Detached

For Melanie, with love and admiration

Even before I realized what was happening, the bridge took over my brain. When I was falling asleep at night I'd see it in my mind until I wanted to stuff my eye sockets full of cotton balls to block out the image. I'd catch glimpses of it during the day too, but it wasn't as obvious, just something hovering at the edge of my peripheral vision. Whenever I had a chance, I started going to the bridge. I'd walk across the city and stare at it from different angles: from up high on the riverbank, from below, from the sidewalk leading across it. But if I was alone, I never got too close.

Then I started sketching it: in pencil, in charcoal, in oil pastel. I even doodled it during math class. Finally, I painted it in acrylics for my year-end portfolio. I'm not even sure I meant to paint it, but there it was at the end of June on a super-sized canvas. It made my stomach heave whenever I saw it across the room and I wished I'd never painted it. My best friend, Aliya, said it was probably the best painting ever to come out of Bachman School for the Arts and that she should know since she was in the visual arts stream too. My teacher said it was stunning, yet disturbing. She said it was mature and showed an impressive use of diffused light. Even though it's supposed to be an honour to be chosen for the year-end student exhibit, I was horrified when she said she wanted it for the centre wall. I asked her to reconsider, suggested one of my classmate's paintings instead. I said I was afraid it wasn't good enough and that people wouldn't appreciate it, but she just waved me away and said something about my false modesty.

Kyle, one of the performance arts guys, was as obsessed with my painting as I was with the bridge itself. He came down to the art room every day to see the painting take shape. He would stand back and stare at it with an intensity that made me nervous. I was afraid he knew what was going on inside me.

“It's almost like it's alive,” he said at the exhibit when all the parents and students were sipping apple cider and mingling among our masterpieces.

“It's just a bridge,” I said, and thought how ironic that I could paint something so alive when inside I felt the opposite.

“It's not just a bridge anymore. Now it's something more: a story waiting to be told.”

“Deep,” I said, then immediately regretted it. I hadn't meant to sound sarcastic when he was trying to be nice.

“Whatever it is, I wish I could paint like that. I can hardly draw stick figures,” he said.

“I wish I could dance,” I countered, deadpan. “I have three left feet.” I winced. I felt like I was in kindergarten again and trying too hard to fit in. I could never find the right balance when I talked to him. I was either too reserved or too outgoing. I felt like a basketball bouncing out of control.

Kyle smiled. I wanted to smile back, but it took too long to pull up the corners of my mouth, and by the time I did he'd melted into the crowd. I spent the rest of the night wishing I wasn't such a misfit and that it was time to go home. If it wasn't for the fact I had a painting there, nobody but Kyle and Aliya would have said a word to me.

When the exhibit ended, I took the painting home and hid it in the darkest corner of the basement. I told my parents I gave it to my teacher because she liked it so much. I could tell Mom was disappointed. But I thought that if the painting was out of sight, maybe I could forget about the bridge altogether. I was wrong though. I couldn't get it out of my mind. I started to think that if I walked out on it, and felt it under my feet, I might get over my obsession. You know when you are crushing on someone you don't know very well, then you go out together once and realize it's all wrong? I thought maybe if I spent some time there, if I actually touched it and walked across it, I'd get over it. Or maybe I had other plans, I can't say for sure. I just knew I had to go.

It was summer by the time I made up my mind to walk across the bridge. I had the day off work, Dad was leaving early for a business trip, and Mom had a morning shift at the medical lab where she tests blood and urine and also does the bookkeeping. That gave me a free morning, when nobody would be expecting to see me. So I set my alarm ridiculously early and got up just as the sky was turning from black to grey.

Dad was eating breakfast when I came downstairs. Sherlock was lying at his feet and thumped his tail when he saw me. I was surprised, and annoyed, to see Dad was still home. I'd wanted to be alone.

“I thought you were leaving last night on the red-eye?” I said.

