Memories from a House

It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same, at least on the outside. The sunlight found its way through the leaves of the tree she was under, children’s laughter reached her ears, a car passed by in the otherwise quiet road and the house in front of her stared her down. As she stood there, caught in a doomed staring match with the building, memories started leaking from the foundations of the house. They slowly flowed down the front yard, forming a muddy pool around her shoes and soaking her feet, forcing her to remember. 

Her father stood at this exact same spot she was now, and watched her ride her bike on her own for the first time, cheering her on. Her mother stood here watching her, as she set off to school for the very first time, without her. She herself stood at this spot when she had her first kiss, her first break up. She stood here as she watched the ambulance go. 

Hundreds of big and small memories were tangled between the leaves of these perennial trees, shoved between the cracks in the pavement and reflected on the windows of the suburban houses. There were thousand more hidden inside the house. A place she used to call home.

“Excuse me? Ma’am?” A young, unsure voice. 

She blinked the memories away and focused on the person talking to her. A lanky girl in her teens was approaching her, an expression of genuine concern was spread across her features. She was barefoot and her long, blonde hair undulated with the spring breeze. 

“Yes?” Was her simple reply.

The girl tilted her head slightly to the right, a small wrinkle between her eyebrows. “Do you need help?” 

How long was she standing in front of the yard, barely outside of the property, staring at the house?

“Oh, no” she laughed a little, waving a dismissive hand. “I am fine, sorry for creeping around.” 

The girl offered her a small but polite smile. Curiosity had found its way into her eyes. Her face was so animated, showcasing her emotions for everyone to see. She seemed like a romantic soul.

“Are you sure?” She asked.

“Yes.” She looked around at the familiar, yet so distant, neighbourhood. “I just used to live here. In this house.” She looked at the house behind the girl and then at the girl herself. “Probably before you were even born.”

The girl turned her head and looked at the house, making a split second decision. “Would you like to come in?”

Definitely a romantic soul. A teenage girl, that was eager to naively let a complete stranger into her house, that was willing to put up with a woman — that was probably around her mother’s age — during her precious spring break. 

She smiled at the girl. “You should not let strangers into your house.”

The girl smiled, a toothy smile. “What’s your name?”

“Anna.”

“I am Ingrid. We are not strangers anymore.”

Anna laughed with this bizarre girl. “Are at least your parents in the house?”

Ingrid shrugged, giving her an almost proud smile as she answered. “Nope.” She paused for dramatic effect. “But my older brother is. I do have some common sense.”

Anna smiled and focused her gaze on the house, actually considering if she wanted to go inside. Would she feel sad, bittersweet, returning to her childhood house after so many years to find it changed? Would it be cathartic, would she finally be able to let go and move on? She genuinely had no idea. A leap of faith it was, then.

“Well?” Ingrid asked.

“Sure.” Anna answered. 

Ingrid gifted her with her brightest smile yet and turned around, motioning for Anna to follow her. Anna hesitated for only a second before she followed her. She counted the steps she took until she reached the stairs, and then she counted the stairs, as she climbed them up, starting with her right foot. She also entered the house with her right foot. She unconsciously fell into the comfortable routine she used to have as a kid and a teenager. Counting steps, stairs, entering rooms with her right foot; small indicators of her compulsive behaviour. 

She stoped in the entranceway, her eyes exploring what she could see of the unknown house. And it was neither sad nor cathartic. It was just… strange. 

“Come on in.” Ingrid said. “Do you want coffee? Some tea?” 

“Just water.”

Ingrid nodded. “The living room is over there. Well, I guess you already know that. Go ahead and take a sit, I will bring you some water.”

Anna smiled and made her way into the living room. Only the windows and the walls were — probably — the same, everything else was altered, redecorated. It was nice, though. Modern and cozy, with soft, warm colours, there were lots of plants and books scattered around. There were a lot of movie posters, tastefully hanged on the walls. Only a young woman with a cup of tea, a book and a blanket was missing to complete the picture. It was that kind of room. 

Anna was staring at a huge Casablanca poster, when Ingrid walked in with a glass of water and a beverage for herself. She placed them on the low coffee table, and sat on the sofa. Anna took her lead, sitting on the opposite end of it. 

“Where you named after Ingrid Bergman?” 

Ingrid glanced at the Casablanca poster and smiled. “Yeah. My parent’s first date was to a Casablanca screening.” 

Romantic parents had produced a romantic child. Fitting. Anna smiled and took a sip from her water, just to be polite. “Thank you. For the water. And for letting me in.”

Ingrid shrugged. “No problem. So how long ago did you use to live here?”

Never. That was Anna’s first impulsive answer. There was nothing inside here that reminded her of her home. But she was not about to freak this kid out. 

“I haven’t been here for twenty-four years. But it used to be my family house.” She answered.

“And how old are you? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Anna smiled at that. “I am forty-six” God, sometimes Anna forgot how old she really was. “And how old are you Ingrid? If you don’t mind me asking.” She teased.

“I am seventeen.” Sometimes Ingrid forgot how young she actually was. 

Anna nodded and looked around. Ingrid followed her gaze, and then examined the woman in front of her. She tried to imagine what she might be feeling. How would she feel if she returned here, after so many years, to find another family occupying her home? 

