The Bridge (2 page)

In the dim light, the man holding my arm looks like an actor from a deodorant ad. Handsome, boyish, entitled. If I met him in a bar I would walk the other direction because no way in hell would a guy like that condescend to talk to me. I guess attempted suicide is a great leveler of social boundaries, though, because here he is, hanging on to me as though his life depended on it.

I almost laugh at that thought. His life, my life—depending on something. The whole point of both us being up here is that our lives don’t depend on shit. They’re over. That seemed pretty clear five minutes ago, at least. I was on a mission and it was the right one, I knew that. Now, I feel…what? Interrupted. Thrown off my game. I had a purpose and it was clear, and now it’s not clear, and what I want most of all is to punch this fucking guy in the face. Punch him, and then get him down off the tower. Because the last thing I see in this world is not going to be this pretty boy dying and me not doing anything to stop it.

Another helicopter approaches, its lights sweeping the traffic below, and we both duck into the shadows. Henry’s body is crouched and strangely warm beside mine and I almost want to take his hand. As though we were kids playing hide and seek together. But that’s not right. We’re not kids. We’re not together. The wind and height are confusing me and I can’t think clearly. Except to know that I need to get this fucker down off the tower, and fast. It’s impossible to tell what might set him off, and up here, any wrong move could send him—literally—over the edge.

It’s fairly obvious he wants the same thing—to get me out of harm’s way so he can go back to his business in good conscience. Who wants to die knowing you could have saved somebody and didn’t? It’s a standoff in reverse; instead of pointing our sharpshooters at each other, we’re pointing them at ourselves.

Why do I care? This guy’s got his reasons for being up here, surely. Who am I to get in his way? To say he should give life one more shot when I myself see no point?

And yet, he’s so young. Thirty years old, if I had to guess. And decent-looking, though a bit haggard and trembly at the moment. He appears to be in decent health. What could possibly be reason enough for a guy like him to end it all? Maybe a good night’s sleep is what he needs, a fresh perspective. Something.

And just like that I’m on my high horse again. Thinking I know best, trying to change somebody’s mind. Fix him, help him. Save him. The whole reason I’m up here on this goddamn bridge is to jump down off that horse once and for all. It never did me a bit of good, and I never managed to change anyone who didn’t want changing. Despite all my effort.

What makes Henry any different? If he wants to die, I should just let him. I should turn my back, dive off the edge of the tower, and leave him to his own damn devices.

If only old habits were so easy to break. I turn to where he’s lying in the shadows.

“How about we go get some breakfast.”

“What?” He’s staring at me. My mouth is moving itself; I can’t stop the words that spill out of it.

“Breakfast. Let’s get some food and we’ll talk.”

He gazes out at the edge, at the open air beyond it, and then back at me. “You’re not going to—”

“Not with you here, no.” I sigh into the wind and as usual, it’s audible to no one but me. “I wasn’t exactly expecting an audience.”

He slumps down a little and lets out a relieved breath. “Good.” His voice is deep but wavery, like he’s lost blood or something. I wonder how the hell he’s going to make it down the cables to the ground.

I stand, resigned, and head for the ladder. “Let’s go.”

It’s a lot harder going down the cables from the tower than it was going up. Maybe it’s the sense of failure, of having made a plan and then been too chickenshit to carry it out. But that’s not it. It wasn’t fear that kept me from carrying through. It was Christa. This watchful stranger who’s now here to witness my awkward, slippery descent down the bridge. She leads the way, sure of her footing, while I almost fall a half dozen times.

Will it be harder to climb up again, now that I know it’s possible to climb down? I’ll have to be all the more disciplined in turning my mind away from that option. Once set, it’s best to follow the course without question. Which I would have done, had it not been for the perverse O. Henry story put before me now.

I can wait one more day, though. I know the way up the bridge now; I can do it again tomorrow. In the meantime, maybe I can do some minor good before I go, and talk Christa into changing her mind.

She suggests Veselka, and I’m surprised by the little thrill of hunger I feel. Blueberry pancakes and sausages and hot, hot coffee. I don’t think I’ve ever felt colder in my life, and the taxi ride from City Hall isn’t doing much to warm me up. I steal a glance now and then in Christa’s direction. Dawn light’s been creeping into the sky since we descended to the walkway, and now I can see her more clearly.

Her hair is brown and curly, and her eyes are dark, almost black. She’s wearing a black sweater and dark jeans, a pair of black converse sneakers. She sits very still on the other side of the cab and hasn’t said a word since giving the driver our destination. I too am afraid to speak. Her life is not exactly in my hands, but it’s close. If I say or do the wrong thing, I could make things worse for her, if that’s even possible. I’m not sure I can handle this level of responsibility, but I have to handle it. I might be through with this world, but apparently—at least for today—it’s not through with me.

