BRIDGERS

It takes a minute to find a special person,

an hour to appreciate them,

and a day to love them,

but it takes an entire lifetime to forget them.

― Anonymous

_________________________

WITH HIS EYES CLOSED, he raised his face toward the sky above and breathed deeply.

The salty tang of the air burned his nose. The coolness of the gathering fog condensed upon his skin. He savoured those sensations, basking in that moment like it was his very last. That finite breath of time stretched outward in all directions, an eternity in a single instant.

The sound of traffic rolling endlessly upon the bridge behind him faded in his ears. The cry of a gull floating upon updrafts and eddies that followed the pattern of the waves far below came as from the end of some immeasurable tunnel. Even the wind was little more than a whisper, its voice barely a lover’s murmur in his ears.

For that all too brief instant, Thomas Brooks knew real serenity. All the worries and fears that plagued him on an endless daily basis were melted away in the stillness of that second. For one single heartbeat there was a silence to the myriad of thoughts that swirled about and filled his head with a cacophony of white noise.

Why couldn’t it be this way forever? he wondered. Why shouldn’t it be?

And then, as it inevitably did, the real world came crashing back in upon him. All it took was the nudge of a stranger’s shoulder brushing past his own to dissolve that stillness and shatter that tranquility into a thousand tiny shards that evaporated into the gathering twilight.

His eyes flashed open. Voices reached his ears once more, snippets of conversation between the two girls and the single boy who had passed him by. Their words were punctuated by high, carefree laughter.

Other voices belonged to the faceless bodies that lingered just beyond the range of coherence. They shared the bridge with him, though he did not remember inviting them along when he had ventured out here. He would have preferred to have this place to himself, but that wish seemed unlikely to be granted.

The hiss of tires on rain-damp asphalt pavement and the drone of heavy engines rumbled within his head.

From somewhere beyond the seemingly endless expanse of the bridge there sounded the long, low blast of a powerful horn. Its lonely note skated across the dark water, echoing over the breadth of the vast bay beneath his feet.

A chill shuddered up his spine. He had dressed for the weather that had been predicted on the radio this morning: cool temperatures with a possibility of rain. His clothes were unremarkable. He had chosen them with the utmost effort toward avoiding any unwanted attention being drawn to himself. Denim jeans over simple hiking shoes; a plain white T-shirt beneath a fleece-lined hooded sweater; a dark waterproof jacket that bore the bonded double-H logo of the Helly Hansen company. This last item he wore now with its collar turned up against his neck, its zipper pulled tight against his chin. Yet still the damp cold had somehow seeped and wormed its way through those layers, reaching down to his skin, causing his body to spasm sharply as a shiver ran through his frame.

The fog horn fell silent. A lull appeared in the traffic behind him. Quick glances over first one shoulder, then the other, confirmed that he was alone now. The nearest pedestrians were fading into the lengthening shadows of the gathering evening. They were like extras on a movie set who had played their roles and were now exiting the main scene. For that moment, at least, he had this portion of the bridge all to himself.

He glanced at the face of the Hamilton watch strapped to his right wrist. That item had been a gift from his grandfather, he who had flown Spitfires for the Royal Air Force against Messerschmitts and Focke-Wulf fighters of the German Luftwaffe during the Battle of Britain. Grampa had been shot down twice, he had told young Thomas on those rare occasions when he chose to talk about his service in the War — once over the coast of France, and once within sight of the limestone cliffs of Dover. That second time he had spent nearly ten hours floating in the Channel, clinging to a section of wooden framing from the wing of his downed aircraft, until a Royal Navy cutter had plucked him out of the frigid water.

“The trick,” Grampa had had told him, “is to keep thinking of warm things. Christmas fires on the hearth; hot tea with a hint of lemon; beef stew simmering on the stove. That’s what keeps the cold away.”

Thomas was thinking of other things right then. Or, more correctly, of one thing in particular. It was a face that kept coming back to him. Not a face from the past, but one from the present, from the Now. The face was that of his fiancée, Meaghan, whom he had left back home in Toronto. Her visage floated in his mind’s eye. She looked upon him with those dark hazel eyes that could see right through him. Her lips moved while she spoke, but no sound reached out to his ears. Was she begging him to come back to her? Pleading for him to come home? He was quite certain that she was.

