by Will Searcy
her way to work.
“Sure,” I say.
She finishes drying a dish, grabs her purse and keys, pecks me on the cheek, and leaves. I stand still. It was normal. She was acting like she always had. Everything was normal. It felt normal. And I am not upset.
The grocery list is written on a piece of scrap paper on the counter. The list reads:
Eggs
Meat (fish if a good price)
Spinach
Onions
Cucumbers
Avocado
Tomatoes
Olive Oil
Plain Yogurt
Strawberries
Blueberries
That is it. I stare at the list in amazement. She does not ask for pickles. I check the refrigerator and see there is only one jar left. Then, I look at the list again. It is healthy. It is what a pregnant woman should eat to make herself and her baby strong.
There is another item missing, but I cannot think of it. It nags me. I try to remember but cannot, so I give up and continue with my routine. I open the cupboard and grab my box of Cheerios, but it is light. I pour some into my bowl and return the box to the cupboard. It is the last box. Cheerios are not on the list.
I sit with my bowl of Cheerios and eat. They taste good. I will miss them when the box runs out. My old friend tries to return to me, but my brain tells him to go away. This is nothing to be upset about. It has already been decided, and I will not change it. There is no reason to cry over such things, even if I hope I can change it.
Pop walks into the kitchen, bright-eyed and smiling like always.
“Good morning, son,” he says. “What do you have on tap for today?”
I swallow my last bite of Cheerios and consider the question.
“I think I’m going to run,” I say.
After going to the grocery store, I dig some old running shoes out of my closet, change into a sweat suit, and drive to the park. I run through the entire park. Past the play set with toddlers taking turns on the slide. Past the field where children play football and soccer. Past the parking lot where teenagers seek the privacy of their cars to make love. Past the walking paths where lifelong friends sip their coffee and laugh. And, of course, past the pond, where the three sons swim after each other in a game of tag.
It is towards the end of my run, and I have grown tired. My legs are heavy, my feet ache, and my breaths are short and strained. I jog down the final stretch of road towards my car that will take me home when I notice a companion across the street. He, too, is tired and struggling towards his finish line. I notice he is ahead of me. I speed up and overtake him. He sees me, so he speeds up. I run faster. So does he. I point to my car in the parking lot.
“To the parking lot!” I yell.
With that, we take off. I force my deadened legs to push hard against the pavement. I gasp at air and heave it out in aching breaths. My heart pounds like a lover’s reaching climax. I near the parking lot, and as my foot crosses the sidewalk and lands on the asphalt, I throw up my arms in victory. I look over at my companion and see we crossed at nearly the same time. I cannot tell who won the race, but I do not think it matters. What matters is that we ran. We tried. We fought for victory. We hoped.
I drive home and shower. My body, mind, and spirit feel refreshed from my run. After some time, though, I lose the euphoria and grow weak. I decide to take a nap since I have work to do at night.
I awaken in the afternoon to my wife slipping in bed next to me. I roll over to face her and notice her stomach has a bump now, firm and healthy. She kisses me. I am surprised. She looks into my eyes and kisses me again. Her lips are tender pressed against mine. I kiss her back. This act has not happened in some time. I think back to the last time and skip past the night in my office. That was different than this. This is not a hunger. I feel something this time. It is deep within my heart in a place so far within me that my mind cannot place it as part of my body. It is deeper than my heart goes. We feel connected.
Our time together passes in a moment, and my body is drained and satisfied. My wife almost smiles. She looks encouraged, if not happy. We still have not spoken of that awful day when I learned she was pregnant, but maybe some things are better left unsaid. I do not have words to atone. I am a simple man and do not know what to say. Maybe we can just be with each other, and our words will not have to remind us of that day. That is better.
Tonight, work is different. I find my mind is alert but restless. The discipline to read evades me, so I look out my window. The night glides by as casually as a shark cruising through clear waters. Few ships pass through my bridge. The night hides behind a mask of tranquility, but I know the darkness. I know it too well.