Christa must feel me staring at her because as we merge onto Bowery she turns and meets my eyes. I’m not prepared for the dull jolt in the pit of my stomach. I don’t like the way it makes my throat thicken, and I look away.

Veselka is quiet this early on a Saturday morning. I’d kept my wallet in my jeans for identification purposes, but Christa pays for the cab before I can detach the carabiner I’d used to keep it in place. For a single moment I imagine the whoosh of cold water that might have swept it from my pocket, and a shiver runs through me. I hold the door for her and we walk into the diner.

I don’t want to respond to the smell of cakes baking, of bacon frying. My stomach rumbles anyway, though, an animal bent on living even if my brain is not. It wants food I know it doesn’t deserve.

But we’re here and if I eat, Christa will eat. And if I talk, Christa will talk. And perhaps I will be able to set her on her feet and then head home to plan for tomorrow what I couldn’t accomplish today.

She orders pierogies, eggs, and a black coffee, and when the waitress leaves, she doesn’t mince words.

“Don’t kill yourself.” Her abruptness is bracing enough, but the look in her eyes is worse. It makes me feel like I’ve been caught in a snare. Like a ghost that’s been floating around unnoticed for a hundred years and then spotted in a mirror by a child.

“I could say the same to you.”

“I have reasons.” She looks me over. “But I suppose you do, too.”

“Good reasons.”

The waitress sets down our coffees and Christa thanks her, though she can’t seem to muster a smile. Just as well. I’ve seen enough fake smiles to last several lifetimes.

She sips her coffee and watches me. “What are they?”

“What?”

“Your reasons. What are they?”

I blink at her. They asked me this question in the hospital after my first attempt. And expected me to discuss it at length, which I did. I don’t see how it will help now.

Back then I thought I saw the error of my ways. I was remorseful; I wanted to be convinced. I told them my reasons so that those reasons could be refuted and they were refuted, at least temporarily. So well that I dutifully headed back to college as though nothing had happened. From there I went to work, to an apartment loft in a Tribeca high-rise, to a life of business lunches and tailored suits and mornings at the gym. I made a show of normalcy and caused no one any trouble.

All along, though, the possibility of suicide—the allure—has always come back to me during the hard times. The times that dig into my brain and take over, that only leave when they’re good and ready. Once you begin to think of suicide as an option—once you take the real steps to carry it through—it is always, always an option. The seduction of it never quite leaves you.

“My reasons don’t really matter, do they?”

“I’ll tell you mine,” she says. Her grip on the coffee cup is so tight I can actually see the blood leaving her fingertips, but her voice is steady. That throaty, hoarse voice.

“Okay.” I stir a little cream and sugar into my coffee. I admit, despite myself, that I’m curious about what would send a woman like her to the edge of the bridge. She’s reserved, maybe, but put together. Nice haircut, clearly attractive. Articulate. I sip my coffee and wait.

“I have breast cancer. Round two.”

There’s that extreme directness again. I flinch a little at the sudden loss of gravity in the room, but then it returns and I feel an immediate plunge of shame.

Cancer is a good reason. Better than mine. Far more legitimate and recognizable.

And at the same time, treatable.

“You can’t get help for that? From a doctor?”

She snorts quietly. “Sure I can. I can get a slow drip of poison into my bloodstream, and puke my guts out, and lose all my hair, and get my other breast cut off. And die anyway. If you call that help, then yeah, I can get that. For a fee I can’t afford, by the way. The first round of treatment for tit number one took everything I had.”

Her other breast? I force myself to maintain eye contact, to not pruriently investigate her shirt for mastectomy evidence. “You don’t have insurance?”

“Not anymore.”

What kind of person didn’t have insurance in this day and age? “What do you do for a living?”

“I wait tables.”

I look her over. Wait tables? That probably didn’t pay very much. And when was the last time I’d hung out with a waitress? Never, unless you count the strip clubs my colleagues occasionally drag me to. Where I spend the whole time nervously wondering how awful it feels to hang your body in some drunk Neanderthal’s face. “Where?”

“Brooklyn. A diner in Bay Ridge.”

“That’s where you live?” Surely she had family there. Someone I could call to come pick her up. Someone better than me, who could be trusted with the responsibility of saving her.

“Yes.”

“With your…husband, maybe?” She’s not wearing a ring.

“Look, Henry. I see what you’re trying to do. To be honest it’s the same thing I was planning to do to you.”

“What’s that?”

“Get you to change your mind. To not…you know.”

“I’m not changing my mind.”

