For the next few days, she haunted the Little Current bridge. The people who lived nearby grew used to the sight of her taking a few steps, backing off, taking a few more, and backing off.
Crossing the bridge was complicated in that it swung out over the river every hour on the hour to give tall boats a chance to continue on their way through the North Channel. She did not want to even think about getting trapped on the bridge while it swung out.
Hourly she crept farther, inch-by-inch, marking her progress with chalk, never allowing herself to force her way too far past the line that would send her into a panic attack. It was exhausting work—the hardest she had ever done.
“I’m not sure you can undo twenty years in a week,” Crystal said, during one of her trips to check on Moriah.
“Are you and your family enjoying your vacation?” Moriah asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No.”
“Then, I have work to do here, Crystal.”
“Yes, you do,” Crystal said. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
But no matter how hard Moriah tried, she could not go past the halfway point. It was as though an invisible, impenetrable wall separated her from the remaining half of the bridge.
She was trying to figure out what else to do, when Sam Black Hawk trotted up, his long, gray braids bouncing behind him as he ran. He wore black running shorts, new running shoes, a red bandana tied around his head and a green t-shirt emblazoned with the words: “KISS ME! I’m A Herpetologist.”
“You manage to cross it yet?” He jogged in place.
“No, not yet. How did you know what I’m trying to do?”
“Half the island knows what you’re trying to do, child.” He stopped jogging, checked his pulse and sat down on the bench beside her. “What we don’t know is if you’re going to do it.”
“Half the island knows?”
“Probably. We got a bet going on over at the reservation. Some think you’ll win. Some figure the bridge will beat you.”
“What are the odds?”
“About two-to-one last I heard.”
“In my favor?”
“No.”
The sack lunch Moriah had packed sat unopened on the bench between them. Black Hawk noticed, investigated, and helped himself to a bag of chips and a water bottle.
“I hear you talked a therapist into coming to the resort.”
“How do you know all these things?”
“Smoke signals.” He reached into her lunch bag again and discovered the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she’d packed. “Do you want half of this?”
She didn’t know whether to be miffed or amused by the old man. Since he’d rid Cabin One of snakes, she chose to be amused. “You don’t mind sharing?”
“No, I don’t mind.” He handed her half and took a bite out of the remaining half. “Needs more jelly.”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
Black Hawk munched a bite of his sandwich with a faraway look in his eyes.
“Do you ever get angry, Moriah?”
“I try not to. Why?”
He took a swig out of her only water bottle. “Ahh! Nothing like a water after a five-mile run.”
“Five miles?”
“Yeah. I got five still to go before I can call it a day.”
“How old are you, anyway, Sam?”
“Old enough to know the power of anger.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Anger can be a powerful tool when used correctly,” Black Hawk said. “It can give you the strength to do what you need to do. Truth be told, I’ve been ashamed of you this summer.”
“You barely know me,” she said. “Why would you be ashamed of me?”
“All that sitting around whining and complaining you’ve been doing.”
“I haven’t been whining and complaining.”
“You’re doing it right now.” He made his voice into a falsetto. “Poor little Moriah Robertson. Too weak and scared to walk across the bridge. Afraid she might get a bellyache or feel a little dizzy.”
Anger flickered within her. “That’s not fair.”
“Then fight harder!” His voice grew strong, and he hit the bench between them with his fist. “You’ve got Ojibwe blood running through your veins, child. It’s time you started acting like it! Our people have endured many things, but we have never been cowards.”
“You don’t understand.” The flicker caught and her anger flared up. “I might have some issues, but I’m not a coward.”
“Sure you are. You’re sitting here thinking you don’t have to overcome this. You’re thinking Ben will come back and marry you anyway. Maybe you’re right. The man did strike me as a bit foolish.”
“What makes you think you’re such an expert on my life?” Moriah said, hurt. “And don’t tell me smoke signals.”
“I’m a long distance runner. I hear things. I see things. I talk to people,” Black Hawk said. “Ben’s a linguist. He needs to be able to travel. How long do you think a marriage will last that’s built on defeat? How long do you think it will take him to start resenting you?”
“Ben would never resent me.”
“Possibly. But you can bet your bottom dollar Ben doesn’t want to be married to a coward. What if one of your kids or Ben gets sick or bad hurt? What do you plan to do? Curl up and have a panic attack while you wait for someone else to show up and take over? You think Ben could forgive you if you lost a child because you were too scared to drive across the bridge to the hospital?
