Bridge, p.36
Bridge, page 36
It must be close to two hours now. Home time. Bridge is sickened at the thought of what’s waiting for her. It’s like passing a traffic accident: Keep your eyes on the road, away from the blood on the asphalt, the crumple of metal and human bodies. Can’t look too closely at what is happening here either, the reality of what Jo has done. Both of them murderers of a kind, and the really fucked-up thing? She still loves Jo. Loves her with that little-kid heart, deep and true, because she’s her mom. Despite everything.
“You could come back,” Jo says. “After it’s done and she’s gone.”
Bridge leans her head against her mom’s shoulder, wanting to feel her closeness. “People are dead, Mom. Because of me. And you. And her.”
“But we’re not,” Jo protests. “We have a chance.”
“You are dead. Where I live. Which isn’t here. I can’t stay. I can’t do that to someone else.” She pulls away.
Her other life, her real life waiting for her. All the bad choices she’s made, some she hasn’t. One big one. She has to go back, show the other Bridgets what to do. Pray that Amber isn’t still out there in other worlds. Hope that Budgie doesn’t go back to Franco, that she gets some grade A therapy to deal with the trauma Bridge has put her through—accidentally, yes, but still. Bridge imagines the tug of all the otherselves she feels responsible for, especially the dead. She needs to fix things as best she can. But she can’t live their lives, only hers.
The keys to Franco’s truck are clenched in her fist, the teeth biting into her palm. A bird sings like a cricket somewhere in the trees, sharp and trilling. A lawn mower grumbles. She’s vaguely aware that the little dog has stopped howling somewhere inside.
Jo winces, opens her mouth to explain all over again. But Bridge stops her. “I can’t. I don’t want to hear it. I love you.” She really does. She squeezes her hand, lets it go, and Jo chokes. She seems so small, so fragile. There’s such utter misery on her face, but it’s not her face. Not quite. Was it worth it? she wants to ask her, the love and anger all knotted up. There are things she could say. Like: I love you, but Jesus. Look at what you’ve done, Jo. Look at who you are, who you chose to be.
But instead she says: “Maybe you can look after Budgie.”
She reaches up and double-taps the doorway to show respect for the dead. Or to say goodbye.
AMBER
Roadkill
She’s picking her way across the grass behind the complex, the tape, snapped at last, dangling from her wrists and the bag with her own Frequency Machine slung over her shoulder. Mr. Floof II is clasped in her arms; she’s holding his mouth because he needs to be quiet. She needs to regroup. She’ll come back and take care of this.
She has to find the others. Reconnect with them. There’s a gathering darkness inside her head, a terrifying blankness. She hasn’t been alone in forever, not since the first time she took the worm and felt them all swarming in. What’s a queen bee without the hive? Dying in an empty palace of rotten honey, she thinks.
They can’t all have watched the video. She still has a freezer compartment at home with the worms she cut out of Aiden. She can use those. It can’t be that just one frequency, one little video of an epileptic seizure, would deworm them all. She’ll be able to reinfect herselves.
Not reinfect. Reconnect. She’s the parasite killer, the deworming pill, the hunter of monsters. She doesn’t infect.
The mother is shouting for her out the back door now, but Amber is behind the laundry lines hung with pale blue sheets, crouched down beside the rusting barbecue grill overgrown with weeds. That’s a fire hazard, she thinks.
She wonders if the mother is going to watch the video. Unworm herself. Unwoman herself. If she’ll die.
She expects the others to chime in. But there is only the emptiness and the dark.
Amber will take care of it; alone, if she has to. She waits the mother out and eventually the woman goes back inside. Probably won’t call the police. How would she explain? Amber laughs to herself, and Mr. Floof II shakes off her hand and licks her face happily.
“I’ve got you, haven’t I? Yes, I have, my baby. You and me.”
She creeps along the side of the cabin, takes the risk of glancing in the window, through the bedroom, the open door. Jo is sitting on the couch, stricken, her head in her hands. But the movement outside alerts her and she looks up.
