Leap of Faith

Leap of Faith 

Did you know that it doesn’t matter how much makeup a person wears, or how fancy their clothes are, or even what color their hair is—even if it’s raven black, bubble-gum pink, or as blue as the midnight sky? The first thing that others will notice about you is still your scars. Scars running like the lines of a map, back and forth, leaving raised roads over skin. Even a year later, it’s still the very first thing that people notice about me. I dyed my hair as blue as the midnight sky to test this theory, and still, the roadmap on my legs is all that people see. I’m quite proud of them, that’s the roadmap of you and me, after all. 

Sometimes I wonder if you still have scars, wherever you are out there. Are they like mine? A road map leading back and back, down a path pitted with potholes, that was always meant to end in a fall? I think you must. No one could survive a leap like ours without any marks. 

I like to imagine that they match mine measure for measure, just as we have always matched each other. 

They still ask me all about that, you know. Yammering, over and over. Bridget, was he with you when you fell? Did he survive the fall? Is he still alive somewhere?  Over and over again, they ask me about what happened that night. I tell them that I think you did survive, you really must have. I told them that we’ve always fallen together. A truth, you know, just a bit of it. 

My mother scoffed at that. She’s been more and more irritated with me lately–she can’t stop looking at the scars and she hates the hair. My father just shakes his head sadly and says, oh don’t, she’s just had her heart broken. I thought you would get a kick out of that. As if anything could break my fiery heart, just as nothing could shatter your one of stone. Perhaps they thought the water quenched it. 

 Besides, you and I both know that you never did a thing without purpose. I was always the reckless one, not you. I’ve all these new and lovely scars to prove it. I tell that to them all, that you always have it all mapped out in that clever head of yours, that each step is carefully measured—each step, each word, each heartbeat, each breath. Never, never lost or wasted. 

 I don’t think they believe me. They all give me the pity look; the police, the court, your parents, my parents, sometimes even strangers I see on the street. 

I even heard my doctor say to my parents when he thought I wasn’t listening, The poor girl’s head hasn’t been right since the accident.  The nerve of them to act as if I don’t know what I’m telling them. Asking me to tell the story again and again, as if any one of them is going to be able to retroactively put together the pieces of your mind. If you had meant for that to happen, they’d have done it already. 

Even so, it doesn’t matter how many times they ask me to tell them. I relive it all anyway, over and over again, every time I close my eyes. It’s my story, your story, our story. And even though I’m still waiting for it to finish, for you to remember your most loyal friend and come riding back on a white horse, the story when I tell it out loud always sounds the same. And how I relish in the telling.  

When I followed you up the snaking path to the cliffs that night, the sun was slipping low, bleeding into the ocean in a brilliant flash of scarlet light. Up there on the cliffs, it was like we were on top of the world. The whole town was stretched out below us on one side, the craggy rocks reaching forever into the ocean on the other. The air was carrying the scent of salt and pine trees, just as it always has. The scent of freedom, of our childhood. The scent of so many hours spent on water-and-salt-slicked rocks, skin burning dark from the endless sun, smiles wide from the endless laughter. The same scent that I can hardly breathe anymore without thinking of you, missing you. 

You, standing at the edge of the cliffs, your hair tossed by the wind, the crimson light illuminating you from behind like some kind of god. I remember thinking that you had rarely looked so open, the gold flecks in your eyes shining, your smile wide and honest, arms stretched out as if you could fly. You looked so alive and so fantastically free. Even though you said to keep the truth a secret, I do always tell them that. They never listen to me, though. They always say what next, what then? As if I hadn’t just handed them one of the most important truths of all. 

Next though, you looked me in the eyes and you spouted some nonsense about how it had to happen, it had to end this way, how you had to run to get away. They always ask me what you’re running from and I tell them a cage of gilded bars, soft words, and broken promises. I tell them shame and a secret. 

That’s usually when they give each other their suspicious side-eye looks, then they shut up and let me finish. When I finally have them on the edge of their seats. 

And this next part is my favorite part, the part that makes me wake up with tears on my face, wishing you were still beside me. But at the same time being glad you’re gone and free.

When you pulled me next to you, holding my hands tightly, you told me your plan with more desperation in your voice than I’ve ever heard from you. I still remember how hoarse it was, like you’d been crying for hours. How it cracked. From fear or from eagerness, I’ve always wondered? I’ve oscillated between both because I have never known you to come undone, not in all our long years. I am the one that comes undone, always. In fits of sadness, or laughter, or anger. You were always the rock that kept us anchored—without you, I am sure I would have drifted away, burned myself up. I am drifting now. 

So when you came apart like wet sand in my hands, longing and aching to get free,  I held on even tighter, hoping that if we were both going be adrift, at least I could keep us together. I did not know how to be grounded for you then and I do not know how to be grounded for you now. All I have ever known how to be is the fire to your rock, and I am hoping my flame keeps you strong.

I am imagining you in incredible places, having fantastic adventures, just as I was then. And when you told me about the jump, I was onboard. I wanted to keep you together. I did not want you to be grains of sand slipping through my fingers. There was only one thing I could do.

Here, they always ask me, weren’t there any holes in this plan? Did you think something was wrong? Was it perhaps the adrenaline rush that I thought would fix things? Was it an attempt to banish that guilt forever to a watery grave? 

