’ll see it before remembering that she was not coming back. It was very cold after that and at night the wind spilled in and swirled around, at times just toying with papers and old newspapers moving them around and other times shrieking and blowing the curtains wildly.

And then one night late into the spring the rain came in and left small shining paddles everywhere on the kitchen floor. The burgundy rug turned deep blood color as it soaked the water. When the days became warmer the water evaporated but by that time the wood floor got all stained and warped. At night I could hear the soft crackling noises of the wood planks shifting, creating cracks that kept growing and widening until the basement could be seen from almost every spot on the first floor.

What upset me more than anything in that cold long winter and later as spring bloomed all around were the pictures. So many of them accumulating over the years, some framed and hanging on the walls and so many others in picture albums. She used to love leafing through them getting all excited over this one or the other. How could she leave them behind? Like kids that no one wants anymore they were looking from the walls and the wind kept toying with them. One by one they fell to the floor snapping into many pieces. The albums, after some neighborhood kids got into the house once the snow finally melted, were thrown all around with their open pages facing the ceiling.  

By the end of the second winter the kitchen floor caved into the basement and my whole body shifted violently. That it when it dawn on me, this was it, no one is going to come and fix things up. It was going to get worse and worse until there will be nothing left.

In those last days of winter when the weather was changing, alternating between warm spring like days and back to cold and freezing, I kept thinking of the good old days. I remembered being full with life, noise and laughter. Doors open and close, windows raised and lowered, bringing in the smell of the wood fire on the cold winter night, the rain tapping on my roof in spring and the wind swirling the leaves in the fall.

People don’t think that houses like me have a heart that can break; they don’t care to even look when they pass by me sitting up on the hill. All they see is the faded color and the twisted lines. All they see is a body without a soul.   

In Limbo

There are houses whose souls have passed into the limbo of Time, leaving their bodies…J.Galswarthy

Perched at the top of the hill, it looks grand and from afar untouched by time.  As if at any moment the door will slowly open and someone will come out, the quiet would shatter and the numerous noises of everyday life will once again envelope it.

A closer look reveals a falling barn with a roof that lost its footing, way beyond repair. Another look, more thorough, at the house itself reveals the growing cracks in the otherwise impressive appearance. A mere hollow body with its soul gone or perhaps there is something of the previous life still pounding deep inside.

The color was once yellow, not a shiny lemon but deeper Ecru shade like a well worn silk. The years took the subtle luster away and added brown streaks like wrinkles on an aging face. It adds beauty in the eyes of those who believe that each wrinkle has a story to tell, wisdom earned by the years. The front door carved in dark wood took the worse beating by the passing years; the wood dried and lost its color. Still it stands there strong and proud ready to fulfill its mission, and guard against unwanted intruders oblivious to the fact that there is no longer anyone to protect.

I press the handle and the door open effortlessly, and while the cold air from inside, somewhat musty, escapes outside, I step in. I can sense the house sigh of relief as it wraps itself around me with many moans and squeaks. I know it is only the warmer air coming through the open door and now spreading in the closed space that is creating this effect. Constricting and expanding, it’s a physical phenomenon, but for a minute it seems as if the whole house is heaving a deep sigh of relief and stretches out. 

Eyes, it’s my first reaction as I slowly turn around trying to take in the full setting. Eyes looking at me from pictures hanging on the walls and the open albums tossed around. Someone must have been in a great hurry if they couldn’t stop for just a moment to gather their family pictures from the walls, and tuck an album or two under their arm. Left behind to rot, unwanted and unmissed they continue to breathe life into the empty space. As I stand there motionless, I think for a fleeting moment that I can hear them whispering softly, repeating the stories that no one will tell anymore. I lean forward and pick one of them that catch my eye and wipe the dust off. I stick it into my coat pocket and walk away.

***

I always had a passion for houses, mostly older ones with a story to tell. I have no explanation for this obsession. Growing up in a small apartment, surrounded by other apartments, and the sounds of people filtering through the walls, and ceilings, and doors, could have yielded this yearning.  All I know is that they were always present in my life, thoughts about houses, memories about houses, dreams about houses, you name it. This fascination manifested itself in varied forms; immersing myself in real-estate books, house plans, and occasional frantic searches for houses teamed with a keen memory of every house I lived in, or visited, as part of these disorganized pursuits.

Moving to Maine I added a relatively new chapter to my blazing infatuation, abandoned houses. They are without a doubt the icing on the cake. They have all the necessary components to light up my imagination, and the story teller in me. They are old, no one loves them, they are bodies with lost souls, and they have a story to tell.  

This one I found only few streets away from where I live, on top of a small hill. One cold winter day I climbed up to the front door, disturbing a thick layer of fresh shiny white snow. There were no other footsteps in sight. When I got to the top I turned around, the sun at my back, and looked over the sky, and the ocean, merging into a dazzling radiant blue.

