Page 8 of A Summer to Save Us

I forgot how high the Old Sheriff really is. The bridge spanning Willow River is over three hundred feet long.

With my head bowed, I leave my bag at the edge of the forest and work my way down the rotting railroad ties to the middle of the bridge.

There hasn’t been a railing here for a long time; the rusted steel struts that support the entire structure protrude laterally over the edges of the bridge like iron fingers.

I carefully walk to the edge of the railroad ties and stare down.

The enchanted river, Willow River, roars beneath me. My eyes see emerald green, wild, and mysterious, but inside me, it’s cold—as if I lacked any response.

I can’t do it. Or can I?

The world seems small from up here. I feel removed from it, but most of all from myself.

It’s like James says: I have no idea where I disappeared to.

And I feel like I’m getting increasingly more lost every day.

Am I the girl who hears threats whispered to her every hour and is ignored by those who don’t participate? The girl you do whatever you want to?

The truth is, I no longer have the energy to look for another version of Kansas.

For seconds, I stand there, unable to stop looking down. It must be windy because a subtle tremor runs through the crowns of the deciduous trees. How high up am I? A hundred feet? A hundred and thirty? I’m bad at estimating heights, but it seems enough to be deadly.

Will I faint beforehand, or will I feel the impact?

How does it feel? Should I write a farewell letter first?

I never lied. I never came on to Chester, and I didn’t steal anything or secretly spy on the boys’ locker room.

Do you believe me now? For a split second, anger flares up inside me, but even that is dulled.

I wish I could see Dad’s face when he finds out I jumped, even though I know it is childish.

I hesitantly take another step forward, and my heart beats faster. Weightlessness buzzes in the air like music, and the urge to fall pulses in my veins—the pull of the depths promising a strange freedom. Suddenly, I am struck by longing.

Aside from the attacks at school, no one has touched me in a year. I long so much for a hand to hold me tight. For Ari to hug me or James to lovingly smack my arm. For a father who would show me he loves me and defend me from the rest of the world.

But if I remain silent, I won’t receive that anymore. I experienced it myself. First, the words disappear, then the closeness, and then the touch. Everything. Just like that. It’s similar to living in a bubble, separated from everyone else.

Would Dad be happy to be rid of me? James? Would he analyze it to understand it? Would he miss me?

And Ari? How about you, Little C? We were always a unit, regardless of whether you were loud and I was quiet.

Every night, we went to each other’s bed.

Every night, we promised in whispers that we would look after each other, protect each other, and stay together forever, even if we got married and had children.

When you had to go to the hospital for appendicitis, I couldn’t stop crying because I thought you were going to die.

James and Dad had to force me away from you while you grinned and waved bravely despite the pain. “See you later, alligator.”

I waved back, but I couldn’t manage a smile. “After a while, crocodile.”

My heart clenches. You were everything to me.

The image of my shattered body on the riverbank fills my mind. Before I can think any more about it, I spread my arms out like I did when Arizona and I used to pretend we were elves who could fly here in the forest. I feel the wind gusting up from below, bringing with it the humid air of the river.

“Hey, you!”

The sound of a deep voice startles me, and I almost lose my footing. I can barely balance with my arms outstretched.

Are you crazy? I want to scream at whoever it is, but, of course, not a single sound slips from my lips.

Did I actually want to jump?

Shaking, I step back and look carefully to the side. Oh, no!

Not twelve feet from me, Mr. Gloomy Eyes sits on the edge of nowhere, his legs dangling casually over the abyss.

My entire defense program runs through me automatically. My palms get clammy, and I feel nauseous, almost throwing up in the river. The psychologist I saw called it social phobia, which also includes not speaking.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you... Well, not here,” he says, sounding like an expert and peering down as if he was measuring the depth. “It’s an unfortunate place. Besides, you don’t want to do anything illegal, do you?”

There’s a jumble of thoughts inside me that I can’t immediately force into the right order. Church. Sin. Suicidal. Just don’t start with God... But why the heck ‘not here?’

The guy doesn’t seem to notice my speechlessness, or he ignores it.

At least he’s looking in my direction. “Did you know that in Minnesota, it’s illegal to scare a pigeon?

And it could definitely happen if you jump here.

