Page 48 of Past the Broken Bridges

Despite waking up on Saturday morning groggy and fighting the bone-deep exhaustion that coffee barely touches, I force myself out of the apartment to try crossing another item off my list. The wet February weather has been putting a damper on my chance to look around and cross one of the most important items on my list off, thanks to the flooded roads and hiking trails, so I’m determined not to let another sunny day go to waste, no matter how tired I am or how desperately my body begs me to rest.

Adjusting my sunglasses to fight the beaming sun baking my skin, I glance at my phone’s GPS and follow its route to a nearby park in the Garden District.

I’m not sure if it’s Katrina, the chemo, or a combination of the two that makes everything look so different than it did when I was eight. I thought the world was so much bigger when I was little, but it’s changed. Now things are much smaller—more fragile. Like at any time, they can be taken away.

They can be,a voice whispers inside my head.

I ignore it.

There are little pieces of my memory that are still strong, like the beautiful architecture that the levees didn’t destroy after the storm ripped apart the state or the cultured atmosphere around every block that’s full of every kind of art and music you could think of. I remember the hope that filled the air when I was a kid and can see how much it blossomed when the nation backed the state when it was underwater.

Other memories remain fuzzy from the years I’ve been away. The smells. The food. I couldn’t tell you which house we used to live in without my parents’ help or even where the street is, but I remember the yellow bedroom that always made me happy when I woke up to it filled with sunlight peeking through the white curtains.

But one memory is clearer than ever.

The bridge.

Mybridge, with the oak that shaded it and the myrtles and magnolias that encased it like a security blanket—a hidden world just for me and Paxton. Those few summer months were some of my favorite days because I finally had someone to share them with who wasn’t my mom or dad or one of the boring kids I went to school with. It was hard making friends when we always moved, so I didn’t even bother until the boy with thick glasses and a sense of adventure.

I thought about him a lot after we left, wondered if he still lived here. If he moved away. If his parents ever worked out their problems the way I hoped they would for him.

Eventually, my curiosity faded, and so did he.

Because I had other things to focus on.

When I pull my list out of my pocket, I run the pad of my thumb over the item that I put stars next to.

Find my happy place

I may not know exactly where it is, but I have a vivid memory of using a dull butter knife to mark it with my initials. I remember the myrtles. The sound of the running water from the little stream under the wood. The second I pushed those bushes out of the way to get to the quiet place that was ours and ours alone, I was calm.

I’d like to think that, after all this time, it’s still there. Maybe Paxton still goes there.

Or maybe that’s my wild imagination. Mom told me it was a useless venture because most of the area was wiped out after Katrina thanks to the failed levees, but my gut tells me I’ll find it.

Broken or not. It’s there.

Looking back, I wish I hadn’t snuck out to go to the bridge on my own because then I’d have a fighting chance at finding it with my parents’ memories. They always asked, always told me not to stray too far, but still let me go alone. I think they knew I would anyway. And looking back, I’m glad I had that independence while I could.

Despite the frustration of not knowing, not remembering, it’s all part of the adventure.

And after one Uber ride full of silence and tense driving on a crowded interstate, I’m at my second possible location. I spent the last week Googling all the different trails, hoping I’d see pictures of the familiar sights, but nothing came up. I’m pretty sure the bridge wasn’t too far from the house my family rented because it never took that long to ride my bike or walk there, but most of the time, my feet were tired and hurting by the time I got there. I used muscle memory back then. Unfortunately, a lot of that is gone after six rounds of chemotherapy andone round of radiation that left me lucky if I remembered to wear underwear.

The Garden District is one of the prettiest neighborhoods in New Orleans as far as I’m concerned and the best option I have for finding the bridge. Surrounded by old architecture and well-kept landscapes, I take in the aged willows covered in moss that line the roads and the streetcars passing by on St. Charles Avenue full of daily passengers.

In hindsight, I probably could have saved some money by getting a ride into New Orleans and taking the streetcar into the Garden District like I read online, but oh well.

Hiking the small backpack higher onto my shoulders, I study the map on my phone before clicking off the screen and walking.

I didn’t have a phone when I was eight, so I don’t need one now.

Except twenty-five minutes later, I’m on a street that looks a little less pretty than the rest of the area, my body aches from the exercise it’s not used to getting these days, save for my treks around campus or to the nearest fast-food chain, and my feet hurt. There are a few people lingering outside the homes that don’t look as cared for as the bigger ones on the main drag, all staring at me and saying God knows what, which produces the kind of laughter that makes goose bumps cover my arms. I look to the dogs chained and barking, ready to protect their owners and property, and decide to turn around before one of them breaks away.

Hurrying back in the direction I came from, I join a few other people who look like tourists sightseeing. Aimlessly, I follow them until they disappear into a bookshop, pointing at a window display of books about local history that are apparently signed by the author.

A headache starts tapping my temple, making my shoulders slump in disappointment.

Maybe my sense of adventure has dimmed since I was a kid because this always seemed a lot more fun when I was younger. Then again, it was the only freedom I had. The rest of the day, when I wasn’t at school, I was told to do my homework, eat my vegetables, and take Maggie out for a walk. Going out was my escape from the responsibilities that annoyed me as a child.

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