Chapter 13 - The Bridge Again

Three years after the fall, I returned to Blackwater Bridge.

Alone.

At least, I intended to be.

Elias followed in his truck.

I discovered him fifteen minutes later.

“You followed me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you said you were going alone.”

“That was the point.”

“I respected the emotional meaning while rejecting the practical plan.”

I laughed despite myself.

“Stay here.”

He raised both hands.

“Fine.”

I walked onto the bridge.

Daylight.

No rain.

No Julian.

I could see everything I had been denied that night.

The mountains.

The river.

The enormous distance to the water.

My legs began shaking.

I gripped the railing.

Memory came.

Julian’s hand.

Celeste’s voice.

The push.

My scream.

Then another memory.

One I had never fully recovered.

As I fell, I had caught the railing for half a second.

Julian had looked down at me.

Our eyes couldn’t meet because I was blind.

I had begged:

“Help me.”

He had reached toward my hand.

For one instant, I thought he would save me.

Then he peeled my fingers away.

I gasped.

The memory was complete.

I sank to my knees.

Elias did not immediately approach.

He waited.

Then I raised my hand.

That was all.

He came.

He sat beside me.

No questions.

After several minutes I said:

“He removed my hand.”

Elias’s jaw tightened.

“I remembered.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I thought the push was the worst part.”

I stared at the river.

“It wasn’t.”

“What was?”

“I asked my husband to save me.”

My voice cracked.

“He looked at my hand and chose not to.”

Elias was quiet.

Then he held out his hand.

Not touching.

Offering.

Just as he always did.

I looked at it.

Then took it.

We stood.

The symbolism was obvious.

Neither of us mentioned it.

Sometimes obvious things don’t need explanation.

I walked to the middle of the bridge.

Then looked down.

The river no longer seemed like a grave.

It was simply water.

Cold.

Dangerous.

Beautiful.

I removed my old wedding ring from my pocket.

Police had recovered it months after my return.

For years I had kept it in a drawer.

I considered throwing it into the river.

Then stopped.

“No.”

Elias looked at me.

“What?”

“I’m not giving the river anything else.”

I put the ring back in my pocket.

Later, I sold it.

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The money funded twelve surgeries at the Rebecca Grant Center.

That felt much better.