The Bridge

by Bill Konigsberg

  Oh.

  She stops walking. In the middle of the street, she slams on the brakes. How did it not occur to her? Even when she was telling her mom what Aaron did with Amir, it didn’t cross her mind.

  Something is really not right with Aaron. She looks at his last text: Take care of yourself, Tillie.

  She tries texting him again.

  No response.

  She calls.

  Straight to voice mail.

  She calls for an Uber. Not sure he’s there, but it’s worth a try.

  Under the tree, Aaron comes to the understanding.

  He’s been wrong. Utterly, truly wrong. Something’s come over him, and he’s humiliated, and part of him feels like game over. But a bigger part knows. It’s okay. He can go to his dad, who is at home. Who will love him through anything, even this. And yeah, it’s probably the medicine, and no, it’s probably not normal, like, not-depressed normal—did he see how the Jones-Joneses reacted at lunch yesterday? How did he not notice? And then with Amir, and the bike, and Tillie.

  Poor Tillie. Who said she was done in her text before he turned off his phone.

  He sits up suddenly.

  Done. He’d taken it to mean about their friendship, and he’d gone into pity mode. But the thing with her dad, and the thing with Amir, and the thing with him …

  Oh shit.

  He has no money. He gave his last twenty to some homeless guy in front of Zabar’s. But there’s no time. Sometimes you have to just act, even if it isn’t right. And that means jumping the turnstile if he has to, because he’s not a hundred percent sure, but he’s close.

  He knows where Tillie is.

  The bridge is just as terrible as it was ten days ago. Tillie rushes up the stairs, ignoring how winded it makes her. As she ascends, she feels the ghosts of all the jumpers howling inside her skull, and she wishes she were lightning fast, and she’s ready to rush to him, hopeful she isn’t too late. It’s like she knows. She feels his presence there, somehow.

  But he’s not there.

  She rushes anyway, needing to feel the railing the whole way, hoping against hope it’ll all be cold to the touch so she won’t have to think about the unthinkable.

  She was angry, yes, but how could she have been so oblivious? How could she not have known that something wasn’t right with him?

  Please. Don’t let me be too late.

  “Tillie!”

  Tillie turns quickly. Aaron is behind her, running toward her, frantic.

  “Don’t! Please! Don’t!”

  She turns and runs toward him. “I’m so sorry! So sorry, Aaron!”

  They run into each other’s arms, and they embrace, and they let the tears fly.

  “God. Please. Don’t,” Aaron says.

  Tillie pulls back. “Wait. You. You don’t.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “I came here to make sure you didn’t …”

  Aaron’s eyes light up. “Me too.”

  They sit on the concrete of the walkway, legs splayed out, backs safely against the barrier, looking at the metal railing in front of them and beyond that, the infinite blue of the sky and the mass of skyscrapers that is New York City.

  They hold hands, tightly, like letting go would be fatal.

  They don’t talk for quite a while.

  Aaron is thinking about imperfection, and all the things he seemingly doesn’t know about himself, and that he’s lived his life to this point like he knows everything. How depression snuck up on him, and then this other thing, this whatever, that raised him up so high he became a different person. And how do you trust your brain when it’s so empty of knowledge, so unaware of what’s real? And will that ever go away, or will life always be like this?

  And will it always be so precarious? So scary, so it could all go away tomorrow? Because that’s what the bridge symbolizes to him. The sense of impermanence. Because it could have all ended here. It could have.

  But all that is real in the moment, it seems, is the brown-and-black-speckled concrete beneath them with little chunks of gray and white stone that shine intermittently as the sun breaks through the clouds, and the slightly chilly air that sweeps through his hair, and the frantic sound and harsh smell of vehicles speeding between New York and New Jersey, and his friend, still grasping his hand so tightly. She is real. And she is safe. And he is so grateful for that. And so willing to do whatever he has to do to make it right after almost screwing everything up. If she’ll let him.

