The Last Bridge Read online

  The only sound I ever heard that day on the delivery bed was the sound of my son gasping for breath. His tiny voice cackled like the creak in the floorboard on the third step, and then his body shuddered as he let out a wail announcing he was alive and there was no turning back.

  Only running away.

  My head was swimming. I was becoming engulfed in a deeper sense of drunkenness than I had when I got into the car. Memories flashed in and out of my mind as quickly as the wipers brushed away sheets of rain.

  The marker for the highway was a clear sign from God. The overpass above me was well lit, and from the turnoff at the light where I sat, it seemed as if it were raining only where I was. I put on my turn signal to merge onto the interstate and thought of Addison’s hands on my feet, washing them, and the way he still looked at me.

  And the papers and the deed and the son.

  The light changed. I drove past the turnoff for the highway out of town and headed across Main Street, over the railroad tracks, past the high school and the football field and Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, and made a left onto Elm.

  The living room light was on and the blinds were open. Through the picture window I could see Addison sitting at the dining room table hunched over a stack of papers. For a moment I forgot I was driving and lost control of the steering wheel and swerved over the curb and onto Addison’s front lawn.

  I slammed on the brake and flew forward, smashing my head against the steering wheel, feeling the hard smack of the horn against my forehead, and hearing the blare wailing like a siren just as everything went black.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I STOLE THE MONEY from Diana’s wallet when she and Addison went to the nursery to see the baby. I had left Jared’s money back at the house. The nurse said I would be able to leave in the morning and get on with being a mother. Addison said we would talk about what to do next. Diana said she would get the spare room ready. I wasn’t sure how much more ready it could be; she had been decorating it for months. Before she left, she took a picture of me and smiled. “Just in case you forget what this day was like.”

  I called a Yellow Cab from the waiting area and asked them to meet me in front of the convenience store across the street from the hospital. I was sore and woozy but not too weak to stand. The beatings had prepared me for this. It was two in the morning when I slipped down the stairs and out the door with three hundred dollars and the maternity clothes I came in with. I got into the cab and asked the driver to take me to the bus station.

  I bought a six-pack of beer at the 7-Eleven and drank it as I waited for the next bus out of Pittsburgh. It was going to Altoona.

  It was the first of many stops I made on the road back to Wilton.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I OPENED MY EYES and saw a younger, male version of myself standing next to my bed tossing a baseball into a mitt.

  “You snore,” he said. I lifted my head off the pillow to confirm I was awake and realized this was exactly what I thought it was—my second encounter with my son. His hair was dark auburn and thick like mine, with a bold wave running through the middle of his head right above his ears. He wore it short with buzzed spikes sticking up off his forehead. His eyes were chocolate brown and big. The rest of his face dimmed in contrast to their boldness. Even his eyebrows arched naturally in the middle like mine. I looked better as a boy.

  “I’m Alex,” he said. “Who are you?” I fell back on the pillow. His name was Alex?

  “Cat,” I said. I wasn’t quite ready to spring the news on him that he was exchanging pleasantries with his namesake.

  “That’s a strange name.” He whipped the baseball into the mitt so hard it made me flinch. He laughed. “You’re jumpy,” he said.

  “I need coffee and a …” I looked around the room for my purse while making a smoking gesture with my hand. As I sat up, I realized I was in my bra and underwear. I covered myself.

  “Cigarette?” he asked. I nodded. “Your clothes are on the chair. Dad washed them for you. Purse is here.” He pointed to the floor next to my side of the bed. “There’s no smoking in the house. Besides, it’s a bad habit, you should stop.”

  “Right.” I couldn’t take my eyes off him as he tossed the ball and circled the bed. His energy radiated everywhere. His smooth pale skin was unscarred and perfect. His demeanor suggested he was a happy boy. “How old are you?”

  “Nine, almost ten. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-seven, almost twenty-eight. Can you get me my clothes?”