To distract himself from that vision, he glanced at his watch again. Toronto was three hours ahead of San Francisco. It was 7:28 in the evening here on the West Coast. That meant it was just before 10:30 back in Ontario. Meaghan would already be changed into her favourite nighttime bedclothes: one of his own oversized T-shirts, and a pair of those gaudy plaid pants she wore to bed each night. She would have scrubbed what little makeup she wore to work each day from her face, revealing the real and natural beauty that lay beneath. Her dark chestnut hair would be pulled back into a single ponytail that bounced upon her shoulders. She would have a cup of herbal tea on one hand, and the remote control for the television in the other. But the television was nothing more than a distraction while she counted the remaining hours until Thomas returned home once more.

That final thought brought the hint of a melancholy smile to the corners of his mouth.

The sun was setting out over the endless waters of the Pacific Ocean. Those waters stretched away to the horizon behind him. Somewhere out there lay the islands of Hawaii, and beyond them, Japan. In his youth, Thomas had dreamt of visiting those places, of seeing the world. But those dreams were long gone, the product of childhood fantasies.

Fading rays of gold landed upon his shoulders with real and tangible weight. They were like the hands of God reaching out to him, to embrace him and draw him into their fold. He shrugged that embrace aside. What good was God to him now? If this was His plan, it was a damned lousy one. Thomas had no interest in feeling His embrace, nor experiencing any form of comfort He might wish to bestow upon him. The Almighty had made His decision, and it was one Thomas now had to live with. But not for much longer.

He stepped closer to the rail and rested his arms upon its weathered surface. Like the rest of the bridge around him, the four-foot high barrier marking the edge of the pedestrian walkway on the east side of the expanse was painted the same rich tones as the suspension cables and risers and trusses that formed this massive construction. International Orange was the officially designated name for that colour. It had been specifically chosen to stand out against the grey fog that often invaded the Golden Gate and San Francisco Bay area. The dark towers that soared above Thomas were visible testament to the sensibility of that decision.

A gust of wind swept up and into his face to lift the locks of dark hair from his brow. Another glance at his watch: 7:45 now. He was stalling, and he knew it, but not because he was afraid. More than anything he did not want to be known as That Guy Who Couldn’t Go Through With It. He had come up with this plan on the spur of the moment when the opportunity had presented itself, that much was true, but from its conception he had known that this was how it would be, how it had to be. Eventually, he knew, others would come to understand what had compelled him to come to this place and do what had to be done. But that reckoning would take time, something Thomas himself did not have in abundance.

Steeling his resolve, he drew one deep and settling breath into his lungs and held it until the tempo of his pulse pounded in his ears. He exhaled slowly, willing himself not to let the air rush from him in a single whooshing explosion. He had learned this technique some time ago and had used it ever since as a means to calm himself, to steady his nerves and collect his thoughts.

The time had come.

From one pocket of his jacket, Thomas Brooks withdrew the Samsung smartphone he had carried with him from his hotel room earlier this morning. That phone was equipped with dual cameras: one facing outward, away from the screen, and one facing inward, for taking selfies. He had downloaded a video app that would allow him to switch between those two cameras without the need to pause his recording. It was perfect for what he had in mind.

The sun sinking toward the horizon behind him cast the vista beyond the railing into a panorama of startling colours and contrasts. The needle-like spire of the Transamerica Building thrust itself above the skyline of the Financial District of the city located off the south end of the bridge. Those lower rooftops were already cloaked beneath a layer of gathering violet shadows that stretched down to street level.

Out upon the open waters of the Bay, the rising mound of Alcatraz Island was a dark mass capped by a crown of weathered white limestone that was the former federal penitentiary. In the distance, a menagerie of lighted windows marked the cities of Oakland and Berkley, huddled upon the far shore.

All of that would make a perfect backdrop for the soliloquy he was about to record.