  Tillie is pondering weakness as the bridge rumbles and vibrates through her body. That word, and how her father used it, but her mother said brave. Is she weak or brave? What would other people in her life say?

  And who the hell cares? What would she say?

  She just sped up the stairs of the George Washington Bridge to make sure a friend she was mad at didn’t jump. Is that weak?

  She stares at the rusted metal that was nearly the last thing she touched in this world just over a week ago, and she thinks about how she didn’t jump, and that’s brave. To stay when things are so shitty-feeling is brave.

  That makes her smile. Because it’s probably the first time in her life she’s ever felt courageous.

  “This is gonna suck,” Aaron finally says, staring at a rust spot on the railing.

  Tillie doesn’t even need to ask what he means. “Yeah. Some of it. And some of it will be good.”

  “The medication thing, for me, is gonna suck. And coming back from all the people who saw me like that. You, for example. I’m so sorry, Tillie. I would never, ever do that.”

  “You did, though. But yeah. I know. You weren’t in your right head.”

  He leans his head against her shoulder and nuzzles up against her.

  “Are you now?” she asks.

  “Kinda sorta. It’s like I woke out of it. But I have just about no confidence that I can trust my judgment, like maybe ever again. Do you know I stole a bike today?”

  She turns her body a bit toward him and his head slips off her shoulders. He straightens up. The bridge shakes beneath and around them.

  “I did not know that.”

  “In the moment, neither did I.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, wow. You gonna be okay? With your dad?”

  “Nah,” she says. “I think that’s probably never, ever gonna be okay.”

  He doesn’t need to answer. “So we just … keep going?”

  “I guess. What’s the alternative?”

  And they look out at the sky and know that the alternative is so precariously close that it can’t even be spoken.

  CHAPTER 12D: APRIL 28

  It’s a different test entirely that Dr. Laudner hands Aaron the next morning.

  Still the same options for answers: Quite a Lot, Not at All, etc. But this time the questions make Aaron feel like someone’s been listening to his thoughts.

  Did he have special plans for the world?

  Had his mind never been sharper?

  So he aces it, basically, and he knows, while acing it, that this is not the greatest news.

  Dr. Laudner scores it, writes a note on top, and doesn’t even give Aaron the score. It’s that bad.

  “So it would appear the Petralor kicked you up into a manic episode. That can happen,” the doctor says.

  Aaron stares at him. Wouldn’t that have been good to communicate prior to it actually happening?

  “We’ll put you on something that is more appropriate for bipolar disorder.”

  “So is this, like, something I have now? Like I caught a virus and it’s forever?”

  Dr. Laudner shakes his head. “What’s not clear to me is whether this is a one-shot thing, or if this is a pattern in your life. We can talk about that and eventually we’ll figure it out.”

  Aaron stares out the window. Bipolar. The word had never had any real meaning to him. Suddenly it does.

  “So we don’t know whether this is a thing that could happen to me at any time?”

  �
��One of the most important questions is, has it been happening without you or anyone around you noticing?”

  Aaron scans his life for times he felt energized like he did yesterday and the day before. He comes up blank.

  “I really don’t think so.”

  “Then it’s probably just a one-off, and probably tied to the medication. But we’ll keep an eye on it and keep talking about it, okay? Sometimes people are less aware of their lives than they’d think.”

  The truth of this hits Aaron hard, and he clams up. He doesn’t really want to discuss anything at the moment. He wants his bed. He wants to be able to erase the past forty-eight hours.

  “How will I know?” Aaron finally asks.

  “Know what?”

  “If my happiness is real?” His voice is soft, tentative.

  “My guess is you’ll just know.”

  Aaron isn’t sure what to do with that. How can he trust himself ever again?

  After a lot of back and forth, Amir agrees to meet with Tillie. This time it’s Tillie who feels awkward and apologetic.

  They meet in Central Park, not too far from the spot where, unbeknownst to them, Aaron collapsed yesterday. They sit on a park bench, with room for a very large person to sit in between them.