“They called and said they were moving my meeting to after lunch, so your mother wanted me to stay the night.”

I nodded and stood awkwardly at the edge of the room.

“What are you doing up so early? I thought you had the day off,” he said finally.

“I do. I'm going for a walk before it gets too hot.”

Dad looked back at his breakfast. I knew I had to do something that looked halfway normal so I went to the fridge and took out the jug of orange juice. I poured myself a glass, even though I didn't want a drink.

“I made poached eggs. You want me to make you some? The water's still hot.”

“I'm not hungry. I'll just have some juice.”

“Suit yourself,” he said and finished sopping up egg yolk with his last triangle of toast.

Just the sight of eggs first thing in the morning made me want to vomit and the juice felt like battery acid in my stomach.

“What can I bring you back from LA?” he asked playfully.

“I dunno.” I said, wishing he'd stop trying to force a conversation so early in the morning and when I had so much dragging me down.

“A snow globe?” he teased.

I scowled but didn't comment. When I was a kid I collected snow globes from all of his business trips. I know it's cliché, but I loved them. I thought they were perfect little worlds and I ached to get inside one so I could finally belong. I had twenty-two snow globes until last year. Then I donated them all to a charity. He came into my room after a trip to San Francisco with a snow globe of the Golden Gate Bridge in his hand. He looked at the empty shelf, then at me, confused.

“I outgrew them,” I muttered that day, without looking up from my laptop.

He left the room without saying a word. I saw the snow globe in the garbage later but we never spoke about it. Maybe I should have picked it up and kept it. It might have kept my bridge obsession under control.

“I know. No more snow globes. I'm just kidding. I'll find you something else,” he said. He leaned over and squeezed my shoulder.

“I don't want anything,” I said suddenly and with too much anger in my voice. I couldn't see the point of collecting more stuff I didn't need and would never use.

Dad stopped and looked at me for a moment. Then he put his dishes in the sink.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I'm fine. I just don't need any more crap cluttering up my life.”

He reached over as if to feel my forehead, but I batted his hand away. I didn't know if he was being sympathetic or making a joke, but I wasn't in the mood for either. And I didn't wait to find out. I gulped back my juice and bolted for the front door. I knew if I stayed we'd end up in an argument and I wanted to be left alone. I heaved a sigh of relief when he didn't call out after me or follow me through the living room. For the moment I was free to escape.

Stepping outside was like walking into the Amazon pavilion at the zoo. The temperature hadn't cooled at all overnight and it was still humid. It was so hot and sticky, my skin felt coated in glue. I walked down the driveway wearing just a pair of shorts and a tank top, my sandals slapping the pavement.

It's not officially called suicide bridge, but that's what the locals call it because at least three people a year throw themselves into the river below. The last person was some guy who was losing custody of his kids. He left a note blaming his ex-wife for everything that went wrong in his life and took the long dive down. They found his body the next day. It turns out he was a diagnosed schizophrenic.

The bridge is about an hour's walk from our house, but since my feet felt like they were made of concrete, I knew it would take me longer. After ten minutes of struggling along the sidewalk, my forehead was slick with sweat. I wiped it off with my forearm and slowed down even more. I started to doubt myself. I even considered turning around and going back to bed. But then I heard it calling attention to itself, like a distant drumbeat.

It was a hazy day and the city was reluctant to wake up. There wasn't even much traffic. Just one car waited at the lights at the end of our street and only two taxis passed me as I left our neighbourhood. I'd planned it that way. Because the bridge links downtown with the university campus, I figured if I got there early I'd have a better chance of being alone than if I went in the middle of the night.

I could see the top of the bridge as I crested the hill on Melborn Avenue. I could see the sturdy metal arches and thick cement railings. The best part about suicide bridge is the barrier separating the foot traffic from the car traffic so drivers can't see who they are driving past. I'd checked this out specifically before when we'd driven over to visit my brother, Joe.