” He points to a pair of pigeons picking up some insects or whatnot a few feet away.

I stare at him as if he had two horns growing out of his forehead.

Scare a pigeon? Is he crazy? I think this guy is an even bigger nut than me.

How did he even get here without me noticing?

What is he doing here? Did he escape from the Rose Garden Psychiatric Hospital?

Although he doesn’t seem to think he’s Jesus or Satan.

Maybe someone saw me at the refinery, followed me, and reported it. But he’s too young to be a psychologist, certainly no older than twenty-two. Besides, I haven’t been here that long, have I? Also, psychologists don’t tend to wear biker boots, jeans, and a T-shirt—at least, none that I know of.

I take a shaky breath. If I could talk and was normal, I would tell him to go away. So, I just remain as if nailed to the edge of the bridge, looking down again at the wild river and the trembling treetops, unable to hardly move.

“Do you want a drink?” He holds out a paper cup, and I suddenly realize how thirsty I am. But I don’t even know what he’s offering. Besides, I can’t drink while he’s watching.

Just go away! Please! Because of the tension, I can’t react at all, so he shakes his head with a dissatisfied frown. “I’m a total idiot. You don’t even know my name. River McFarley. And you are...?”

I suddenly feel so dizzy I decide to sit on the rotten railroad tie before I accidentally fall off the bridge.

In the mute-but-not-stupid help forum, they always say it’s easier to say your first words in front of a stranger—a person you don’t know and will never see again.

But there’s a vacuum inside me, as if my body were suddenly cut off from my mind.

“I don’t want to poison you, get you drunk, or drug you.”

I glance over at him and quickly look away when I notice how closely he’s studying me. If you only knew. You could attack me, and I wouldn’t be able to make a single sound .

He merely smiles. His medium blond hair is too long and falls over his face so that I can barely see his eyes, as if he’s hiding something.

I still think he looks good. I thought so this morning, but given the situation, it was—and is—irrelevant. Go away already!

“You could tell me your name, right?”

Leave! I dig my fingernails into my palm, the sharp pain distracting me from the agony of not being able to speak.

“Are you planning on getting into a fight with me?” he asks, pointing at my fist. “I bet you have a hard left.” He imitates a punch and winks at me.

Why is he being so nice to me? This confuses me even more. People are never nice to me, except Mrs. Elliott or old Mr. Tabor from our street. And even when they’re nice, they’re usually up to something. I look away and stare at the long metal struts jutting horizontally out of the bridge.

“Okay, you don’t want to tell me anything about yourself. Doesn’t matter. If you don’t want to talk, I don’t mind doing it for you.”

All I truly want is for him to leave now.

Funny, he hasn’t said anything about my wet clothes yet.

My jeans feel like I peed my pants. I clumsily move closer to the edge and sit cross-legged, happy I’m no longer standing.

Instantly, this close to death, the pull grows even stronger, like a force I can’t resist for long once it takes hold.

“What I was going to say earlier,” River starts again as if we’ve known each other forever, “is I wouldn’t jump here. That’s no fun.” He takes a sip from the cup and holds it out to me again.

I shake my head defensively. Why does he care about me? There’s no logical reason for it unless he’s planning something evil. And I doubt there’s such a thing as being in a good mood during a death jump. Above all, what does he know about it?

He leans forward a little, as if double-checking the distance down. “I’m jumping off a highline in Yosemite at the end of the summer… well, most likely.”

For a few seconds, his words seem to hover over the abyss, falling syllable by syllable without me fully grasping their meaning. I give him a sideways glance.

He’s bluffing, for sure, but when he looks at me, he merely shrugs. “Yosemite has cool rock formations. The Lost Arrow Spire goes down almost a mile. That would be a leap! Eternal free fall. As if you could f-l-y.” He spells out the last word for whatever reason.

Maybe he’s a patient who escaped lockup after all. Why else would someone like him have a death wish? He’s good-looking, a total ten, as Arizona would say. He’s easy-going, the kind of guy girls seemingly chase after.

He looks at me again and blows a strand of hair from his forehead. “We all have our reasons, Girl-Without-A-Name.”

Either he interpreted the expression on my face correctly, or he simply wanted to explain himself.