Legacy

“Maybe it’s time to pick a new path. You know, something that sticks. We need to think about the future,” she says calmly, but her finger taps the table in that nervous and annoying way. It’s clear she’s been rehearsing the delivery.

“Yeah … I understand what you’re saying. It’s hard for me to hear. But I understand.” I, too, have rehearsed. We’ve done therapy. We bury our resentment under a thousand pounds of communication. I reach across the table and place my hand on hers, ending that fucking tapping.

“You look just like the guy from that commercial,” he tells me. I’ve heard this before. Less and less, though. It’s been a few years.

“Oh, right. The Super Bowl commercial?” I place my energy drink and beef jerky on the counter for him to ring up. I’ve been driving for ten hours and need the fuel.

“Bucs won it that year, right? ‘Beer me!’ You look just like him.”

“Yeah, I think they did win.” I have no idea. I only tuned in at halftime to see myself in the commercial. Beer me. It paid well. If only there had been more commercials that paid well. “Hey, maybe you can help me out. Do you recognize this address?” I show him the notes app on my phone with an address typed: 935 Rosa Rd. Beneath it is a name—Julie. He eyes the address.

“I know that road, but no houses down that way. Used to be. They tore ’em down.”

“Really?” I’ve been carrying this address around since I was fifteen. “This is Meadow, right?”

“Yes, sir. Where are you coming from?”

“L.A.”

“No kiddin’ ...” Now, he wants to ask me if I am the “beer guy.”

“Thanks anyway.” I grab my can of chemicals and jerky and head for the door.

I fill up my Prius, suspended in the fluorescent light of the gas station’s overhang. I feel the ache of the cold air in my bones. Looking beyond the light of the overhang, I note the two-lane highway in the near distance. I can jump back on it and take it south back to L.A. where I can pick a new path. It’s so easy to say…

Now, I eye the single road out of the gas station that cuts beneath the two-lane highway and leads into Meadow. I squint, trying to make out anything at all in the darkness that sits on the other side. That’s where the town is, supposedly. But from where I’m standing, it’s a black abyss. The highway is the barrier. I’m floating on a lone speck of light right at the edges. If I leave the safety of the gas station’s lights and follow that road, maybe it will swallow me.

I get back into my car to find a text from her. She’s mad I skipped town without a heads-up. But she’s polite about it.

935 Rosa Road. Julie. I’ve been carrying these for twenty years. Not much has gone right in that time, except for that one beer commercial.

I look up through my windshield as I pass beneath the two lanes of road that would have taken me back to L.A. The asphalt quickly deteriorates on the other side of the underpass. I slow down, fearing the bumps will worsen the already embarrassing condition of my Prius. The music playing from my phone skips out and then completely disappears. I guess that underpass marked the end of the world—or at least, cell service.

After a few minutes of night, jarring bumps, and silence, I hit the end of the asphalt road and come to a barely standing stop sign. I study the dirt road that the tattered asphalt becomes, knowing I shouldn’t brave it. Nobody can reach me out here. Something about that rings appealing to me. So, I nudge the gas pedal and inch myself onto the dirt road.

As I creep along the road, I eventually come to an old electrical grid surrounded by a rusted-over chain-link fence. I pull to a stop and roll my window down. The air is even colder out here, cutting into me. There’s an audible crack of electricity … I follow the sound up the structure to where I see the stark blue flash of electricity freely flowing between two metal points. I’m mostly positive that shouldn’t be happening, but I can’t take my eyes off the electricity, the way it sparks in the night, totally uncontained. I think I can feel it. Some kind of static crackling into the air, through the open window, and into me.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been parked out here, staring at the blue flashes of light ...

Nothing but the steady vibrations of the dirt road and absolute blackness as I drive. I don’t even exist out here. Have you ever felt it? This dull euphoria. I pull my car over. I step out onto the dirt—it’s like cement, iced over. I walk to the slanted street sign complete with some bullet holes and a just-visible “Rosa Road” rusted into it.