As I got closer, I saw the river was covered in fog, which made the bridge look like it was floating. I shivered, even though there wasn't a breeze. Before I stepped onto the bridge, I stopped and took a deep breath. Nobody had ever survived a jump. The bridge was high enough that the impact killed people, not drowning.

When you drive over the bridge in a car, it only takes three minutes without traffic, but walking made me realize just how long the distance was. I didn't dare look down, but stared straight ahead at the sidewalk, the railings confining my view. The slapping of my sandals echoed in the silence and I felt a blister forming on the back of my left heel.

At the middle of the bridge there's a small alcove jutting out over the river. The city planners put it there in the early 1900s so people had a good view of downtown. The bridge was a tourist attraction back then, with benches, flowerpots, and garbage cans. But that was thirteen years before someone thought to hurl themselves off it, before the big stock market crash in 1929. I know all this because my art teacher's husband told me at the year-end art exhibit. I stood there for twenty minutes pretending I cared. Now there are no benches on the bridge. There are no flowers and there is no place to put your trash either. The city planners want people to walk straight across these days, without stopping to gawk. In fact, they've made plans to build a cage over the sidewalk to keep people from jumping, but that's still in the early stages.

When I got to the alcove, I stepped close to the railing and peered down. The distance thundered in my head. The fog was beginning to clear and I saw patches of the water below. From where I stood the water appeared to be standing still, but I knew from being at the base of the bridge that it rushes past. It goes fast enough to deliver a body to the outskirts of the city in a few hours.

I leaned against the railing and felt the cool cement through my tank top. I felt the pebbly roughness against the underside of my arms. I imagined what the kids at school would say if I jumped. I wondered how Aliya would react. I knew she'd never understand. She was too much of a fighter to ever consider giving up on anything. Of course, I knew she'd miss me to start, but she had Mariam and Gisele for support. And she had Kyle.

The water churned below and my stomach started to churn with it. My grandparents died in the same river, the same water. I wondered what they thought in the final moments of their lives, when they saw the road disappear and the river rise up before their eyes. I wondered if they held hands and held their breath or scrambled at the windows to get out. I thought quickly about my parents and Joe, about how much they'd suffered after my grandparents died. I wasn't sure I could make them suffer more, but then again, I wasn't sure how much more suffering I could take either.

I let my chin rest on the railing and stared down, mesmerized by the vertical drop, pulled by the power of gravity. How easy it would be, a few seconds of terror and then sweet, beautiful release. I wouldn't even have to jump, I realized, just roll myself over the edge. I wondered how long it would take to lose consciousness — probably only a few short seconds. I counted to ten in my head. It would be over already if I just had the courage, but something kept me rooted in place.

“You okay, miss?”

I looked up, startled to see a tall, lean man with long leg muscles. He was standing back a few feet from the railing, shrouded in the hazy morning. He was dressed in loose shorts and a mesh T-shirt and, with the sun rising behind him, he looked angelic. I'd forgotten about the early-morning fitness enthusiasts.

“Uh, yeah,” I said. “I was just feeling a little nauseous.”

“Maybe it's the vertigo. Happens to me too. That's why I stand back from the edge and don't look over.”

I nodded slowly, tried not to let on how strong the pull was to barrel roll my body over that railing.

“Uh, listen, you look kind of pale. Are you sure you're okay?”

I meant to nod again, but I couldn't tell if my head was moving or not. He stepped toward me and touched my elbow.

“Why don't you walk with me for a minute? It might help clear your head.”

It took a great deal of effort to move my right foot forward. I stepped once, twice, then my body was able to remember the pattern and keep the momentum. The jogger walked beside me, watching my face.

“I just live on the other side if you want to come and rest. Maybe you can call home for a ride,” he suggested kindly and pointed off in the distance.

I looked up at him, at the concern in his eyes, at the wrinkles bunched up between his eyebrows. I shook my head.

“I'm going to meet my brother for breakfast. He's at the university.”