  He looked at the chair and paused. I wondered what he was thinking. If he saw the resemblance or if finding women in their underwear was something he was used to from having Addison for a father. He walked to the chair and used his mitt to scoop up the clothes and dropped them next to me. He was lean and wore his jeans loose and off his hips, like Addison.

  The room was filled with granny antiques, big dark furniture that would dwarf anyone who stood next to it. The bed was a high four-poster style with fluffy pillows and a crocheted bedspread pushed down to the foot. It smelled like moth balls and the sweetness of old perfume. On the mirrored bureau was a framed photograph of a young woman holding a baby.

  “That’s my granny holding Dad when he was a baby. We look alike.”

  I wasn’t sure if he meant he and I or he and his dad, so I didn’t say anything. My forehead was throbbing. At first I thought it was from the drink. I touched it.

  “You beaned it on the steering wheel,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Beaned it. Hit it. You passed out after you turfed our lawn.”

  “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  He laughed. His eyes and mouth widened in an expression just short of pure joy. “Which part? Turfing our lawn or banging your head?”

  I couldn’t help myself; I laughed too. “Neither.”

  “Good, because I’d wonder about someone who’d do something that stupid.”

  I needed to put on my clothes but I did not want him to leave just yet. “Can you turn around so I can get dressed?”

  “I can go,” he mumbled, as he turned his flushed cheeks away. “I’m not even supposed to be in here. Dad said I shouldn’t bother you.”

  I made a motion for him to spin around. “You’re not, stay a minute.” I reached for my blouse, holding the blanket to my chest, and dropped it when I knew I could slip the sleeves on and cover myself as quickly as possible. I swung my legs over the side and did the same with my pants. “All done.” I was standing, feeling as shaky sober as I did drunk. Now I could see how tall he was. He came up to my shoulders. If he walked toward me and hugged me, his head would fit perfectly in the crook of my shoulder. I leaned back against the bed and touched my stomach in the same place where he had been both inside and then outside, resting and reaching for me as he gasped for life so long ago.

  He turned around and looked me up and down with the same intensity that Addison did.

  “You’re weird,” he said finally.

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “I didn’t mean you’re weird like it was bad, just…”

  “I know, weird.”

  “Yeah.”

  We sized each other up for a few more moments. His hands were thick and solid, like my father’s, not at all like mine or Addison’s, and upon closer inspection the line of his mouth was my dad’s as well.

  “Shoes?” I asked.

  “Downstairs.”

  I reached for my purse and rifled through it for a cigarette. The papers and the deed fell out along with keys and empty cigarette packs. Alex came to help me. That’s when I saw it: the kidney-shaped birthmark on his right hand in the small curve between his thumb and index finger. The light-brown mark that set my father’s hand apart from all others.

  I pulled away. I felt like I was going to faint. As I tried to focus on getting everything back in the bag, I could feel his eyes on me. I stopped and looked up at the wall in front of me. There was a dime-store painting of a doe-eyed girl swing
ing under a weeping willow in a white lacy party dress as a man and a woman stood by watching in their Victorian finest. Everyone was smiling and enjoying the day as a happy family.

  “Cat?”

  I turned to him. That face, open and wanting to be adored. Was mine like that at that age? “I’m …” Tears began to well.

  “Weird?” he said, half-smiling.

  “Yeah.”

  “I play baseball,” he said.

  “You any good?” I asked, throwing my purse on my shoulder and walking toward the door. The floor was cold on my bare feet. I hoped my socks were downstairs as well. This would hold me, this small encounter. I could go back now, back to New York or wherever, and forget all this.

  “Yeah, I have a practice game this afternoon. Want to come?”

  “It’s February. Isn’t it a little early for baseball?”

  “I’m on a traveling team; we start the regular season at the end of March.”

  I opened the door as he followed, tossing the ball in the air.

  “Alex, come have lunch before you go.” Addison’s voice came from downstairs. I followed the sound to the stairway. “And put your jersey on. Danny’s mom is picking you up.”