Thomas had practiced the speech he had prepared well in advance of this date several times in the hotel since arriving in this city. He was confident that he knew every word by heart, had every nuance and innuendo he needed to convey in that message nailed down to perfection. And so he cradled the smartphone in the cupped palms of his hands and touched the camera icon with the pad of one thumb. When the image of the Bay appeared upon its screen, he touched the reverse button so that the lens facing him now captured his likeness, then prepared to tap the red button that started the recording.

Movement to his right startled him so that the Samsung phone nearly slipped from his fingers and went tumbling over the side. Once he had regained his grasp upon that device, Thomas turned to look upon the person who had materialized out of nowhere and was now standing beside him. He was tall, perhaps Thomas’s own age, with dark hair and a matching scruff of beard worn close against the line of his jaw. Pale blue eyes returned his gaze from a face that would no doubt be considered painfully handsome by just about every female on the planet. He was broad through the shoulders, as evidenced by the strain of the fabric across the back of his denim jacket, with big hands now clasped together upon the railing. When he spoke, his voice carried a noticeable twang, an accent that took Thomas several moments to place.

“Hey there,” the newcomer said with a smile upon his lips. That smile, though, did not reach his eyes. Instead, what Thomas saw there was worry and concern.

He knows! a small voice shouted inside Thomas’s head. He knows, and he’s come here to stop you!

“Hey,” Thomas responded before he even knew he meant to do so. It was an automatic reflex, like reaching out to hold a closing door as a woman tried to pass through.

“Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

Thomas nodded, his movements jerky, hesitant. From the corner of one eye he spied a pretty blonde girl standing just out of range. Though she was trying to hide it, he was certain her attention was focused upon their exchange.

“Is it always this cool here at night?” Thomas asked. Light conversation seemed the most sensible option at that moment.

The stranger turned and straightened. He was several inches taller than Thomas, and outweighed him by likely twenty pounds or more. But his posture did not suggest any aggressive intentions on his part. Instead, the casual lean upon one elbow perched atop the railing was meant to convey comfort and familiarity.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

“’Fraid not.”

“Where’re you from?”

“Toronto.”

“Canada? You’re a long way from home.”

Thomas nodded. In that instant he placed the stranger’s accent: Australia. “Yes, I am,” he agreed. “And so are you.”

The other man smiled in return. It was a warm and honest gesture that lit a sparkle in his eyes. “All the way from Melbourne,” he offered, thrusting his chin toward the far side of the bridge, and the endless waters of the Pacific beyond, now lit in shades of gold and amber. As quickly as he had answered, though, he switched tracks, turning the conversation back upon Thomas. “Are you here with anyone?”

Thomas felt like he was being interrogated, but in the very gentlest of manners.

“Not at the moment,” he replied almost cautiously. Then, in an effort to deflect this other man’s interest in him, he added: “That is, if you don’t count yourself.”

Another friendly laugh, but this time more forced, less authentic. “No, that’s not what I meant. What brings you to the bridge this late in the evening?”

Thomas held up his phone. “I wanted some pictures to send back home.”

“You have someone waiting for you there?”

“I do. My fiancée. Her name’s Meaghan.” Why had he told him that? Why did this stranger need to know about Meaghan? About his life at all? And yet somehow Thomas felt powerless not to reveal those things to the man who stood beside him.

A bob of his head, followed by a more affirmative suggestion. “Why don’t you call her?”

Thomas was taken aback by his brusqueness. “What? Now? Do you have any idea what time it is back home?”

“Toronto’s about three hours ahead of us, isn’t it? That makes it . . .” the stranger checked the time on a watch worn on his left wrist. “. . . almost eleven o’clock, I think.”

“Sounds about right. Too late to call now.”

The other man’s expression turned serious. “She’s back there and you’re all the way over here, I’m sure she’d love to hear from you. And she wouldn’t be expecting it. Think of what a surprise it would be. Probably make her night.”

Thomas considered his words for a few moments. He was right, of course. Meaghan would be getting ready for bed right now. Her routine was etched in stone: in bed by eleven, up at six-thirty. If he called her now, there was little chance he would wake her.

That idea, however, was not part of the plan.