Their eyes meet. The stealer of lives and the exterminator.
She could go in there now. Use the knife. Joanne might welcome it. Or maybe it’s enough to let her live with it all.
Again she reaches out for confirmation from the Ourmind, but no one is there.
She can always come back. Take care of it in the future.
Joanne raises a hand—Wait—but Amber is already moving, limping around to her van, fast as she can. A blue confetti of broken glass where the girl smashed the window. She’s going to have to explain it to the rental company. Awful, a wrong turn, a bad part of town, these thugs came out of nowhere. She was lucky to get away; of course she understands there will be a deductible to pay. Amber could explain all the deductibles she’s going to be dealing with—all the people who are going to have to pay once she’s back to herself, the others.
She can come back for Budgie too. Later. She has all the time in the world.
She brushes the broken safety glass off the passenger seat into the footwell, so that Mr. Floof II has somewhere to sit. He curls up and thumps his tail hesitantly.
“It’s all right, my baby,” she assures him. It will be.
The engine fires up right away. Denver airport, she thinks, to return the rental. Then back to North Carolina. Back to her little house, her freezer with the worms.
But as she’s driving away, racing for the highway, she spots a man walking on the other side of the road, thumb out, hitchhiking. He has a swagger and a storm on his face that means no one is likely to pick him up. Shaved head, bad attitude—the boyfriend. What was his name, Franco? Two hours ago, they were grappling, trying to inflict maximum damage on each other. He actually hurt her, and the outrage fills her again. She does a U-turn, floors the gas pedal, intending to run him down, smear him all over the road. Pity the gators won’t get to chow down on him.
But reason floods in even as she accelerates toward him. Maybe she can make this work for her; he’s sure to lead her to Budgie, and then it’ll be another neat murder-suicide. With his record and the restraining orders, no one will wonder about it or question the open slice on the girl’s arm. Two birds—ha, one of them a budgerigar—with one stone.
She pulls up alongside him, keeping pace, rolls down the window.
“Get in,” she says. “We need to talk.” This always works. The secret knowledge she has to share. She knows how to play people.
But he jolts at seeing her, teeth bared. “You!” Hostile.
She can calm him down. She knows what to say. “I can get you to Budgie, help find your kids—”
But his eyes are wild, and he is drawing a gun out of the back of his jeans, and it’s pointing right at her face.
“You fucking bitch!”
And he pulls the trigger.
BRIDGE
Rest and Restitution
“Well, it’s a definite upgrade on jail,” Dom says, both of them sitting outside on the bench of Cedar Peaks Psychiatric Facility. They’re under a huge oak tree overlooking the swimming pool, where a young Black man is leading some of the other women inmates—sorry, Bridge should say clients—in a water aerobics class. “Think your dad would put me up too? I have a whole lot of unprocessed trauma. We could be roomies.”
“You’re only saying that because you haven’t tried the food,” Bridge says.
“Bad?” Dom says.
“Goddamn terrible. Practically not food. Unfood.”
It’s been two long months of talking on the phone and e-mailing between Cedar Peaks, outside Seattle—so her dad can keep an eye on her—and Austin. But that’s not the same as in-person, and after the first crushing hugs in the reception area, they’ve both been a little tentative, feeling each other out. Bridge runs her hand over her shaven head. It felt necessary, a break from who she was before. And another clear sign of her breakdown.