  “Danny’s my best friend.” He went back down the hall past the room I was in and into his. I felt dizzy and gripped the stairwell as I slowly came down to face Addison.

  The stairs ended in a small alcove joining the living and dining rooms. The front door was in front of me. I wondered if I could sneak out.

  Addison was standing in the doorway of the kitchen facing me. The house was simply decorated with sturdy pine furniture and warmly painted walls. On the wall above the table was a large, framed black-and-white photograph of Diana holding a small baby in the air; both are laughing and looking at the camera. Alex was right: he and Addison looked alike as babies. They were beautiful.

  He isn’t who you think he is ….

  “Hungry?” Addison asked.

  “Not really.” Actually, I was starving. “Sorry about the lawn.”

  “You need to eat. I’m making lunch.” He ignored my apology and didn’t seem at all surprised I was there or interested in whether or not I had just spoken to my son. He waved me into the kitchen.

  Addison had set the small round table that sat by a picture window facing the yard. “Coffee?” he asked. I nodded. There were three plates on the table. He was expecting us to eat together.

  “Would you mind if I went outside to smoke?” I asked.

  “Use the sliding doors over there,” he said, pointing to the dining room, which overlooked a large deck. “I built that myself.”

  “Impressive.” I wasn’t sure who it was that responded to him. It certainly wasn’t the me I had been living with; this person was calmer, almost nice. She reminded me of how I was back before everything started, back when I was seven. I resisted the urge to tell Addison what had happened upstairs, about the deed and Andrew and the notes from my mother. I was full of contradictory impulses; I wanted to go and stay. I wanted to tell him everything and keep it all a secret.

  I lit a cigarette and surveyed the yard. There was a swing set in the back that had no swings, only a slide that had gotten rusty. The sun was coming through the clouds and felt warm on my face as I exhaled. The smoke burned as it went down. I felt as light-headed as a teenager taking her first puff. My feet were bare and the deck boards were cold and rough. Still, warmer days were coming.

  “Are you coming to my game?” Alex dropped my shoes next to me. “Dad said you forgot these. Your socks are in the dryer.” I slipped them on.

  “So it’s just you and your dad here?”

  “Pretty much.” He went down the stairs to the yard and gathered up a bat and some balls. The snow had melted enough to leave a wide stretch of grass. Alex wore a baseball jersey that said “Dinizio’s All Stars” on the back. “Sometimes Mrs. Daley comes to babysit, although I think I’m too old for one. Don’t you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know much about kids.”

  He tossed the ball high in the air and spun around to catch it. I got the feeling he was showing off for me.

  “My mom’s dead,” he said.

  I fell back against the screen door but caught myself before I went through it. Alex came up the stairs. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I think I need to eat.”

  “Wait!” He went down to the yard to gather his stuff.

  “What did she die of?” I called to him.

  “Cancer,” he said. “There’s a picture of her in the dining room holding me.”

  Diana was dead. Although there wasn’t a day of my life I didn’t think of her, I never allowed myself to imagine what had become of her. She raised Alex, that much I suspected; but when did she die? And was she a good mother to him? Did she and Addison raise him together?

  “Soup’s on,” Addison shouted from the kitchen. Alex bounded back toward me as I put out my cigarette and followed him into the house. I excused myself to use the bathroom, thinking I could collect myself there. The pendulum of emotion had swung back to the leaving side. What made me think I could navigate these waters?

  The bathroom was filled with framed photos of Alex through the years. Every picture was a different version of him. He was my father. He was me. He was Addison. I felt a pull in my abdomen, like a contraction. I had missed it all. Thank God. Right?

  I needed a shower, clean clothes, a haircut, a different story. I needed somewhere else to go. I needed to read the rest of the papers my mother left, to ask Addison about the deed. I needed a drink, a coffee, some food.