Chasing memories

The first time she calls me, Clara sounds a bit unsure “I hope that you will be willing to meet with me, I have some questions. “ She does not introduce herself, so I stop her in mid-sentence, and a long awkward pause takes over the line.
“Let’s start again,” I try to ease her in. “You are?”
“Oh, so sorry, I never told you who I am and why I am calling,” She clears her throat while I wait patiently.
“Clara, “she starts, “I am a third-year student at the University of Tel-Aviv, “I want to meet with you and ask a few questions about your last book.”
“Why me?” I probe.
“Because I am doing my final project for my degree, it’s about historical fiction, and I thought you could help me by telling me how you wrote your book.”
Now I am getting impatient, a bit insulted too. “My book is not fiction; you know that don’t you?”
“I know,” she says, “but I like to talk to you about the process…” She stops and clears her throat again, “Please can we meet? Anywhere, you choose.”
And so it happens that the next day I find myself, in my favorite café at the end of Sheinkin St. 
Being early, I get to pick a table on the sidewalk with my back to the café. I can watch the kaleidoscope of people walking by and wonder if I will identify Clara before she sees me. It is one of the little games I play on my spare time, now that I have so much of it.
This time, it’s easy; I see her coming from the other end of the street. Long black hair tied back in a ponytail, quick and jumpy walk, slender built, exactly like I imagined she will look.
The minute her eyes meet mine she nods her head and smile. The smile lights her eyes and makes her look even younger.
“Hi, I am Clara,” She does not shake my hand; instead she slumps into the chair across the table and pull out a book from her big pocket book. She lays it on the table, facing up; it is my last book the one she came to talk about. She fumbles in her bag for a few more minutes and finally she brings up a thin folder and a pen. When she is done, she leans back and looks at me expectantly.
I return her gaze and smile but say nothing.
“Your book,” She starts when she realizes I am not going to speak.
“I like to be able to write about my family like you did, and maybe you can share some of your experience with me.”
When I still say nothing she smiles, take a deep breath and starts again;
“It’s my professor, he saw my first draft about abandoned towns, and he thinks I should dig deeper.”
I remain quiet and take another sip from my coffee.
“Abandoned towns, “She seems like she is going to start at the beginning this time, “This was my proposal for a final project, Professor Noble, my teacher, did not like it.”
Ok, this is going to be longer than I anticipated.
“Why don’t you order something to drink, “I suggest,” and start from the beginning, “I have time.”
***
“So four months later, when I brought him the first draft he read it, said it was good but that I should dig deeper.” Clara takes the last sip from her cold lemonade and looks at me waiting for my reaction.
“What were his exact words,” I try to gain time.

Clara looks thoughtful and then as if reciting words she repeated to herself over and over says; “This is really good work, but you are not even close to the real purpose, to your true mission. You were going to search for ‘real’ stories about people in abandoned towns, weren’t you? But you missed the most important person, you missed yourself.” His exact words, she chuckles.

“Ah, and then he said; ‘I will give you an extension, go and complete what you need to do.’”

“So what do you think he meant?” I am still playing for more time.

“I think that I missed the main thing, I was so blind, my professor saw it; he saw that I was driven to research towns that no longer lived so I can run away from the one story I was destined to tell, my family story. In each town I visited I found something I could take with me. But in the end there is no one who can tell my story.” She looks at me, apparently troubled. “I know very little about my family, I never bothered to ask and now it is too late, almost everyone is dead.”

To that I have an answer that I am not sure she will like; “This is how you do it, “I say slowly, “You start with what you know, and then you continue, step by step one detail after another, that’s what I did.”

She looks confused and for a long moment say nothing, then with a quick movement pulls out her laptop, opens it and starts to type. For a few moments I watch her fingers dance on the keyboard and her brow knotted. When she picks up her head she is breathless like a swimmer who emerges out of deep cold water.

“Can I read you what I just wrote?” she asks and without waiting for my answer starts to read.

 “This is what I know to be true. In June of 1938 when my mother turned fourteen she had to leave her home. It was abrupt, it was not planned, it happened in the dark of night. The train ride, the border crossing, the soldiers that one of them winked at her when no one noticed. It was like watching a movie, only this time she was the star. In March of that year the Germans took over her home-town Vienna, life from that moment on changed for her and her family and everyone she knew, after that nothing was ever going to be the same.”

I look at Clara and nod, I don’t have to say anything, she is on her way, I know it, and she knows it too.

 “Life, with its rules, its obligations, and its freedoms, is like a sonnet: You're given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. - Mrs. Whatsit” ― Madeleine L'Engle, A Wrinkle in Time

I

They met in Arad, a small town on the edge of the Judean desert. Rose returned to Israel a few weeks prior, after finishing her degree in Education in the US, and Lev, an American accountant fresh out of college and new in town. Arad, not more than a big village, if we want to stick to the facts, was the last bus stop on a lonely winding road that cut through Bedouin villages of dusty black tents and several clusters of Salt Cedar trees bent to the ground as a useless cry against the desert winds.

To the east the town opened to a panoramic vista of rolling hills ending at the shore of the Dead Sea, bordered on its opposed shore by a wall of red sandstone and gray granite, the snow clad Edom mountain range, following the outline of the Jordanian border. 