She leans back in her chair and folds her arms over her chest. “No, I’m not changing
my
mind. I’m looking at a death sentence anyway. I’m not an idiot. I went through this three years ago, and did all the shitty treatments and bought myself another two years of slinging hash at the diner. I have no family. I’m not married. No kids.” She leans forward. “But you. You’re what? Late twenties?”

“Thirty.”

“Thirty years old.” She gives me a calculated once-over. “Good-looking guy. Expensive clothes. Judging by that watch on your hand, which you didn’t bother to take off and bequeath to anyone, you got money. You sick or something?”

“No.”

“Relationship troubles?”

“No, I—”

“Then what is it? Why are we here? Why were you…up there?”

I pause and just stare at her for a minute. What am I going to do, give her a lecture on chronic depression? That never works. You either know what it is or you don’t. No point trying to explain it. How the cold creeps over you one inch at a time until you can’t even feel the cold anymore. Just a heaviness, a rageless rage. A nothingness. You want it to be over, and it’s never over. Until you find the strength to end it.

Which I had. I had found the strength, before this woman showed up. All I want is to get back to that place, to follow through, but first, I have to deal with her. Trying to explain my reasons isn’t going to convince her not to jump. In fact, it’ll probably make it worse. What I need to do is help her find something to hold on to. Until I do, it’s going to have to be me she holds on to; I can see that. I don’t want to be that person, that thing, but I can’t just leave her here.

Yeah, cancer treatments are awful, but there has to be somebody who will help her through it. She has a chance of living, a chance of a good life. That’s obvious to me. People like Christa shouldn’t be jumping off bridges.

“It doesn’t matter why I was up there,” I say. “I’m down here now. With you. And I have a proposal.”

The waitress brings our food and I’m surprised to discover how ravenous I am. I’ve always loved pierogies, ever since I was a little girl and my mom would take me to the Ukrainian diner two towns over. The owner would sneak me a handful of powdery mints on the way out, and I’d refuse to wash my hands until every last lick of mint dust was gone.

Not that anybody was on my case to wash my hands. I think I once went a whole summer without bathing and my mom never even noticed. She did like Ukrainian sausage, though, in more ways than one. I sat in the booth and ate my pierogies while she went in the back and did God knows what for drug money.

I’m not complaining about this, don’t get me wrong. Life dealt that woman a hard hand, and she did what she could with it. She never asked for my sister and me, and had no idea what to do with either of us. But she kept her boyfriends out of our apartment and made sure we got to school on time, and for her, that was pretty damn heroic. Maybe she’d be sober for a while and maybe she wouldn’t, but she did love us, as much as she was able.

My sister doesn’t really see it this way. The fights Tanya used to have with Mom brought the cops down on our place more than once. And then she went and traveled the same damn road. I haven’t seen her since the last time I bailed her out for a DWI and she swore on Mom’s grave that she’d stop drinking.

Well. She never visited Mom’s grave anyway.

And she probably won’t visit mine, either. She’ll be sad, I know that—once the news reaches her in whatever hellhole she’s currently shacking up in—but I don’t think she has it in her to grieve much more than she’s already doing. She’s got just enough energy to swallow something or smoke something and maybe do what it takes to procure these things, and that’s about it.

I’ve got myself to blame for that. I was so worried about her feeling bad when we were kids, I did everything for her. Did all the talking and cleaning up, carried her around like my own personal pet until she was so big it nearly broke my back, and I never, never let her struggle or figure anything out on her own. And she was just so goddamn pretty, by the time she started rebelling against my relentless interfering, she easily transferred all that dependence onto one boy after another until she landed on the prep school douchebag with the bottle of whiskey under his bed. He loved slumming it in Poughkeepsie on the weekends, dragging Tanya down to the river and getting her wasted when she was supposed to be doing her homework.

I was in college at Purchase by then, and Mom was on a bender of her own. So I quit. I moved home to look after them both and spent my four years in the school of shit knocks instead.

I’m not looking for a pity party about that, I’m really not. I did what I did and in the end I failed to save either of them. And now I just have to admit that. At one time in my life, I might have thought I was superhuman, but not anymore. I’m too damn tired now to pretend such things.

And yet, here in front of me is one more person who needs saving. A shell of a man in jeans that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. You’d think he’d have access to a team of professionals to save him from himself, but apparently no. I probably could have wished him well and been on my way, but let’s face it. I’d be a pretty shitty human being if I’d done that. I didn’t ask for this guy, but here he is. And there’s a plate of pierogies in front of me that I’ll be damned if I’m going to waste.

I spear a forkful and tilt my chin at Henry.

“A proposal? Let’s hear it.”