Still, it seemed that was what the tall stranger wanted to hear. And since he had his phone out already, it would not be hard to act out that scene for his benefit.

“Maybe you’re right,” Thomas agreed at last. “Maybe I should give her a call.”

The handsome stranger held Thomas’s eyes for an eternity before shifting his focus to the phone in his hands. “You do that,” he said as he placed a reassuring hand upon his shoulder, then stepped past and moved to join the pretty blonde girl who still lingered in the background.

With his back turned to those two, Thomas feigned the motions of dialling Meaghan’s number from his Contacts list. When he placed the phone against his ear and pretended to wait for the call to go through, he turned and smiled at the stranger and his companion. The other man smiled back at him like a Cheshire Cat who had suddenly appeared out there on that particular windswept expanse of the Golden Gate Bridge, strictly by happenstance.

Thomas continued to play along, acting as though the connection had been made and a real voice was speaking back in his ear. “Hello? Hi there. . . . Yeah, it’s me. . . . I know, it’s late, and I’m sorry. I was just about to take some pictures from the bridge when some guy stopped next to me and suggested I should give you a call. . . . No, everything’s all right. But I wanted to hear your voice and surprise you, that’s all. . . . What? Oh, yeah. The trip’s going great. I have my meeting tomorrow. Can’t wait. I’m ready. I think it will go well.”

While he pretended to continue the conversation, Thomas stepped to the rail and leaned upon its upper edge once more. Behind him, he could feel the stranger and the pretty girl watching him, gauging the authenticity of his act. He had a sneaking suspicion they would stay there in those very spots until they were satisfied that he was not going to pose a risk to himself, nor to anyone else. Resigning himself to that understanding, he continued with the charade, hoping they would lose interest in him sooner rather than later.

After several minutes of a one-way conversation, he was running out of ideas to keep the solo play running. Finally, when it seemed obvious that any further stretch would reveal his lie, he chose to end the call. He offered his love to the silent phone pressed against his ear, and was about to make the motions of disconnecting the call when an idea came to him. Acting as though he had received some last second instructions from the girl with whom he had been speaking, he paused, then agreed to her pretended demands.

“It’s getting late, and the sun’s setting here, but I think I can still get a few pictures. I’ll send them to you as soon as I can. . . . All right. Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll be home soon. . . . Love you.”

Thumbing the motions of ending his call, Thomas turned around to find the stranger and the pretty blonde girl huddled close together, their shoulders turned against the chill of the evening wind. They were conversing in hushed tones. The girl’s blue eyes flicked in his direction once, then again, confirming Thomas’s suspicion that they were speaking about him.

Clearing his throat, Thomas took a half-step toward those two, holding his smartphone before himself while he addressed the handsome man who had encountered him.

“Thanks for the idea,” he said with a smile upon his face that almost felt like it should be there. “You were right, she loved the call. But she still wants those pictures, and it’s getting dark.”

The other man’s expression had softened. The worry lines that had creased his forehead were smoother now. Even his posture had eased itself into a more relaxed state.

He bought it! that little voice inside Thomas’s head nearly shouted out loud while pumping a victory fist into the air. He bought it! Now get them out of here before they become suspicious again!

“You sure you’re okay?” the stranger asked with real concern in his voice. By his side, the pretty girl was checking the time on her watch. The hour was growing late.

Thomas bobbed his head several times. “I’m fine. Really. Just gonna take those pictures, then head back to my hotel. It’s getting mighty cold out here.”

The man seemed to take him at his word. For an instant he remained there, uncertain whether he should stay or go, but a gentle tug upon his arm by his lady friend convinced him their time here was done.

Before he left, however, the tall man reached into one pocket of his denim jacket and came up with a business card held between his fingers. He offered that card to Thomas at the end of one long, outstretched arm. The ink printed upon its stark white surface formed sharp black letters that spelled out the words NATIONAL SUICIDE HOTLINE, followed by a telephone number: (800) 784-2433.

“Why don’t you give them a call,” he insisted. “There’s always someone there who’s ready to talk, or to listen.”

“I might just do that,” Thomas declared with a hint of appreciation in his voice.