Welcome home, I think, with acute sarcasm. I’d always figured I’d make this trip. The hope was to come back here as a big success and reflect humbly on my beginnings. Aw, hope. Hope carries a positive spin, but it’s always felt like a dead weight to me. Nagging at you. Prodding you further down the plank.

I look around. Moonlight manages just enough light to make out endless, empty fields. My car’s headlights are on, serving as the sole beacons into what’s left of this world—dirt, ice, and night. There’s nowhere left for hope to prod me. Have you truly ever had nothing to lose? It’s absolute freedom.

I hear footsteps behind me—I freeze. I turn to the sound but see nothing. I wait, listening. I can still hear it, someone walking in the darkness. I move to my car, balance on one leg, and stick my free foot inside to hit the brakes. A red glow spills out onto the dirt road behind my car. I see her …

A woman in white, her back to me, just visible at the far reaches of the red brake light. I watch her moving further away. I open my mouth to say something, but I hesitate. What would I say? Then, she’s gone.

I get back into my car, debating if I should drive after her. What’s worse, to not offer help or to approach her in the middle of the night on the outskirts of nowhere? Amidst this internal debate, I see something else that steals my attention in the distance—a green orb that bubbles up in the night like a snow globe. I can just make out a small house at the center. How had I missed it before? I hit my brakes again and look in the rearview. Neon red paints the dirt behind me—no trace of the woman.

I pull to a stop across the street from a long gravel driveway that leads to the house. It’s surrounded on all sides by what I assume to be empty fields. The only light radiates from a single point—a flood light suspended above the garage; it bathes the house in a sickly neon green. It’s a small home, a mixture of bricks and stucco, timeless mass-produced Americana. Inside the house, like the surrounding area, is dark. Lifeless.

I squint at the mailbox—a rusted orifice impaled on a rotted post, trying to make out the address. I can’t. I eye the front window of the house, still no signs of life. I’ve come this far … I get out of the car and scurry across the street, my eyes cautiously scanning for concerned residents. I make it to the mailbox and see a corroded "9" screwed into the metal. I lean closer and discern the imprint of where a "3" used to be … Or was it an "8"? I look back at the house. Could this be 935 Rosa Road? Did I actually find it? Even if it’s not … I’m sure it would have looked just like this. Maybe that’s enough.

The front window of the house lights up—I stumble back, instinctively trying to hide, jerking right and left, and ultimately freezing in place. There’s nowhere to go. I reluctantly look to the window where the warm glow of a lamp billows from behind nearly opaque white curtains. I see the slightest trace of someone’s shadow, standing at the window behind the curtain … Staring at me. I wave. Like an idiot, I wave. The figure remains motionless.

I hustle back to my car, offended by my own creepiness. I sit inside and turn the key—the car doesn’t start. What a fucking cliche I turn the key again - nothing. I take a beat and look back to the shadow in the window, feeling them staring. I try the key again. Nothing. There’s no sputtering of an engine. No lights on the dash to tell me I don’t take care of my car. It’s utterly dead. Just like my phone. Just like everything out here.

WHACK. My eyes shoot to the front of the house, where the outer screen door slams shut. I don’t see anyone … I keep staring. Someone must have come through that door … And now they’re out here. With me. I can’t see a soul, but I know …  I’m being watched.

My mind is racing. I want to peel the fuck outta here—but this car is dead, and that’s not an option. I take a deep breath and get out of my car.

“Hello?” I sort of half-yell, half-ask, taking a few steps toward the driveway. “I, uh, my car seems to have died. Hybrid batteries. They’re the worst ... I know it’s late …” I take a few steps onto the driveway, desperately eyeing the night, trying to discover whoever it is that is out here with me. “I promise I’m not up to anything …” Why would I say that? I realize my hand is stuck in a friendly wave. I force my hand down, thinking that if I lived in this house, I’d definitely shoot me. Silence. It’s so quiet I can hear the buzz of the green light.