  “So I’m sorry,” Tillie says.

  “There’s a lot of that with us.”

  “I’m not sorry because I did anything wrong,” she says. “Because I actually didn’t. I told him hands off with you, because that would be weird. He did it all himself. I’m sorry it happened, and that’s all.”

  Amir stretches his arms up. “Well, I guess that does take you off the hook. Sorry I jumped to conclusions.”

  “Ugh. So much sorry,” Tillie says, and Amir nods.

  “So is he getting help? ’Cause he really needs help. Did you know he was fucking crazy or was this new to you, too?”

  Tillie frowns and looks into Amir’s eyes. “Maybe stop with the ‘crazy’ stuff.”

  “Okay. Sorry. Whatever he is. Manic?”

  “I guess. I didn’t know about that manic thing. I don’t think he did, either. A medicine kicked him up.”

  “Ah. Well, that’s a lot to deal with.”

  Tillie laughs. “That’s been the theme of the past few weeks.”

  “Can you and I maybe do a thing where we say a blanket apology? Because there’s been a lot of sorry in our conversations.”

  Tillie says, “I don’t think the sorrys will change anything. I think what’s going to happen is we’ll learn to trust each other again. Or not.”

  “But you’re willing to try?”

  She gives him a half smile. “I think I am.”

  Aaron is writing in his journal when his dad knocks on the door around lunchtime.

  “How are you holding up?” his dad asks.

  Aaron sighs. “Been better.” It’s been an hour since he took his first new pill. He was aware he wouldn’t feel anything right away, but there was a bit of a sadness along with the relief. Relief that this would help his brain stop tripping over itself and stop the wave after wave of thoughts and excitement. Sadness because … excitement. He’d miss this, in a way. Even now, even digging out of a deep crater of his own making, one he hates, he knows. He’ll miss the way his brain was firing on all cylinders.

  “What’cha doing there?”

  “The journal you gave me. I called it ‘Thoughts from Up High, Never to Fall.’ Irony alert.”

  His dad sits in the blue rocking chair and pushes until he’s steadily swaying back and forth. “No one could have guessed—”

  “But could we have, maybe?” Aaron says. “I’ve been thinking all morning about this. Is my songwriting kind of—embarrassing?”

  His dad stops the chair with his toes. “Are you kidding me? I love your songs!”

  “Yeah, but.”

  “No buts. Your songs are terrific. It’s amazing how you figured out how to put music to them without any lessons. I’m always telling my MKP buddies—”

  “Yeah, but that’s the thing. I’ve never had lessons, and I’m always thinking about how I’m gonna be all famous.”

  His dad starts to slowly rock again. “Ah. Okay. That’s a little different.”

  “So is that manic?”

  “Why do you want to be famous?”

  “Just so that people … I don’t know. Know me. Hear me. Love me. Respect me.”

  “So getting famous is how you’ll become loved and respected? I can think of maybe hundreds of former child actors and singers who would tell you that doesn’t work so well.”

  Aaron laughs. “Is it weird that I never thought of it that way? I just feel like, I need to be like a shooting star. Like I need my wins to be big just to …”

  “Just to what?”

  Aaron puts his hands over his face and pushes his hair back. “I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it. Ugh.”

  “That’s fine,” his dad says.

  But Aaron does know. The words he didn’t say. Just to be enough.

  It’s been quite a twenty-four-hour period, and it’s like his brain has run a marathon and is in need of a massive amount of electrolytes or something. He’s embarrassed. Majorly so. What he did with Amir seemed so normal at the time, like he didn’t give it a second thought, and the bicycle, which he hasn’t even told his dad about, because, man. He can’t even deal with that. Hopefully there’s no camera downstairs, or in the lobby. Of course there is. Shit.

  “So I may have stolen a bike from the basement.”

  “Oh,” his dad says, stopping his rocking again.