Come 3 a.m., I see a rare sight. I have a visitor. Not a visitor to me but to my bridge. I am perched in my glass and steel cave, and he does not know someone is looking down on him, although he walks to my burn mark. The visitor is a curious man. He wears a black hooded sweatshirt with the hood up, gray cotton sweat pants, and white running shoes that are dirty and worn. He leans against the railing and confronts the darkness of the night. I feel solidarity in watching him.
After a moment, I see him do a triceps dip on the railing, straightening his elbows on the bar and lifting his weight off the ground. He holds himself up with his elbows locked for a moment. I recognize the moment. It is like any I have had the past seven months. Then, he swings a leg over the railing. Then, the other leg.
Fear attacks me like a shark doubling back on a school of fish. I should act, but it is not my duty. I am in my cave and I am where I am supposed to be. I have no reason to leave this place. It is safe. It is comfortable. It is where I know I belong. Besides, what can I do? What if I go down there and make matters worse? What if I scare him and cause him to slip? What if he gets angry with me? What if I make another mistake? What if I fail?
I look again and see the man in the black sweatshirt standing on the wrong side of the bridge, holding himself against the rail to keep from falling. The time is now.
My body preempts my mind and hurtles me into action. The door opens heavy like a stone blocking a tomb, and the cold night air discourages me from leaving the comfort of my cave. Still, I descend the steps and cross the bridge to the spot where I had burned it. The man is there.
“Hey,” I say, prompting the man’s knees to buckle. “Whoa! Whoa! Take it easy.”
“Who are you?” the man in the black sweatshirt asks.
My mind blurs, and I realize I have nothing to say. I have no answers. “I’m…. I’m no one, just the guy who sits up there,” I say, pointing back at my glass and steel sanctuary.
The man in black looks down. He toes the air like a boy testing the temperature of a pool. I must act, but I do not know what to say. I am only a simple-minded bridge operator.
“Are you okay?” I ask because I do not know what to do.
The man snickers and shakes his head. He stares down. It is a long dark plunge. I can see in his eyes that he knows the darkness. It has been with him longer than the plunge will last.
“Do you want to talk?” I ask, because I need to ask something.
“No.”
A moment passes. I watch the man. Now that I am closer, I can tell he is more of a boy than man. His face is smooth and soft with a few pit marks from recent acne. The hair on his chin comes in thin even though I can see he has not shaved for some time. He is a boy. I think of only one thing.
“My son died,” I say. “He was four.”
The boy looks at me curiously. He forgets about the plunge into darkness for the briefest time. “I’m sorry,” he asks more than says.
“I don’t talk about it much.”
The boy turns back to the darkness, but I have to stop him.
“Do you want to see a picture?” I ask as I grab my smartphone out of my pocket.
I search frantic
ally through my pictures, but in my search, I land on the most recent photos of Sam. The photos of when he was really sick. His little cheeks are sucked in, and his eyes are a dull gray. Feeble wisps of hair poke out of his head. I stop and put a hand on my chin. My old friend returns in force, and my eyes water and itch.
The boy on the burned bridge scoffs. “Great,” he says, shaking his head.
I look up at him with tears in my eyes and streaming down my face. I hold up my phone so he can see the picture on its screen. The boy tries to turn away, but he does not, as if he owes it to me to look. He sees the photo of Sam and grows solemn.
“He was really sick,” the boy says.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Was it … quick?”
I shake my head and choke on the lump in my throat. “I made it worse,” I admit.
The boy looks back down as a cry escapes my throat.
“He asked me to go home,” I say. The boy looks back at me. “He was in the hospital, on the last day, he hated going, but I made him go so much…. He was in the hospital and he grabbed me with all the strength his little arms had …”
My lips tremble and tears blind my eyes. I sniffle and fight. I must fight and continue. I take a deep breath.
“… He asked me to take him home,” I say, exhaling like a burden off my shoulders. “He asked me to go home and I sent him to a hospital room to die alone.”
The boy looks down, but he does not see the darkness now. He looks back up. “But you were trying to help him,” he says.
I bite my lip