The blonde girl was tugging at the handsome man’s arm again. This time he let her steer him away, toward the south end of the bridge where the city of San Francisco lay in the gathering dusk. Thomas watched as they walked away, following their progress until they were little more than faceless mannequins lost in the shuffle of other pedestrians making their way along the path that led back to the headlands.

When he was alone again at last, Thomas turned back to the railing and thumbed his smartphone to life once more. The external camera flared upon the viewing screen. Its lens captured the sweeping vista of the fading sunlight draining from the Bay with perfect clarity.

He touched the red dotted button that started the recording session and began to speak the words he had rehearsed without further delay.

“Meg, it’s me. By the time you get this, I’ll be gone. I want you to know two things. First, this was never about you, it was only about me. And second, I wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you. Unfortunately, the rest of my life came far sooner than I expected, and I couldn’t bear to put you through the pain and the grief I know it would bring. This way is better. It’s faster and it’s cleaner. The pain won’t last forever, I promise you. And when it’s gone, you’ll be able to move on, to find someone else who’ll treat you just the way I wanted to treat you for the rest of your life.”

The words spilled out of him. He felt like he talked forever. By the time he finished, the lamp post above his head cast a circle of amber light upon him, framing him in that place where he stood. At long last, though, he reached the end of his speech.

“There’s one more thing I want you to know, Meg. This part’s important. Not once through all of this did I ever stop loving you. Remember that. And remember this: If I could’ve been there with you forever, there’s no place else I would ever have wanted to be.”

When the recording was complete, Thomas tapped the red button once more to end that session. It was saved to the SIM card beneath a single icon that was his own face captured by the rear-side camera. The screen would time out in thirty seconds and go dark. Thomas had removed his password so that anyone who touched the power button on the side of the phone’s casing would see the Gallery open up before them. Hopefully they would understand what was to be done with the recording he was leaving behind.

It took several seconds to pull his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. His hands were beginning to tremble. Whether it was the gathering chill in the air that was the cause, or the comprehension of the finality of the act he was about to commit, he was not certain. He knew only that he had to place his wallet with the phone so that whomever found those two items would be able to identify him from his driver’s license as the very same person who had made that recording. The address of the apartment he shared with Meaghan was printed on his license. He had wedged a business card not so very much unlike the one the stranger had handed to him just beneath his driver’s license. The person who eventually found his wallet would not be able to miss that card, nor the phone number he had written upon it with a felt-tipped pen this very morning. It was Meaghan’s number, a means to reach her, to tell her what had happened here.

Lastly, Thomas unbuckled the Hamilton watch from its place around his wrist. His grandfather had survived being shot down twice with that watch in his possession. To Thomas, the possibility of wearing it when he did what he was about to do was like spitting on his grandfather’s memory, and the memory of all that he had done and endured during his service in the War. In all likelihood the watch, along with the money and credit cards in his wallet, would be stolen by whomever found those items where he was now placing them upon the deck of the bridge, right up against the foot of the railing. He did not care about the money, and the credit cards were in his name alone. Any bills that person ran up would not come back to Meaghan. She would not be responsible for his debts any more than she would be responsible for his actions this night.

After setting the watch and wallet and smartphone upon the deck, Thomas shrugged out of his jacket and looped its sleeves through the railing. After tying it securely in place, he stepped back and considered the small shrine he had created. The black jacket was immediately visible against the orange rungs of the railing. It would draw attention, and in return it would lead the person who found it to the articles below.

With his preparations complete, Thomas stepped to the railing once more. He did not hesitate before climbing up and over that barrier, then lowering himself to the beam on the windward side of the rail.

When he looked down, the tips of his shoes were jutting over empty space. Far below, the dark waters of the Golden Gate rolled with the gusting wind, showing stark white caps between the deeper troughs.

He held on to the railing for a few seconds, long enough to gather his composure once more. He took one last deep breath and held it, willing the uncertainties and the lingering fears to vanish like smoke. When he exhaled at last, he let go of the railing and stepped forward.

The nothingness of empty air took hold of him as he fell.

When the darkness enveloped him, he welcomed it without fear and without regret.