  I rinsed my mouth and tried to straighten my hair but that damn wave kept my left side from lying flat. I lifted my shirt and looked at the scars Alex left. The way my skin had stretched to accommodate him and the way it went back when he found his way out. But it didn’t go back all the way; he had left his mark on me, like every other man did.

  I came back to the kitchen and stood in front of my empty seat. “I should go, guys. I’ve got stuff to do and you’ve got baseball and …” I was motioning toward the door as I felt my voice crack. Addison and Alex sat at their seats like an old married couple, used to the day-to-day order of meals shared and time well spent. Here I was, a drunken loner infringing on their routine, their lives.

  “Dad, help her,” Alex said, looking at me and then at him.

  Addison got up and slipped my purse off my shoulder and placed it on the floor. He pulled my seat out and eased me into it. “Stay for lunch; then you can go.”

  “Are you okay?” Alex asked.

  I pulled the small paper napkin out from under the soup spoon and wiped the tears that had been streaming down my face. I hadn’t realized I was crying until I saw the alarm in Alex’s face.

  “Fine. Just tired.” I looked at the plate Addison had put in front of me. He squeezed my shoulder. I cried harder.

  “This is my favorite lunch.” Alex smiled as he crumbled saltines into his bowl of tomato soup and bit into a grilled cheese sandwich. “Do you like soup?”

  His voice had the beginnings of Jared’s deep rasp. There was that birthmark again. I watched it as he stirred in his crackers.

  I nodded as I took a sip. It was Campbell’s from a can, but it was hot and steamy, and it felt almost as good as a drink. I closed my eyes. “I haven’t had tomato soup since I was little,” I said.

  “Where did you grow up?” Alex asked.

  “Here, in Wilton.” Alex looked at Addison. I wondered who he thought I was and didn’t know how much more I should say.

  “She’s Mrs. Rucker’s daughter,” Addison said.

  “Oh.” Alex paused and took a sip of soup and thought about what to say next. “Sorry,” Alex said.

  “Thanks.”

  “So, did you know my dad when he was younger?”

  I looked at Addison; he smiled, giving away nothing.

  “Yup.”

  Outside a horn beeped. “Danny’s mom, let’s go.” Addison sto
od up.

  Alex shoved another bit of sandwich into his mouth, grabbed his equipment, and pulled on his baseball hat. “See you at the game,” he said, and ran out the door, leaving us alone.

  I continued to eat. The solidness of the food helped me feel more grounded. The room felt smaller without Alex.

  “I didn’t come here on purpose,” I said, after Addison and I had eaten in silence for a few minutes. “I was leaving. I ended up here. I wanted …” I couldn’t say it.

  “You threw up on yourself. I washed your clothes.” He didn’t look at me. He took a bite and stared straight ahead. We sat for a while longer. His hands were weathered and freckled as he spooned soup into his thin lips. I pictured him at the dining room table, paying bills or doing whatever it was when I drove up on the lawn and fell against the horn. Did he come out alone or get Alex to help him? And when did I throw up? The only memory I had was of my head hitting something hard, and then the sound of the ball in the mitt and the sight of my son above me.

  It was hard to know how they saw me, harder still to feel what it might be like to see me slowly disintegrating in front of their eyes. Part of me was glad they did, glad Alex thought I was weird; that would push his suspicions back further, if he had them. Addison, well, what did I care what he thought?

  I felt tired again, like I could push my plate away and rest my head and sleep until I woke up as someone else. The urge to run had been replaced by a desire to get it over with, whatever it was I had been avoiding all these years.

  Addison stayed focused on his lunch. I wanted to make contact with him, to thank him for doing what he did for Alex, but I didn’t know what he did. I had been so busy with my own story, I forgot there were other ones that needed telling.

  I took a deep breath as if I were preparing to swim underwater and exhaled. “I don’t know how to start,” I said, my voice breaking.

  Addison made eye contact with me at last, in that devouring way his son had inherited. I returned his stare and felt something I hadn’t in a long time, keenly, acutely, alive—it made me feel nauseous.