But there he was, a god with the world in the palm of his hand, I say. Because you were. And up there on the clifftop, the ocean calling and the wind pushing us towards it, the whole world was at our feet, our beck and call. I was craving the jump, then. The wind all around me, the ocean beneath. It would be like flying, then returning home again. 

This plan, this wildly risky, adrenaline-pumping, high-stakes plan had my lawless heart singing. And so did you. You had your mind set on running away and I would have taken any leap for you at that moment if only to make sure you always looked as wild and honest as you did that night.  

Of course there were holes. But I always laugh at my questioners, laugh right in their faces. Because when standing on the edge of the world, it’s always the freedom of the fall that calls out isn’t it? Not the safety of the same old solid ground. They wouldn’t know until they’ve stood there themselves, feet right on the narrow line. 

And you know, of course, you do, that my lawless, fiery heart beats perfectly in time with your measured one of stone—standing there, a god on the edge of the world, and still counting breaths. How could I not trust you? 

If you were running away, then I would have done anything—did do anything—to get you there. Am happily still doing it, all for you. 

The only question, the only hole that made me waver, was the coming night. Creep-creeping ever closer as the sun’s final rays danced across the water and vanished. I remember asking it, a breathless question half-swallowed by the wind. “How will we know where to land?” For people have died leaping off those cliffs. And isn’t it funny that they always think this means you’re one of them?   

I remember your answer too. It dances around and around my head so often that I think I might make it my motto. Since it’s drumbeat sound is engraved in my skull, it might as well have a purpose. 

You looked at me and your answer was an exhale, a complete breath. Evenly matched, as always. “I just need a leap of faith.” 

 It’s the third most important thing that I tell them, but oh, you should see how your parents and my parents and the cops scoff at me every time I say this.  I’ve begun to answer half of their questions with this, my new motto. Their scoffs are worth it, just to hear the last thing you ever said to me on my own tongue. I relish in the intimacy of that. They just scoff and scoff. Listen to you, you don’t know what’s real anymore.

But I do know what’s real and I always have. My scars always serve to remind me.

Strangers are the best audience to hear that, the last part of the story. Everyone else was there when I was pulled out of the water, the ending’s been spoiled from them. But strangers hang on the edge of their seats, gasping with suspense. There was no other possible way this could have ended, I always tell my rapt audience, relishing in the looks on their faces. Although, there are so many different ways it could have ended—that’s what the parents always say. But this is the best ending. 

You gave me one last smile, bright as the sun that was no longer up. I relished that smile, still do. I keep it locked up tight where I can’t forget it.  Then I was jumping and laughing, free-falling. Then there was nothing but the wind, the flying, the fall, the plunge into the icy cold water, wrapping around me and dragging me down like an embrace. Utter freedom. This was the leap of faith. 

I was still laughing when they pulled me out of the water, legs crumpled under me, blood dripping down. 

That’s when all the questions started. Where were you, what happened, were you with me when I fell?

I told them over and over again that it was our leap of faith, not yours and not mine alone. They all looked at me with pity, whispering over and over again, Bridget, he was using you. 

I could hear them talking when they think I can’t hear, even months later. They think you used me to create some escape plan, they think we jumped together. They think I am broken, just a tool to be used, first by you and now by them, to solve what they think is a case. They think you died in the water, that’s why they found just me. They think these scars are a memoir of tragedy. 

And so, we really must both admit that I have done a spectacular job of keeping your secrets secret. If I must endure one more moment in front of a judge or an officer, one more moment listening to their pitying words, I may start laughing my head off. I’ll be the deranged girl they all think I am, if only because I fooled them so thoroughly. 

This has been a story so fraught with secrets, and I’ve been handing them the biggest ones all along. Not the secret that made you run, or the secret little lies I’ve been keeping, spinning them this fantastic tale. 

No, it’s that I handed them the keys to the real truth from the beginning so that they might unlock the door and see what we’ve been all along, this little story of you and me. I think I might finally tell them, now that enough time has passed and you’ll surely be coming back to get me. 

1. We always do things together, you and I. We fell together too. You for the idea of freedom and a life on the open road, where no expectations can constrain you. Me for you.
2. You’ve always been rock, but you’re tired of being beaten by wind and water. You want to be free, free, free. That’s why you’ve always loved me, the fire. 
3. We both needed a leap of faith to make things better, a risk to take to get to where we wanted to be. Your leap of faith was me, mine was into that freezing water below. 

Oh, I can’t wait to see their faces when I tell them that no, you never made that jump. You didn’t die in that water and I am not crazy. All you wanted was to be free to run as far as possible from their expectations, that was your secret. So you asked me to jump, to lure them all in with my spun web of tales. The story that ended in a fall, falling so that you could fly. 

Did you know that the first thing people notice is your scars? 

Everything all along—the hair, the stories—was to hide them. Hide that my scars are not a memoir of tragedy, they are a roadmap of love and loyalty, born by trial of fire and pain. It will be priceless when you get this letter and come riding back for me. Then they’ll all know what I did for you, how you too surely have scars. I am the fire to your stone, the roadmap on my legs surely matches the one made of scars wrapped around your heart. 

Then they’ll stop looking at me with pity in their eyes, and they’ll stop saying Oh Bridget this, and Bridget that. Then they’ll finally learn that I was the spider in the web all along.