Her dad’s lawyers think she’ll walk entirely. Self-defense is one thing, but acting in the defense of other people? Especially against someone who turned out to be some kind of serial killer? The police are still collecting and collating, but there’s previously unidentified DNA linking Amberlynn Damron to several other deaths over the last three decades, including an ex-vet, called Chris Bacque, presumed to have died by his own hand while awaiting trial for the murder of a young woman and her lover, as well as one Wilhemina Hilburn (neé Remington) in New Orleans, much missed by her husband, Angelo Hilburn, who always maintained she would never go back to drugs, a Belgian tourist who took a suspicious dive off a bridge, possibly others. After Bridge tipped them off, the police are working with the Haitian authorities, looking into a trip Amberlynn made over there in 2017 according to the stamp in her passport, which they discovered at her modest house in Reno, along with various illicit drugs, weapons, tools, and surgical implements as well as a tarpaulin with blood spatter, video equipment, and an elderly cat, Mr. Toe Beans, who has been adopted by a neighbor. She also suggested they talk to a Jon Coello, who was at a mental facility in Sacramento, and tied to Amberlynn’s victim Chris Bacque, and that double murder. But he’s checked out, literally, his term served, and disappeared into the world. Maybe Rabbit is still Discipling, finding new teenage squatters or dictators to share the communion of the dreamworm. She hopes not.
The point is, no jury alive would convict Bridge. Not in this or any other compatible universe.
Her dad paid her bail, so she spent only two days in the local holding facility. There is a part of her that wants to be punished and wishes he hadn’t. Doesn’t she deserve to be doing time behind bars, even if it’s only in the lead-up to the trial? Which could be in another month or a whole year, depending on when the DA decides to throw the whole thing out. If, she should say. She doesn’t like to count on anything these days. Except herself.
Dom eyes her cautiously, evaluating the fine fuzz on her scalp, and reaches out to stroke her like a cat.
“Man, I could have told you this wouldn’t suit you. I could have told you that you, Bridge Kittinger-Harris, have a funny lumpy head.”
“It goes with my funny lumpy personality. Besides”—she indicates Dom’s own hair, the undercut growing out and dyed back to their natural dark brown—“hello, corporate!”
“Don’t remind me.” Dom looks glum. At least their clothes are still very of-them—pastel-yellow dungarees today and arm warmers they must have stolen from an eighties exercise class.
“How’s the internship going?”
“I have learned many things. Like I do not ever want to be an architect. Sorry, Papa.”
“It’s just because your boss is a dick.”
“No, he’s fine. And buildings are… fine. But I want to make comics, you know? Or be a lawyer. Especially after…”
“Wouldn’t want to die an architect, I get it. But you could afford more beach holidays.”
“And designer Crocs,” Dom agrees. “One of my favorite artists is doing portfolio reviews at Powell’s Books in Portland, and I thought I’d drive down for a day or so, show him what I’ve got. Maybe you can help me pick out the best ones.”
“You know I’m here for a rage-in-the-cage art battle.”
Dom grins and hesitates before saying anything else. Bridge knows there’s another reason they’re in town which has nothing to do with her.
“How is Tendayi?” she nudges them.
“Yeah, sorry, I never know if you want to hear about it.” As if Bridge doesn’t understand Dom is never going to forgive themselves for what happened. Tendayi spent eleven days in ICU with Dom by her side. Not family, but one of the heroes, so the hospital made an exception, especially when the family had to fly out from Zimbabwe. Bridge was Dom’s emotional-support animal that time, as much as she was allowed to be on her phone in the facility.
“Of course I do. How is she?”
“The physical therapy is going well. Grueling months of it still. And the university’s health insurance covered most of the medical bills. You wouldn’t believe—”
“I believe. I saw the HelpFund page you set up for her. That was kind.”
“Yeah, well. Generally, she’s doing good. Still needs to get that trauma counseling. I’ve been encouraging her to go.”
“You should go with her.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’m going on a family vacation in a month or two. Tendayi might come if she’s feeling better. See my lita, explore PR together.”
“Sounds romantic,” Bridge teases and Dom blushes furiously.
“Yeah, well,” they grin. “Let’s see. We’re taking it really slow. And you? How’s the macramé or whatever they have you headcases doing here?”
“Hiking club is more where it’s at. Lots of group sessions. I’m not allowed to talk to the media, for my own sake.”
“We should make a comic. The dreamworm bible.”