“Why did your family sell the house?” Ingrid asked, curious to know Anna’s life story. 

Anna’s smile dropped. An old sadness found its way to her face and settled on her features. “It was the only way to cover my father’s medical bills.” She paused, trying to figure out why she wanted to pour her heart out to this kid. Eh, whatever. Why not? It was about time she talked with someone.

“He got very sick when I was nineteen, but he fought it off for a year.” The worst year of her life. Her father, who was so full of life, energetic, always present, the one who taught her and her brother how to ride a bike, how to swim and play the guitar. He was the same man that was rotting in front of their eyes, bedridden and slowly fading away. It was so painful to watch. 

Anna shrugged and slightly shook her head. “He lost the fight. It was inevitable, really. But the medical bills had pilled up. We tried, for almost two years, to cover them. Something that proved undoable, so we sold the house.”

She got a job and went to a college near her house, so that their expenses would not increase. She stopped buying stuff, she rarely went out, but it was not enough. And she was furious; with the health system, with the world, with herself, with her mom. Before her father died and she went to college, she had even offered to give up the money for her tuition. ‘Anna… You are so kind but no, your father’s future is sealed. Yours is just beginning.’ It was delivered with a soft and gentle voice, but to Anna’s ears it was sharp, because it was the ugly truth and she did not want to hear it. It was said in this same living room.

“I am so sorry.” Ingrid said and it was so genuine that it warmed Anna’s heart. 

She smiled. “Don’t be. It’s ok, it was so long ago, the wounds are closed.” But the scars were always itching. 

Ingrid’s big, bright eyes darted at Anna’s. She was sensing that it was not all that ok, but she did not push it. Instead she turned her attention towards the house. 

“Do you want to see the rest?” She asked. 

“I would love to.” 

Ingrid smiled and got up, Anna followed her through the kitchen, the office, the downstairs bathroom, the closet. A memory was waiting for her in every room, presenting itself the moment she stepped her right foot, into one.

“Do you miss it?” Ingrid asked as they climbed up the stairs. 

“Yes. I used to love this house so much that I talked to it.”

Ingrid turned around to look at her, her eyebrows raised in question.

Anna laughed. “Before my brother was born, I was… lonely. A shy, introverted child, and I didn’t have anyone to talk to. So I talked to the house.” She smiled at the memory. “I wrote and hide small messages to every little slot and crevice I could find in it.”

Ingrid also smiled, not in a mocking way. The way teens use to smile to anything emotional said by older people. No. Her smile was soft. 

“Do you think there are still your messages around here?” She asked.

Anna smiled at the idea. “Possibly.” 

Ingrid’s eyes sparkled. She would probably turn the house upside down, later, searching for hidden notes. Anna wished she found them, she wished to be seen, even if it was her considerably younger self that was going to get exposed in front of Ingrid. They stood at the head of the stairs, now, and stared down the corridor. 

“Which one was your room?” Ingrid asked.

“Last door to the right.”

Ingrid let out a small, enthusiastic squeak. “Mine too!”

Anna laughed at her excitement. “It is the best bedroom in the house.” 

Ingrid nodded, affirmatively. “You can go check it out. I am going to use the bathroom.” She smiled to Anna and stepped into the upstairs bathroom. Anna was pretty sure it was just an excuse to give her some privacy. Either way, she was grateful for it. 

She walked down the corridor. She took small steps, her eyes travelled across the space, she raised her hand to her side and let her fingertips brush the wall as she walked. One of the doors was open, she caught a glimpse of a leg hanging from a bed and a silent humming. Her brother was indeed in the house. Good.

She stood outside of her once childhood bedroom and it was just so… bizarre. She gently touched the door — it was the same one — and felt the wood under her hand. She had slammed this door countless times and now she was opening it gently, peeking her head in, almost expecting her old room to greet her. 

Of course it didn’t. Instead she saw a miniature of the living room. She smiled and stepped in — always with the right foot leading — closing the door behind her. She could so easily imagine Ingrid taking refugee from the outside world, here. Reading, listening to music, studying, possibly writing poems. She walked towards the window and looked outside. The view was the same, a suburban area where everything looked perfect, but rarely was. 

She kneeled and crossed her hand under the wooden window frame, feeling somewhere in the middle a little crack. It was still there. She got up, picked up a scissor from Ingrid’s desk and kneeled once more in front of the window frame. With the assistance of the scissor, she managed to pull from the small crack a piece of paper. She smiled and unfolded it. 

‘Dad promised to take me fishing next Sunday.’

She missed him so, so much. And she had spend more years without him than with him, you would think that she would be used to it by now. But the pain of his absence would every so often still hit her, with unbearable force. And she still had to fight with it, in order for her to not be crashed.

She got up to her feet and placed the scissors where she found them. She took a pencil and underneath the note, her 8-year old self had written, she wrote a note for Ingrid. ‘Speak with people. Houses tend to not answer back.’ 

When her mother suggested to sell the house, she was so scared to leave this place. She feared that the memories she had made here would fade away, and with them her father. But she carried him everywhere, and there was not a day that went by without her remembering him. 

And in her memories he was telling her all about how to set up a tent, or how to play the F chord, watching documentaries with her and questioning her first boyfriend over dinner. He was alive and laughing and that was all that mattered.