The Bridge

I don’t show it, but I notice the little things -- the way the river looks different when the tide is coming in; the strange sight of water running upstream; the dance of the sunlight as it skitters frantically across the dull gray surface of the water, oblivious of the river’s counter-intuitive direction.

From my perch high above the road and even higher above the river, I watch ferries carry commuters from one side to the other. Barges stacked with corrugated containers make their way up river – although technically at this time of day it is down river. I catch a glimpse of something floating on the surface. I had to squint against the sun, but I’m pretty sure it was a lawn chair, probably washed away during the last storm.  Rubbish tends to float up and down the river as the tide goes in and out, eventually making its way to NY Harbor, unless it manages to catch on something along the shore or sink to the bottom first. 

I worry that someone saw me climbing the bridge. But no one ever looks up. I'm hidden among the tresses of the bridge with a stunning view of the river and the surrounding hills. The Hudson is like a shot of Prozac for me.

I like the Niagara River too. My son, Josh, and I went on the river rapids boat ride when we were there. During one lull in the river, the guide asked everyone to point down-river. Most of the tourist pointed in the direction of the US, toward the falls. Josh and I pointed toward Canada, after all that was the direction the river was running. We are just too practical and analytic. I guess that’s why the Hudson intrigues me. Sometimes it flows up and sometimes it flows down.

He’s a good kid. He has a great spouse and a confidence I never had. I hope I did good raising him, but I don’t know. 

There is a profound sense of peace this high above the river. I can understand why there are so many suicides. There is something about the peace and quiet here that makes you want to soak it up; ingest it; revel in it; absorb it completely; and make it a permanent part of you. I wouldn’t mind this feeling being my last.

The traffic passes without even a glance at the deteriorating structure. Day after day, thousands of drivers trust the ancient joints, oblivious to the corroded structure, complaining only about the daily rush hour traffic. The beams carry their history in layers of paint. Looking at the edges where prior layers had peeled before the next layer was applied, I count at least eleven layers. I remember my dad painting the house I grew up in. I never understood why he just painted over the previous layer with all of its flaws, cracks, and peeled paint. To others, the newly painted house looked fresh and new. I always remembered the flaws.

My IQ is pretty high. My mom used to call me the absent-minded professor. I’m not terribly practical though. I hang my keys on a rack as soon as I walk in my door because if I don’t, I will never find them. I hate looking for things. My mom used to ask, “Well, where did you leave them?” I never understood that. If I knew where I left them, I would know where they are. Right? The fact is, with my messed up brain, I never pay attention to where I put things.

I spill things too, for the same reason.

I remember a day not too different from today, sunny, beautiful and it was about this time of evening. I was an all-star at a local softball tournament. I wasn’t bad. I had a .333 batting average; and I was an amazing fielder. I could throw a ball from center-field and get it right into the glove of the catcher. My dad loved softball. During the playoffs he was in the stands watching. He would always provide an analysis after the game of what went well and what didn’t. How we should have done this differently, and why didn’t I do that.  I remember this game though. I failed. Completely.

Bottom of the ninth – always the bottom of the ninth. The count wasn’t 3-2 as the usual story goes; it was 2-1. Bases weren’t loaded; there were only two people on base, two outs, and we were down by 2. I followed the pitch as it came toward me.– perfect  I braced to hit that ball deep into the outfield, but the coach had said to let the ball go by when the count was 2-1. So I did. I follow rules. It’s what I do. I started to line up again in the batter’s box for the next pitch when I heard the umpire yell “Strike Three.” Yeah, it’s the details I miss. One ball, two strikes -- that was the correct count.

My dad never understood why I just stood there. I never played again. Years later, my dad, still scoffed at my stupidity, reminding me again of my failure. It still hurt.  

It’s starting to get cool up here, an inevitable result of the waning daylight. I probably got a bit too much sun, so it feels good. I shiver a bit when a breeze catches me by surprise and raises goose bumps on my over-exposed arms.

I stay away from my family now. I was the executor of my mom’s estate, which I did as fairly as I could. My youngest sister didn’t get everything she wanted, so she hired the meanest attorney in town. She told me a few years ago that it was inexcusably rude of me to be so perfect and so smart. She also pushed me to place Mom in hospice before the doctors even knew what was wrong. I was too weak to stand up to her. I basically killed my mom. How do you live with yourself after doing that?

I thought about all that had happened in my life and what brought me here. The moment I remember first was waking up in a crib in the hospital when I was three years old.  I had fallen asleep and would not wake up. My parents tried; the doctor tried; and I’m sure my older sister threw in a few punches to help out. For forty-eight hours, I slept. They were never able to determine why. I think a part of me knew how hard this was going to be and decided to rest up in preparation. Upon waking, my three year old self was absolutely incensed. I didn’t belong in a crib. Even more appalling was the fact that I was right up against the window into the newborn room. Not only was I in a crib, they had me right next to those babies.

My next thought was that I didn’t want to be here. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be in the hospital or in the crib, or even next to the babies. It was that I did not want to be here. I knew. Three years old and I knew. My own personal child is father to the man moment.

I’m just a person doing my best to do the right thing, but always getting it wrong. 

The sun has pretty much set and it’s rather cold up here. I suppose it’s time for me to go. I have had my fill of the peace offered by the river. I tuck it deep in my soul, in a safe place where it can’t be taken back. 

I take a deep breath. I second guess myself, though. The river looks black now, not as inviting.

I pause, wondering. Will Josh be OK? I know I shouldn’t do this. It will trouble his soul, but I’m tired. I’m worn out. I’m done. I don’t have the energy to keep trying.

I hang on to my peace, though, and step into the void. Maybe next time around I’ll have a family who believes in me.