It could have been the primal scenery that made them bond so quickly; Nature has an immense power on people’s emotions. But more likely it was the fact that she needed to walk her dog every afternoon after work, and he was consumed by boredom. The long walks yielded conversations that soon detoured from the beauty of the desert at sunset and revolved around their life.

Lev talked about growing up in a small town USA and how one day he decided to break out of what expected of him, packed few necessities in his back-pack and took a one way flight to Israel.

“That was a brave move,” Rose nodded in appreciation. “Now you are free to make your own decisions.”

“Isn’t it funny that you left, then came back and we met here of all places?” Lev mulled over what he called serendipity.

Soon their conversations became more personal and over coffee in the only café in town they marveled to discover that even though their backgrounds were so different they had so much in common. Many captivating hours were spent over coffee, discussing plans and investigating ideas for their life together. They both agreed that theirs was not going to become the usual, rather stereotypic two kids, one dog, and apartment on the second floor kind of life. Rose wanted to travel, and Lev felt that with his profession they can settle anywhere in the world.

“We’re lucky, “he kept saying to her, “That our parents are far away and cannot interfere with our plans.”

“Yes,” Rose agreed wholeheartedly, “My parents would never agree a wedding in the US, let alone skipping it all together.”

II           

At the time Lev and Rose decided to tie the knot their parents were far away. Rose’s in South America, where they run a Hebrew school and Lev’s in Connecticut, USA. They thought they would be able to avoid the wedding ceremony altogether and just announce it after the fact. But Lev’s parents informed them that it would not do to rob them of the opportunity to invite all the friends that over the years invited them, to their family events. Lev and Rose planned to travel to South America to see all the places she dreamed on for years; Rio, Tierra del Fuego, Machu Fichu.  So they granted their consent to a small gathering with her parents and brother, a few members of Lev’s family, and some chosen friends.

“Weddings,” Rose mused,” The carefully picked dress, the hair- do, the flowers, being the center of attention, so many expectations all wrapped together into few hours of total craziness that some women dream of all their lives.”She was so amused by the idea of a wedding full of strangers; she decided to up the entertainment and did not even get a bridal gown.

On Thursday, the day before the flight to the US, they visited her aunts, uncles, and cousins to say their goodbyes. Everyone expressed their disappointment not being able to attend the wedding. They returned the notion but inwardly were relieved. On Friday morning they met Rose’s best friend, Rina for a last cup of coffee and took photos on the Tel-Aviv beach. A picture of Rose and Lev standing on the pier, Rose’s hair flying in the ocean breeze still stands on Rina’s desk. They accepted Rose’s cousin’s offer to drive them to the airport, where he dropped them with their luggage, shortly before midnight and wished them good luck.

III

The empty parking lot as they drove in should have been their first clue. But they were so occupied with their luggage and tired after a long day of goodbyes that they didn't notice when they entered the Ben-Gurion International Airport Terminal, that it was completely deserted.

The lights were dimmed, and it was dead quiet. An empty terminal that is typically exploding with people and security was so eerie that the sinking feeling in Rose's chest became overpowering. She looked at Lev, who like her, was moving his eyes from side to side taking in the empty departure hall. They were both waiting for the lights to come up and flood the big space revealing the people like a big surprise party. After all, they were getting married and on the way to their wedding.

But nothing happened, just a short elderly lady with a big broom appeared from the other side of the hall, dragging her feet and humming an unknown melody under her breath. She almost bumped into them, gave them a tired look, as if by now she has seen everything and nothing will surprise her. She then shrugged her shoulders and turned in the other direction.

“Hey, where is everybody?” Rose said just to break the silence, and her voice sounded strange and hollow in her ears. Lev pulled out the tickets from the blue pouch holding the passports and other vital papers. He leafed through them looking hopeful. Rose did not have to look; she knew what was written there, they checked the tickets many times, but now she suddenly got it.  Damn! They were one day too late. Flight on midnight, they should have been more careful when the travel-agent convinced them that they would not get a better rate, and then smiled a broad smile that revealed a black gap on his upper jaw where he lost a tooth.

From the look on his face, Rose knew that Lev had the same epiphany. In the years to come this was going to be funny, she heard people say that,  but standing in the airport looking into the emptiness Rose wished she could miraculously disappear, or leap into the future and avoid trying to explain to her parents and friends what happened.

At that moment Lev leaned and whispered in her ear “Every bride’s worst nightmare,”

“Every groom’s secret wish, “she whispered back, and a big grin was starting to form inside her.

“Rose, Mary Hill will you still marry me?” Lev was suddenly kneeling in front of her, holding a sparkly article in his hand.

“Will you?” he repeated seeing her surprised face.

“What the Hell, “she said, wondering why she was still whispering.

“To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.” They recited, the marriage vows, in loud voices, holding hands in front of a non-existing audience. They bowed slightly with a lot of dignity, but no one was cheering so they collected their luggage and walked towards the entrance doors, which opened unanimously, in a quiet whoosh and then closed behind them.