It hits me that I’ve covered more ground than I realized … I’m halfway down the gravel driveway. How did that happen? I turn back the way I came and discover that anything beyond the reach of the fluorescent green, including my Prius,  is wholly lost in the night, swallowed by that dark void. Even with my nerves raging, I can’t help but think about those old flat-earth maps, where everything falls off the world's edge into oblivion. I grind my foot into the gravel and take in the sound of the stones—a badly needed reminder of reality. The buzz of the light is louder now.

I near the three cement steps that lead up the modest porch to the front door. What option do I have? Camp out across the street? Someone knows I’m here. I’m debating if I should offer up another friendly wave when I feel it. That primal sense from deep within our animal brain that rages when we’re being pursued … I follow this prompt to the deep shadows off to the side of the house where the green light can’t touch. I can’t see anything there, yet I know—someone stands in that shadow. As the pressure in my ears increases, I swear I can hear the low, amplified breathing of something ...

“What are you doing here?” A woman’s voice—my attention shoots to the front porch where a woman now stands. She’s young. Twenty-five? Strawberry blonde hair with pale, freckled skin that reflects the green, making her appear sickly. She’s wearing a nightgown.

“Oh, hey …” I do the friendly wave thing again. “My car broke down, I think. I’m sorry. I know it’s late. I saw someone in the window, and my phone hasn’t had service since I got off the freeway.” She stares at me in silence. “If I could maybe use your phone?” Her eyes move past me to that same patch of shadows I had just been staring at … What’s in there?

“You should come inside.”

“I don’t want to be a problem ...”

“Please. Come inside.” Her voice is kind, but there’s an unmistakable urgency to her words. I feel that primal cue again, right at the base of my neck. “Come inside,” she reiterates.

“Okay, thank you.”

As I ascend the three cement steps leading to the door, it occurs to me—her nightgown…  It’s all white.

We’re sitting at a little table in the kitchen. A fixture overhead spits out some light, but the space is dominated by that same green light from outside. It seeps through the window, pooling in the cracks and crevices of the linoleum. It’s all very cozy and lived-in, yet upon closer inspection, everything seems to be decaying at the edges and seams. The woman sits across from me, and somehow, radiates warmth.

“Does that work?” I point to an old landline on the wall.

“It should.” She replies, her eyes leaving me just long enough to glance at it.

I stand, take a step toward it, then hesitate. “I, uh, I don’t know who to call. I feel like 911 is a bit extreme for a dead Prius.” I give it a beat, but the joke doesn’t register with her. “Is there a mechanic in town?”

“I don’t think you will be able to reach him.”

“... I guess it is pretty late.” I sort of just stand now, absolutely out of ideas.

“How did you get here?” She asks.

I sit back down. “To Meadow? I drove from Los Angeles.”

She keeps watching me like she’s expecting more of an answer. I’m uncomfortable with the silence, so I keep talking. “I have an address; I’ve always had it—I was a foster home kid.” Her eyes shift, displaying concern. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s fine. I mean, it sucked. But I’m fine now. I guess I was born out here …” I trail off, painfully aware of how much I’m rambling.

“That makes me sad to hear.” She finally breaks the silence. “A person can go anywhere in life. But we all start in only one place.”

“Yeah … I’d never thought about it like that. But you’re right.” I study her now. I know her. Somehow. “I never got your name.” It’s her eyes, unblinking, studying me with a warm curiosity. Finally, she takes a breath and speaks …

“Julie.” A pit gives way in my stomach. Julie. 935 Rosa Road.

How do you describe getting torn from reality? The impossible sits across from me in the form of a woman with strawberry blonde hair, freckles, and a white nightgown. The impossible, yet here I am.

