chapter thirty-eight

The Fourth of July is almost over. While it has poured for most of the day, I hoped the rain would clear enough so I could watch the fireworks over the bay after dark. I had planned to stretch my legs then—it’s a celebration that I never miss.

At dusk, however, a TV news reporter announces that the firework show has been canceled due to inclement weather. It’s news that I’m sorry to hear. After having been cooped up all day with the dreaded report, I really need to get out.

At times it still makes me want to scream—nothing like a few days ago when I tossed my first pages, but it remains dreadful; my heart is simply not in the work. Oh, the information is accurate, the history is there. It’s just so meaningless, so void of heart. It’s my job to make it more than informative, to add significance—
I just can’t get all the pieces to fit together.

It will be a miracle if I can pull it off in any form. But even if I do, the professor will read it and know that I’ve let him down. Even after all the late work, he’ll see through it and be disappointed.

I decide to go to bed and get an early start in the morning. As I head to my bedroom, I see my phone resting contently on the edge of the kitchen table. Almost out of habit, I pick it up and dial the number for Dave Riley. It is too late to call someone in San Francisco, let alone in Virginia. It doesn’t matter. I already know that no one is there to hear it ring.

Before I climb into bed, I check the weather out the front window. The rain has let up, and in the darkness it looks as if part of the sky is clearing. I should be tired, but instead I feel anxious and restless as I pull the sheets around me.

After several minutes of tossing, I get up and glance outside again. It is a spur-of-the-moment decision, much like running out to the store late at night to buy rocky road ice cream. Although the bridge is usually closed at night to pedestrian traffic, it will be open tonight due to the holiday. So I decide to do something that I haven’t done since finding the journal. At a few minutes before eleven, I get dressed and head out the door to have a talk with my father at the bridge.

A ghostly blackness enveloped portions of the bay as the bike crested the hill on US-101. Intermittent flashes of lightning in the low-lying clouds, coupled with rolling power outages in the city, caused a jagged patchwork of light to blanket the valley. The bridge remained lit in the distance, though the thick storm clouds that continued to thunder allowed only a partial view. A light rain was starting once again.

Dave paused for a moment to take in the eerie scene before gunning his bike toward the lights on the bridge. Drops of rain streaked across the faceplate of his helmet as he neared the structure. Traffic was unusually heavy near the bridge; perhaps the holiday crowds had been delayed by the torrent that had rolled through the city just hours earlier. With each car or truck that passed, a pasty mixture of water and greasy road film splashed onto him and his bike. Though his leather jacket was waterproof, it proved no match for the constant barrage that had pelted him for the last many miles. He could feel water running freely against his skin, mixing with his sweat. Though the air was still relatively warm, the wind and moisture were causing him to chill.

As he approached the bridge entrance on the north side, he slowed his bike to stare at the rising towers that stood like sentinels guarding the way. A car, following too closely behind, hit its brakes to avoid a collision, then darted around the side of the bike. The window shot down and a voice yelled obscenities.

Dave glanced toward the angry driver but could see no face in the darkness. The car bolted ahead, passing dangerously close and smattering Dave with a grimy spray. He steered over to the far right side of the bridge in an attempt to get out of the way of moving traffic. The rain was falling harder now.

He’d expected this to be a day of finality—a day of answers. Now, as the bike rumbled slowly across the bridge’s massive span, he felt nothing but emptiness. All the while, his mind darted in a futile attempt to outrun the memories.

I enjoy my art, but honestly, I can paint anytime. Watching my kids grow up, being there with them, with you—I’m living my dream.

He thought of Megan, Brad, Brittany, and Angel—but for many miles he’d also thought of Crystal, of her two boys, and of Gracie.

I hope you find your answers, Dave Riley, I hope you find your answers.

Every thought of Crystal also brought guilt—guilt for remembering the color of her eyes, guilt for laughing at her coy smile, guilt for admiring her determination—and regret for having walked away so coldly.

I just don’t have anything that I can offer you right now. I’m not sure that I ever will.

The lights on the bridge were waging a determined battle against the rain and clouds, one hoped to illuminate the structure, the other worked feverishly to cover it. At the bridge’s midpoint, Dave noticed an opening in the metal barrier that separated the pedestrian walkway from the vehicle lanes. An eight-foot-wide section had been removed for repair. He steered his bike through the gap and popped it up onto the sidewalk. If anyone was watching, no one stopped him. He parked near a lamppost next to the railing—out of the way, out of sight. He killed the engine and lowered the kickstand.

The walk to the railing was short. He leaned against the metal, letting it provide support. It was slippery and cold—like everything that surrounded him, reminding him. He stood alone in the darkness. The hiss of the waves, the smell of the salty ocean air carried voices—whispered echoes that taunted and beckoned.

You’re not getting old, honey. I’ll always love you.

He’d hoped for peace, for closure, for answers. He waited.

Nothing came but rain.

Did Mom tell you who I like now? Jason Wilson. He’s so hot!

He listened again. The only real sound was the wash of holiday traffic rolling wetly behind, battling the elements.

What had compelled him to visit such a miserable place? It took a few moments in the darkness to remember, to recall the words of his father. “Your grandfather said he found answers there; he called the place magical.”

Dave felt water coursing into his socks. He leaned farther over the railing.

I enjoy the bridge at night, perhaps because there are so few people around. But tonight, despite the announcements of the canceled fireworks display, a large number of people still linger about the entrance.

I find a spot and park my car near the Vista Access on the south shore. It’s a short walk across the structure to my favorite spot. As I stroll, I begin to speak to my father. “I can’t sleep, Dad. I have this assignment that I’m supposed to finish, and I can’t get it right.”

