Brandon could feel all their eyes staring at him. They had seen his picture in the paper. They were probably texting about him right now or surreptitiously taking his photo and Snapchatting it to their friends. They would be wondering if he was mentally ill. They would be watching for signs that he might pull a gun and start shooting at them. And he felt like doing just that.
When the instructor dismissed them, he rushed out of the lab, flew down the stairs, and burst through the doors to the street. He crossed the highway and stood in his usual spot overlooking the river and New Jersey beyond. How many times had he stood here eating his lunch and staring into the churning waters? Had he known on some level that these waters would be his eventual escape route? Had he always known that he was supposed to leap into these waters on one of the coldest days of February and end his misery?
He gripped the railing and extended his head forward so that all he saw in his peripheral vision was the gray water below. The current was strong. His eyes locked on little whirlpools until he followed a decomposing tree branch carried by the current. The water would be frigid. The moment he jumped in, it would saturate his parka, shirt, pants, and shoes and awaken all his senses. He would feel more alive in that split second than he had felt at any other time in his life. But in the very next instant, he would probably regret his decision and cry out for help as he struggled against the current and the weight of his water-soaked clothes. Drivers on the West Side Highway would whizz by without any awareness of his emergency. And soon he would understand that his struggle was useless, his decision was irrevocable. And then he would search his memory for one last image to hold onto. And what would that image be? Baiba smiling at him? Judith Greenwald telling him, You’ve done hard work in here. Singing “Cell Block Tango” with Lucy? All of those moments in time were so ethereal—they only existed in his mind—and when he had sunk below the surface of life, they would be gone forever.
Brandon pulled his head up and stepped back from the railing. He didn’t have the courage to take his life that way. He started walking uptown on the bike path that bordered the length of the highway. Cars drove by him in the opposite direction, heading toward Battery Park, and he imagined stepping headlong into traffic. He stared up at the Empire State Building rising above the other Midtown skyscrapers and imagined hurtling himself from the top floor. And then he thought of all the jumpers who leaped to their death in front of an oncoming train. He could go to the Chambers Street Station right now and stand at the end of the platform where the Number 2 emerged from its tunnel. The train would still be moving fast, and if you leapt in front of it right there, the conductor couldn’t possibly see you in time to brake.
He continued to walk. He imagined his fractured body on the rails, people staring down at him from the platform. They wouldn’t really care about him. They would just want to see what a mangled body looked like. And they would carry his image home in their short-term memories, describe him to their friends and family, and quickly forget about him.
He began to cry. He was giving in to self-pity, he knew. Judith would say, You have a choice, Brandon. You always have a choice how you respond to things. He turned onto Pier 46. No one was there, and he screamed at the top of his lungs, “I hate you all! I hate everyone! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” His words were swallowed up in the frigid winter wind. But when they were out of him he felt calmer. He didn’t want to disappear from this world or give up his dreams. Yes, they were modest, but they were real. He would become a respiratory therapist and work in a hospital one day. He would intubate people and save their lives. They wouldn’t know him, but they would know what he’d done for them in their moment of need, and he would feel a sense of accomplishment in that. Maybe he would earn enough money to buy a little apartment in Queens or the Bronx—he’d never be able to afford Brooklyn. And if he was very lucky, he might find someone to love—not someone like Baiba, but someone who would love him back.
He left the pier and continued to walk.