“You wanted to know where you started.” There are tears welling up in her eyes now. My whole life, I’ve never been on solid ground. I’ve always been on the move by necessity. But here, with her, in this single moment, finally, I’m on solid ground. But then, her smile fades, giving way to a blank stare she directs at the floor.

The temperature in the room drops. My ears fill with pressure, and that same overwhelming electric hum of the green floodlight outside becomes so audible I can feel it vibrating inside me. She looks back at me, her face stricken with pain. She says, “You should never have come back.”

WHAM. From somewhere deeper in the house, I hear a door slam. Heavy footsteps pound.

“I made a terrible mistake.” She says. WHAM. Another door slams. “He always knew.” I say nothing. My mind is spinning. “He hated you for what I did.” WHAM. The wall next to me rattles violently. I shoot to my feet, sending my chair sliding across the floor. “I carried you. I got you away from here.”

WHAM. There’s a yell from somewhere in the house now. It’s angry, but with words I can’t decipher. Like an old record, scratched beyond repair, the volume hiked all the way up. WHAM.

As the fear surges, I lock eyes with her for one last beat. Then, I dart for the doorway.

It’s absolute darkness as my eyes adjust. I blink, looking around, trying to get my bearings and find the front door. I hear breathing … Deep, angry breaths. I do a slow turn to face the opposite end of the hallway, and I finally see him. A hulking figure stands still as stone, watching me. His features are obscured in the darkness, but I know who he is. This was who had been watching me outside. From the shadows. I trace his arm down to where I see a glimmer of metal in his hand—he’s holding a rifle.

“... I’m leaving.” My voice shakes. The figure continues its sharp, audible breaths. “I’m sorry … I’m going right now.” In response, the figure moves forward. One step turns into two faster steps, into a sprint, coming directly at me. “No! Wait!” I yell, stumbling backward. The figure raises the rifle at me, point blank. My hands go up in a useless gesture, “Don’t!”

BAM. The blast sends an explosion of blue light that obliterates everything. An eternity passes as the energy rips me into incalculable fragments. I’m static. Between alive and dead. I think of the electricity that cracked blue atop that old electrical grid. How long had I been parked there, just staring at it?

There’s a breeze, gentle and cool. Warm sunlight tempts my eyes open. I become aware of the dirt beneath my feet—I stand atop Rosa Road. My Prius is behind me. There’s nothing but open fields of brown dirt and yellow grass in all directions. Now I see it—the remnants of a gravel driveway leading to the foundation of what was once a small home. At the top of the driveway, I see a mound of dirt where a rotted wooden post sticks out. I kneel, sift through the dirt, and find a rusted piece of metal. I hold it up to the sun—it’s a number "5". I stand again and stare at the foundation. 935 Rosa Road.

I get back into my Prius and turn the key, knowing that this time, it will start. I pull out onto what was once Rosa Road and head toward the two-lane highway that will take me back to L.A … or anywhere. As I drive, I look in my rearview. Dust billows up in waves, and in the waves, I see a woman dressed all in white. She walks forward. Seeing her from the front this time, I note she has her arms cradled to her chest like she’s carrying something. Someone.

As I leave this place, I know she never will. Because there was once a man in the shadows. And a gun. And a blast of violent light.

I’m standing next to my car, looking at that electrical grid from the night before. In the daylight, it’s dead. A crumbling heap of metal caged within a rusted chain link fence. The buzz of electricity is gone. Probably long gone. I grab a rock from the ground and toss it. It dings as it ricochets off the metallic carcass.

I get in my car as my phone lights up—I guess I’m back in service range. There’s a couple of text messages from her. One where she’s angry. Another where she apologizes for being angry. And a third reiterating that she understands how her being angry must make me feel attacked.

You need to pick a new path. She had told me that. How long ago? It occurs to me now that I’ve never had a path. Not really. A path requires a starting point. I never knew my starting point. But I had an address. And a name. I’d always carried them.

*Feature image by Mariia (Adobe)