“I’ve been doing a writing course, so, yeah, maybe. But I think I’m pretty interested in—don’t laugh—studying psychology.”
“Haven’t you already had several lifetimes’ worth of climbing into other people’s heads?”
Bridge laughs, delighted. “I think that’s why. I mean, I wanted to do documentaries, but I’ve become extrasuperplus interested in other people’s lives lately, can’t imagine why. I’m interested in our choices, how the stories we tell about ourselves shape who we are. Who we could be.”
“Yes, that does sound very much like good psychology and introspection and… future planning?” They raise one wicked eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re my Bridge?”
“Not historically my strongpoint,” Bridge acknowledges. “But I’m trying. Taking it slow, like you.”
“So, no comic, then? We’re never going to be the dynamic duo? Flying around the world to all the cool cons? Obviously I’d be the real talent.”
“Always have been.”
They sit there listening to the leaves rustling above their heads, the water aerobics instructor’s encouraging instructions: Lift those legs, use the resistance of the water. There will always be resistance, Bridge thinks. To what she has to say, when she’s ready to say it, about what happened. To warn others. And hey, maybe it’ll have the opposite effect, get the wrong people interested. There’s resistance inside her too. The internal pressure, the fear of making the wrong choices. One of the therapists here told her that it’s all about keeping the kite up in the air; you need enough tension in the string to let it fly, but not snap. She’s trying.
“Speaking of goddamn terrible unfood…” Bridge says.
“Your favorite.” Dom takes out a bag of sour gummy worms. The bag has been carefully doctored by someone with an artist’s eye so it looks like it’s never been cut open, never had some additions slipped in between the confections. But if you really look, you can see them, the pale yellow ones, dusted with sugar to blend in. A few strands only. Not much left. She hopes it’s enough.
“You sure?” Dom says, not quite giving it to her. Not yet. Bridge will have to submit it to the warden for assessment to ensure it’s not CBD or LSD or some other drug that can be boiled down and mixed with gelatin. But she won’t be looking for dreamworm, won’t know how to test for it.
“I have to.” She has her headphones and a series of video files stored in the Cloud, carefully marked, carefully calibrated with Dom’s spreadsheet. At night, she’ll dream another life, long enough to warn them, to tell them how to stop it. Sixty-seven. Minus the dead. She saw Jo once. RealJo. Playing in the park with the Marlon and Jess. Which meant Jo had probably already told Budgie what to do, showed her the video. She left instructions with her otherself anyway, stayed only long enough to record the voice note. Didn’t say hello to her mom. There’s nothing to say. But she hopes they’re all okay. She hopes they’re happy.
Dom is still holding the bag out of reach. “But you come back, you hear?”
“I will.” She takes it from them. “Always.” To this life, these choices, the ones she’s made. “Because you’re here.”
“Damn straight,” Dom says. “Damn fucking straight.”
Postscript
October 26, 2023
Cher journal,
Words from another life. A person I used to be. I’m trying. I really am. It doesn’t suit me. Fighting through the chemistry of Joanne’s depression. Being a grandmother. I’m too impatient, too preoccupied with the possibilities. I think I’ve made the wrong choice. This life is too small and too narrow, a box that cramps me.
The children are too loud, and Budgie, that ridiculous name, is so sad all the time, even with baby daddy in prison where he belongs. He tried to claim that he was defending Budgie, that the woman he killed had been torturing Budgie, that he saved her.
But Budgie wasn’t here, or not really. She couldn’t say what had or hadn’t happened or who cut her open. I told the police she was in shock. He’d hurt her, like he had all those times before—check the history—and she’d stolen his pickup and come running to me for help.
The truth is that Budgie did come running to me. Came back to herself only three blocks away, behind the wheel of Franco’s truck. It was a miracle she didn’t crash it. She showed up incoherent, sobbing that she’d killed someone in a hospital or some science building. It must have been Amber. The other one. In the reality I left behind.
