The Bridge

a short piece i did for a writing exercise. inspired by the song bixby canyon bridge

            There is a path leading down. It is probably used by fishers to get to the river during the rainy season. Fishing in this part of the park is illegal, of course. The path is well worn though. No dried husks of plants poke through the gravel that crunches under my feet, sending up tiny clouds of dust. The path does no go straight down to the riverbed, but follows the wall of this pathetic canyon south, away from the bridge and the eyes of any passing drivers. It descends just sharply enough that I have to be careful of my step on the loose rocks.

            I walk for ten minutes before the ground levels out. There is a ridge, not four feet deep, that marks where the river was, where it will never be again if all winter are like the last one we had. I have gone farther away from the bridge than I had thought. I jump down into the riverbed, careful not to jar my ankles on the dried dirt. When I turn, I notice that the river isn’t gone, not entirely. Dust floats on the surface of the shallow stream, camouflaging it from above. Thinking of the little green readout on my rearview mirror�"92, the whole way here�"I slip the ugly brown leather sandals that you said reminded you of a middle class dad on vacation off and step carefully into the water. I leave them behind at the water’s edge as I head back north.

            It takes longer to get to the bridge than it did to climb down to the water, though the distance is shorter. Still, I only notice I have arrived when its shadow washes over me. It’s cooler here than I had expected. I enjoy the feeling as I stand in place, waiting for…something.

            A car rumbles along overhead, crossing the bridge named for the canyon named for another bridge, miles and miles away. I feel embarrassingly exposed, even though there is no way the driver can see me, and I step behind one of the support columns, wedging myself between the shelf of dirt and the pillar of concrete. There are several smooth, fist sized river rocks scattered around the base near my feet. I grab one, weighing it in my hand. I attempt to skip the too-round stone on the water and fail. I bend to select another stone, turn, and try again. Bend, turn, and try again. I am not sure what I’m waiting for, but it definitely isn’t hiding in these rocks. Still, I bend, turn, and try again.

            It is quiet. The stream barely moves; the car is probably miles away. The only sounds I can hear are the splashes of my feet, disturbing the dust, and the crunch and plop of rocks as I lift them up and throw them down. Up, down. Up, down. None of them jumps up again like I want them to. I pick them up and toss them down.

            They hadn’t let me down here back then, all those months ago. You had come to visit your sister, to see her little house out here in the desert. They had called me, those men in the town. They asked if I knew you. Yes, I had said. What is wrong.

            Sir, they had said, where are you, where have you been, what have you been doing.

            What is wrong. I am home. What is wrong.

            Sir, they said. We need you to come here. There’s been an accident.

            I live in the city, I said. I have work. It is four hours with traffic, both ways. Is she all right, can I speak with her, what is wrong.

            Sir, please come in.

            I had driven out of the city then. I called my boss as I idled on the interstate, thick with tourists and commuters who would never learn how to drive on these roads. I do not remember feeling urgency, only desperation at the sea of Priuses and Fords that held me to this man made oasis. An hour and a half later, and I was free of the suburbs. Still so many miles to go.

            You had left your phone there on the railing, they said. My number was there, listed as the emergency contact, like we had drunkenly agreed on that Christmas after your sister had gotten engaged and your father had died. They did not take me to the bridge. They did not tell me about the bridge. They took me to see you. There’s been…an accident, they said.

This town is so small. There cannot be a hospital. If you had been hurt so badly that you could not call me yourself, you would be in a hospital, I thought. We have most of what we need, a woman told me as she took me deeper into the building that served as city hall and county jail and any other thing the town needed it to be. We just need you to confirm.

Your insurance, I thought. I did not bring the insurance. Was it still in effect? Your place had been downsized, left you without a job without warning. I told the woman that I hadn’t brought the insurance card. She gave me a look.

I thought they explained on the phone, she told me. They had just told me I needed to come in. That she had been in an accident. The woman gave me another look, softer this time, and sat me down on a bench.

There was no sister, not in this town. She had married her boyfriend and moved with him down to Florida, away from the desert but not from the sun. The woman did not tell me this. Your sister told me this, accusingly, as if this all could have been prevented if I had known. It could have. I didn’t argue against it.

            You were tired. You were always tired, back then. You worried and that took up a lot of energy, and you tried to hide your worry, which took up the rest. You’ll find something, I had told you. We’ll make do. It’s okay. I love you.

            I’m just so tired, babe.

            I know, honey. I know. It’s okay.

            I’m sorry.

            No. Don’t be sorry. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.

            You wanted to get away, you said. Candy just broke things off with that loser, moved back near home. I’m gonna go see her. I’ll only be a couple of days. I need to clear my head.

            I went with Candy, up on the bridge, looking down. There had been water then, but nowhere near enough to break your fall. That’s what she called it: a fall. She wanted to come here, even though she blamed me for everything. She needed closure. We needed closure.

            I don’t know what I expected to find, coming back. You, I guess. I know it’s crazy, but I haven’t seen you anywhere else. Not at home, not at the beach where we left you after everyone said goodbye. Giving you back to the water.

            I don’t know what I’m gonna do, honey. Everything is like a dream, not quite a nightmare, but so fundamentally wrong that all I want to do is wake up. Is this what it was like for you?

            I’m so sorry.

            It’s getting dark. I turn from the bridge, from the rocks and the dust, and begin the long walk back to my shoes, to my car, to the rest of the world. I don’t think I got what I came here for. Did you?