He’s busy cutting his pancakes into precise squares and for some reason I hate to interrupt. It’s like artwork—the patterns he’s making. The way the blueberries break open and bust out their juice. His plate looks like a massacre and still he cuts away, meticulous. I’m not even sure he’s heard me.

“Henry.”

He looks up.

“Your proposal.”

“What? Oh.” He reaches for the syrup and drowns the pancakes in it. “Right. Here’s the thing. The bridge, the tower—I don’t want you to go back up there.”

“Yeah, well—”

“Wait. Listen. I don’t want you to, but I know I’m not going to be able to convince you.”

“You won’t.”

“Okay. So I won’t try. I mean, from this point on I won’t try to talk you out of it. But what if you…what if we…”

He smoothes a palm over his forehead while he searches for the words and for the first time, I notice his hands. They’re strangely craggy for a man as pretty as he is. With those hazel eyes and long lashes and chiseled cheekbones, you’d think his hands would be slight, but no. They look warm, and capable, and for some reason I want to hold one and see how it feels.

“What if you just…wait?” he says. “I mean we. What if we wait, say, twenty-four hours. And then you can ask yourself again if you still want to do it.”

I lean forward. “I’ll still want to do it.”

“Okay. So then what’s the harm in waiting a day? You can handle one more day, right?” Suddenly he looks worried. “I mean, you’re not in any…physical pain, are you?”

“No.” That part would come later.

“Then, okay. Twenty-four hours.”

I cross my arms over my chest and stare at him. “And what will you be doing, during these twenty-four hours?”

He reddens a little at that. “I’ll…I’ll be with you.”

“Doing what?”

“Well. What would you want to do?”

I draw in a deep breath. What would I want to do? Nothing. That’s the problem. There’s nothing I want to do except crawl into bed for a few years. “Sleep. That’s all I want to do.”

He barks out a short laugh. “That’s because you’re depressed.”

“Oh, you think?” I laugh, too, which startles me. I can’t remember the last time I did that.

“You know what they used to tell me, when I was in the hospital?”

I must look surprised, because he clarifies.

“Mental hospital. This isn’t the first time I’ve tried…well, you know. They used to tell me if you’re depressed anyway, why not be depressed and take a walk instead of being depressed and staying in bed? If it makes no difference, why not get up and go out?”

“That’s ridiculous logic.”

“Yeah, I know, but for one day, how about we try it? You tell me some things you like to do around the city, and we’ll go do them.”

“What, you mean like carriage rides in Central Park and shit like that?”

“I don’t know. Would you like that?”

“I told you, Henry, there’s nothing that I would like. I’m serious. This is a nice idea, and thank you, but…”

“How about I think of something? For you, I mean? I’ll think of some things you might like, and we’ll do those.”

I sit back in my seat and watch him. He’s flailing, that’s obvious. Trying to be a decent guy and save Cancer Lady and all that. It’s silly, but it’s also kind. Even in my state I can see that. Maybe this effort at heroism will convince him he’s got something to give? I could offer him that, I suppose. One day to be a good man and try to rescue somebody. It’s an angle I hadn’t thought of, but it could work. He does seem like the sensitive type. Maybe he’s always dreamed of being some damsel’s knight in shining armor.

Of course, it’ll all go to shit the moment I climb back up that tower and jump off anyway, but at least it would be a start. I can let him feel what it’s like to help somebody, and maybe we can build on that. He can at least think he’s given me a pleasant sendoff before I die, and then maybe he can transfer that savior buzz to someone else. And live.

Why not? I don’t have any better ideas. “Okay.”

“Really?”

I don’t want to be the only one being squired around the city, though. I can show the guy a good time, too—which will only help my cause. “Can I think of places to take you as well?”

Henry tilts his head. “Like where?”

“I don’t know. Some places I think you might enjoy. We’ll be like tourists, in somebody else’s version of the city.”

He nods slowly. “So you’ll pick some places to take me, and I’ll pick some places to take you.”

“And we have twenty-four hours.”

“Right. To maybe give the other person something nice. Something they might want to stick around for.”

Twenty-four hours. To try to save his life. By letting him think he’s saving mine.

“We can make a list,” Henry says. “Maybe, I don’t know…three places each?”

The thought is exhausting. Traipsing around the city with some stranger on borrowed time I didn’t ask for and don’t want. But how can I say no? He’s offering me a chance to help him live. He doesn’t have to know he doesn’t have a shot at that. “Okay. We need paper.”

“And pens.” He motions to the waitress and asks for some.

I spare a moment to wonder what he’ll pick for me. Something fancy and girly, no doubt. Something he thinks I’ve never done or would otherwise never do.