  “It’s like it didn’t occur to me in the moment that it was even weird to do. I was so—driven. So gotta go do this thing.”

  “What was that thing, by the way? You were trying to explain it to me and I didn’t get it.”

  Aaron sighs again and covers himself with the blanket. “It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t real. And that’s what sucks. It wasn’t real. None of it. And I did some of it at school, which is humiliating.”

  His dad comes and sits next to him.

  “You know what? The old me would have told you it wasn’t. But you’re right. That’s pretty humiliating.”

  Aaron laughs ruefully. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “No, I just mean maybe it’ll be better to meet you in the real world rather than try to make it all better for you. You were manic. You probably acted in some ways that people noted. It’s embarrassing, yes. But you can come back from it. People embarrass themselves all the time. Then they go back in and deal with it. They apologize to people if they wronged them.”

  Aaron snuggles in. His dad continues.

  “I know you don’t always want to talk to me, because I’m your dad, and it’s a crime or whatever to actually talk real to your dad. But I see you, Aaron. And you have nothing to be embarrassed about with me, okay? I am nothing but proud of you, ever. I have nothing but love and admiration for you. You always have that, always. Hear me?”

  Aaron feels the words and their warmth pass through his entire body and park themselves in his chest. He closes his eyes and accepts them.

  “I hear you,” he says.

  The text comes in from an unknown number. It just says: Hey

  Tillie texts back: Who is this?

  Tillie stifles a laugh. This seems pretty much like a first-world problem.

  This makes Tillie cackle.

  Tillie has not been this surprised by anything in a long time. And it’s been a rather surprising few weeks.

  Aaron’s not used to company on Sunday nights. He also not used to greeting company of any sort in pajamas. But with Tillie, and with how he’s feeling, he indeed does answer the door in his pajamas.

  Scooby-Doo pajamas.

  “You are not serious,” she says.

  “What was your first clue?”

  She laughs. “I kind of like them. They’re very … you.”

  “And what does ‘very me’ mean? Please edify me.”

  “Ve
ry I stay home a lot but also I’m adorable and if people only knew how great I was, I wouldn’t be home as much. Kind of like me, plus the adorable.”

  Aaron blushes. “First of all, that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever, ever said about me. Secondly, you are totes adorbs. Did I say that right?”

  “I don’t think you saying those words will ever sound quite right.”

  “Could you pull it off?”

  “Definitely not.”

  They go into his bedroom and Aaron allows Tillie to feed Carpi B and Britney Spearfish, and then he puts on his dad’s playlist, the one with the Wilson Phillips song.

  “This is my new favorite song,” he says.

  “Ironically?”

  He shakes his head. “My dad played it for me this afternoon, after we had this talk about being real with each other. And it really hit me, the way a song can do, you know? It feels like my life, or at least one possibility of what my life could be. So no. Totally unironically.”

  Tillie listens to it. Aaron isn’t sure if she gets it, but when it’s over, she says, “I love it, too. It’s sweet.”

  “It’s Seventy-Fourth Street sweet,” he says.

  “I don’t know what that means. Wanna explain?”

  Aaron runs his hands through his hair. “Maybe another time. Maybe never. I’m so embarrassed about that. About everything. Really. I’m—”

  “No. We’re not doing sorry. I get it, Aaron. You weren’t fully there. Apology not needed, okay?”

  “Thanks. Want a whiskey or something to wash down your sorrow?”

  She raises one eyebrow.

  “It’s what I call LaCroix seltzer. Makes me feel less ridiculous about being a sixteen-year-old boy drinking seltzer in his room.”

  She laughs. “Yes, please.”

  While Aaron is out getting two cans of seltzer, Aaron’s dad sticks his head in the room.

  “Thanks for everything,” he says. “What you did yesterday, when you went up to the bridge? That was heroic, okay? You’ve earned your place on my indebted-forever list.”

  Tillie blushes. “He did it for me, too.”