I wait, as if to give him time to respond. He doesn’t.

“There’s something else, Dad,” I tell him. “I think I’ve found him—the grandson of Patrick O’Riley. I won’t know for sure until I speak with him, but his name is Dave Riley. Can you believe it? He changed his name—that’s why you couldn’t find him. I hoped you’d be proud of me.”

A security guard passes and nods in my direction. I nod back. I catch him from the corner of my eye as he turns around to take a second look, probably wondering why I’m on the bridge alone this late at night, wondering why I’m talking to myself as I walk.

The temperature is dropping, and I know from experience that the bay—including the bridge on which I’m standing—will soon be shrouded in a swirling, dank, drizzle-laden fog. Warm air rising from the inland valleys creates a vacuum that sucks the cool, heavy ocean air inward through the gaps in the coastal mountain range. The Gate is the broadest and lowest of these gaps, and each summer it is the same—wildly fluctuating winds, moisture, and vacillating temperatures boil together in a cauldron of instability. As the Pacific high pressure moves north, the swell of chilled ocean water off of San Francisco increases in size, generating a rolling, massive wall of fog that can drop the temperature thirty degrees in just a matter of minutes—instantly reducing visibility from miles to just a few feet.

The rain begins again, and it causes the people who remain on the expanse of the bridge to scurry to its ends. I’m already at my destination, so I open my umbrella and do what I do best—watch. I watch as the droplets spatter into oily puddles on the pavement, sending concentric rings of fractured light into dancing patterns that scurry to the outer edges. It’s fascinating, even hypnotizing, but the circles are ruined every time a car passes.

I turn my gaze to the drivers of the cars and begin to play one of my people-watching games—the one where I divine their lives solely by their appearance.

A man drives by in a Mercedes and I can see his suit and tie. Late at the office on a holiday, with his secretary . . . won’t his wife be surprised when she finds lipstick on his collar?

A couple in their late teens follow close behind in a red pickup truck. The young woman is sitting so close to the guy driving that they almost occupy the same space. She has her arm around his neck; as they pass, he has taken his eyes off the road to gaze at her. Certainly an accident waiting to happen. Rather than make something up, I question their young love. Will it last? Will they stay together forever, or will tonight be the last time?

As I watch and wonder, the wall of fog rolls over and engulfs the bridge, just as I had predicted, bringing my people-watching game to an abrupt end.

I shiver in the damp air and decide to head for home. As I walk along the bridge toward my car, I resume my discussion with my father. With fog blanketing the bridge, no strangers will stare or interrupt. “It’s me again, Dad. I forget. Where were we?”

I’m waiting to form my thoughts when I see a dark figure ahead. A patch has opened in the fog, as it often does. The glow from the overhead lamp bathes the area in a gauzy, orange light, and for a second or two I see a dark-clad man standing near the rail, perhaps a hundred feet away.

Unlike others on the bridge who are rushing to their destinations, this man is motionless, leaning his head against the light pole. He has no umbrella and makes no attempt to shield himself from the rain. I can see him taking deep breaths, his shoulders heaving, and I wonder if he may be crying. I feel for the pepper spray in my purse and then move closer.

He was here to find out for himself, to see whether his grandfather had told the truth about the bridge or if it was a big lie, a cute story. He’d said a person could find answers here. If not direct answers, how about a hint of direction, some small ray of hope?

As Dave waited, a fog rolled over the structure. It should have provided comfort, sheltered uncontrolled emotion, masked moments that he might later regret having let the world see. Instead, it enveloped him with a terrible loneliness, a hollow, empty blackness. He needed someone to talk to—anyone. Instead, he stood isolated and alone.

He could hear the waves laugh below, mocking his despair, posing fractious questions.

What had he done to deserve such misery? Why had these things happened to him? Void of hope, his mind began to drift into another dimension, a darker dimension. Reason began to blur. Why had he come here?

You aren’t going to jump, are you? He’d laughed at Brock’s comment; it had been ludicrous at the time. Even during his most miserable moments after the accident, he’d never considered ending his life. Now, shrouded in loneliness, he wondered why it would matter. Who was left? Who would care? Since getting on his bike more than three thousand miles away, he’d determined to hold in the tears. Now, in the darkness, leaning against the angry steel of an unforgiving bridge, he began to sob openly.

The fog, the rain, the emotional destitution, it all continued—unrelenting. The heinous summons of the distant waves grew louder and more insistent.

Though I know that we are both standing still, he seems to undulate, moving closer and then farther away in the patches of fog that roll past. I watch as he shifts his weight and turns his back to me. I’m quite close now and can see that he is wearing a black leather jacket. Farther down the bridge I see the barely visible outline of his motorcycle leaning against the railing. I don’t need to wonder anymore—this man is a biker.

I inch closer, a baby step at a time, as the rain worsens and the patches of fog gel back into a dense cloud. My people-watching game has morphed into a surreal, almost dreamy exercise. I am close enough now that if this stranger turns in my direction, he will see me—but he doesn’t. For long moments, he grips the railing. There is no movement other than his labored and deep breaths. I am motionless as I continue to observe. When he turns, I look for tears. If they exist, they are drowned in the drizzling rain.

As I watch, I wonder about his hard life . . . wonder if he’s part of a gang, if he’s been in jail or ever killed anyone. Does he have a wife and family at home? My thoughts are interrupted when he lifts his head, leans over the railing, and stares down into the dark abyss.

It is late, very late. I’ve been up working for hours, and as a result my mind and reflexes are slow. As I watch him now, as I watch his heaving, as I watch him draw closer to the rail, I sense his misery. My veins pulse and adrenaline begins to pump through my chest. For the first time, I realize what is about to happen.

The man is going to jump!