It’s like a date in a way, and this thought is jarring. The last thing I expected when I woke up this morning was that I’d be sitting in a diner thinking up life-affirming activities for a deodorant model.

What
would
a man like Henry want? What would make him feel better? It’s a precarious balance—trying to figure out what might inspire him versus what might make his depression worse. What if we see something horrible in the next twenty-four hours? The best I can do is try to give him some good experiences—to show him some beauty that he’s never let himself see before. But what would Henry be missing out on in the city? With his expensive clothes and studious nervousness? What would he not allow himself to see and do here?

I’m willing to bet he’s never done anything so pedestrian as taking a ride on the Staten Island Ferry. Which would be a pity since it’s really one of the best things to do in the city. The view, the open air, the incredible wind—it’s invigorating, which is sort of the mood I’m going for. I put it down as number one. It’s a relief to no longer be staring at an empty page.

It occurs to me that I never bothered to make this kind of list for myself, of things I might have wanted to do one more time before I died. There didn’t seem to be enough time, I guess.

I try to think of good times I’ve had in the city, but maybe that would be easier if I hadn’t lived here so long. I’ve been thrown-up on in the subway, rented cramped apartments that cost two-thirds of my salary, had three separate bikes stolen, dodged more rats and flying cockroaches than anyone should have to dodge in their lifetime, been broke and broken down and invisible here for fifteen years. So I’ll have to be forgiven if I can’t, at the moment, think of anywhere nice to visit.

I suppose the Cloisters. It’s pretty there in the fall, with the leaves changing. And quiet. Out the window on 12th Street, the sun is shining and a faint breeze ruffles the hair of the people passing by. So okay, it might be nice there today. The Cloisters is number two.

I bet I know something else he’s never done. Eaten hot dumplings at a dive in Chinatown. I wouldn’t mind having that experience one last time. It’s an easy one for number three. I put down my pen and paper.

Henry is already looking at me, waiting.

“You’re done?”

“Yes.” He points to my paper. “You go first.”

I read the items and he blinks at me with those big, serious eyes. “Okay. That sounds…nice.”

I almost laugh at his awkwardness, at the attempt to show interest in something when clearly he lost interest in anything a long time ago. But I play along, for his sake. “It will be. Now show me yours.”

“First, the Museum of Modern Art.”

I roll my eyes. “Really? That’s where you’re taking me?”

He looks confused. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Just a little cliché is all. Maybe afterward we’ll go to the opera and eat finger sandwiches at the Russian Tea Room?”

“I hate finger sandwiches.”

I do laugh at that.

His face crinkles up. “You don’t like art?”

“No, I do. It’s fine.

“We don’t have to go, Christa. It’s just…there’s a painting there. A particular one that I wanted to show you.”

And that should be innocuous enough, except that now this whole thing really is starting to sound like a date, with him planning an activity for me. One intended to raise me up from working class ignorance and into a world of artistic expression and awareness. As if I’ve never been to a goddamn museum.

But then he has to go and say my name, all innocently, but with seventeen gradations of inflection, and that has to hit me right in the chest and
hurt
. How is that fair? What I really should do is crumple up my list and leave. Except that his face is so earnest, so worried now that he’s offended me, and I just can’t. I can’t be cruel. “I’m sorry. No, you’re right. Let’s go.”

“Okay.” He breathes a little deeper, and goes on to item number two. “Don’t laugh at this one. It’s just that when I was little, my babysitter used to take me here. It’s a bit touristy, but they have the best hot fudge in the city, I think, and it’s in your borough and all, so…Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory? Is that okay?”

I stare at him, surprised. “Yeah. That’s…that’s fine. It’s good.”

“Great.” He smiles, and all at once I understand that I’m in danger. That kick to the heart when he said my name, and now the smile—something in me is reacting to him, responding, and I don’t want it to. I wanted that part of me dead, and if he hadn’t gotten in the way this morning, it would be, along with the rest of me. But here he is, here we are, and here’s that slender flame of life-force rising up and asking for something I don’t want to give it.

I am here for one reason and one reason only. And that is to trick Henry into thinking he’s helping me. I don’t know what comes after that, but it’s a start. I picture myself throwing a bucket of water on that flame of life. Smothering it with a blanket. Dumping it into an empty pool and covering it with concrete. Until it fizzles and goes out.

“Last one,” Henry says. “The rooftop pool at the Gansevoort. At night the skyline is nice, and since I doubt either one of us can stay awake for twenty-four hours, I can book a suite there and we can sleep.”

“The Gansevoort? I can’t afford—”

He holds up a hand. “I can. And in the morning we’ll—”