The old man was right and, for reasons she didn’t entirely understand, the truth of what he was saying made her furious. Her anger had been building as he spoke. Anger at him for lecturing her. Anger at being forced into this situation. Anger at herself for not being able to overcome it.
The bridge swung back to allow the line of traffic to cross.
Black Hawk closed his eyes and began to sing in a soft, wailing, rhythmic chant as he ignored her and everything else around him. The words were not understandable, but the sound filled her heart with courage. She was a Robertson, but she was more than a Robertson. She did have First Nation blood running in her veins. Her people had never been cowards.
She picked up the chalk she had been using to mark her steps, rose from the bench and approached the bridge. As she drew nearer, the anger increased. This time, she did not try to shut it down but allowed it to grow and fill her body. Her brain swelled with it until she felt like her mind was on fire.
Behind her, Black Hawk’s chant grew louder, then blended in with all the other background noise of the traffic and wind. Her fury grew until the only thing she heard was her own pulse pounding too loudly in her ears.
She had heard people use the term “seeing red” when they were angry and she had thought it was just an expression. Now, she discovered that it was not. The anger she felt was so extreme, her eyes literally saw red.
As she stepped onto the bridge, she tossed the chalk aside. It was unnecessary and bothersome.
A tour bus drove through, rattling the bridge, and Moriah didn’t stop. A carload of teenagers drove by with music thundering out of their car, and she didn’t stop. A heavy garbage truck lumbered through, rattling the bridge with its ponderous weight. She barely noticed.
It was at the halfway point when her stomach rebelled. She paused, breathed deeply, got the nausea under control, then with a loud cry she pushed her way past the halfway barrier—head down, butting her way through like an enraged bull. Twenty years of pain and anger flared hot and bright, fueling every step.
Through the bridge’s groans and snaps, through the sound of rushing water beneath her, the caw of seagulls circling above her, Moriah crossed the length of the bridge, stepped down onto non-Manitoulin soil, scooped up a handful of dirt, and carried it triumphantly back across the bridge before the anger could wane.
“Here.” She dumped the soil into Black Hawk’s hand. “I did it.”
Sam pulled the bandana he’d wrapped around his head, and reverently wrapped the dirt in it.
“It’s just dirt, Sam.” Moriah stood over him, still panting from the effort she’d expended.
“Just dirt? I disagree,” Black Hawk said. “It was bought at too steep of a price.”
Hands on hips, chin up, chest heaving, Moriah gazed at the bridge she had finally conquered.
“You’ll need to do that again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that,” Black Hawk said. “Until it becomes commonplace. It’s like the conditioning involved in running. You can’t just walk away and forget it for a while or your legs start to get all rubbery.”
Moriah nodded. “Got it.”
Sam stood and gripped Moriah’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you, daughter.”
“Thank you.” Moriah laid her hand over Black Hawk’s as he grasped her shoulder. She had done it. She had left Manitoulin soil and the sky hadn’t fallen.
“Thank you, Sam.”
“You need to keep this.” He chuckled a bit as he handed her the dirt-filled bandana tied with a knot.
“What are you laughing at?” She carefully tucked the bandana into her pants pocket.
“I’m not laughing at anything, child. That’s sheer happiness you’re hearing. I just won two-hundred dollars.”
“How?”
“Two-to-one odds.”
“You placed a hundred dollar bet on me?” She didn’t know whether to be hurt or grateful. At least he hadn’t bet against her.
“What are you talking about?” He acted shocked. “I don’t gamble.”
“Then what…?”
“I don’t gamble. It was a sure thing.”
“How could you have been so sure?”
“Easy. A woman with the nerve to keep herself under control while trapped beneath a cabin with a mess of rattlesnakes… well, I knew it was just a matter of time before you crossed the bridge. Did my song help?”
“It did. What was it? Another achy breaky heart song you made up?”
“Ben told you about that, did he?”
“He did.”
“No. That was the real thing—an Ojibwe war song—because as far as I could see, it was high time you went to war.”
He held out the half-full bottle of water. “You want the rest of this?”
“You can have it.”
“Great.” He drained it. Threw the empty bottle into a nearby trashcan, and jogged away.
“Where are you going?” she called.
“Got two hundred dollars to collect!”
The bridge swung out into the water, boats slipped through the narrow channel and then the bridge swung back. Moriah approached the bridge again. This time she would succeed because now she knew she could. Besides that, she was still angry, and she suspected she had been angry for a long time. She just hadn’t realized it until today.