The Bridge by Rebecca Rogers Maher Read Free Book Online

everyone’s life every time I feel bad—it’s cruel. They don’t understand it—okay. Let them keep it that way. I’ll handle it myself.”
    She raises an eyebrow. “Except that you’re not.”
    “No? Ending it is one way of handling it.”
    “You don’t have anyone that can help you? Anyone you can talk to honestly, who would understand and not be all awkward about it?”
    I’ve asked myself this question before, naturally. I do have friends—a few from college, one or two from the office—and my brother, Jack. We go out for drinks occasionally or see a show, but if there’s any talking going on, it’s usually them doing it. They joke about their girlfriends or kids, or talk about sports or work. I can’t imagine how they would react if I started telling them how I was
feeling
. No, they would not understand. It’d take the word awkward to a whole new level.
    “Not really. Do you?”
    She’s silent for a moment, standing beside me and facing out toward the water. “I used to talk to my sister, Tanya, but then…things changed with her. I have a few friends, but I don’t know… When I got sick, I asked a lot of them. Dishwashing and pharmacy runs and things like that. I pretty much used up all my chips. Maybe they’d listen if I really asked them to, but they’ve got to get tired of it at some point. Sometimes I have a little fantasy where I sit down across the table from someone at the diner, and just, like, tell them everything. Maybe one of my regulars? There’s this guy who comes in every morning at eight and has a buttered English muffin and a cup of orange pekoe tea. He hardly ever talks. Just nods to me, and leaves a five-dollar tip. I imagine just spilling my guts to him.”
    “Why don’t you?”
    She smiles. “Basic human decency?”
    “And you live alone? No roommates?”
    “No roommates. Tiny little studio with seventy-two coats of paint on every wall.”
    “Do you like your job?”
    “You’re full of questions, aren’t you? Sure. It pays the bills, more or less. Keeps me out of my own head for eight hours a day. Do you?”
    I shrug. “I’m pretty good at it. I always liked math.”
    “Do you have a staff and all that?”
    “Yeah. They call me Bert. As in Ernie and Bert? Because I’m so anal and particular.”
    She knocks into me lightly with her shoulder, and smiles, and there’s a feeling in my chest like a lightning-dream of falling. I brace myself on the railing.
    “Are you nice Bert or mean Bert?”
    “Oh, I’m nice. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s bad enough taking these people away from their families sixty or seventy hours a week. I don’t need to be a dick about it.”
    She nods and stares out at the water for a moment, silent.
    “Do you take medication, Henry?”
    “I couldn’t function without it.”
    “Oh yeah? Is that so? Seems like it’s really helping.”
    That small smile of hers, in profile, it kills me.
    She’s much braver than I am. As we stare out into the churning water, she takes my hand.

9:45AM, Christa
    I consent to a cab to the Cloisters because it’s such a long way. At nine in the morning, traffic is thick along the West Side Highway, but our driver is determined to pass the time by talking to us.
    Or talking at us.
    “You two on date? Bit early for date, but you know. Is good. Good for relationship. I tell my wife, we go out. We must go out. Put aside kids. We love kids. Kids good. But must also be together. Man and wife. Go to movie. Go to show. See music. Take walk. Is good for marriage. You see? You two, go to Cloisters, good idea. Take walk in fall colors. Very beautiful.”
    “Yeah, it’s—”
    “You know where you should go? Six Flags. Get out of city. Ride roller coaster. They got what-you-call also. Water park? Big slide. Big giant water slide. Refreshing! Too cold now. But summer, yes.”
    He pulls out his cell phone to show us pictures of his kids on the slides while the car weaves in and out of lanes, careening around the