Her house was immaculate because the night before, she’d dusted, swept the floors, beat the rugs outside. Was it her hormones? Perimenopause? She felt like nesting and had decided to bring Bridge home like he was one of her rescue cats.
Usually her two cats were skittish around new people, but they were curious about Bridge and sauntered around the living room with their tails up and hooked.
“The marmalade one is Jim, and the black one is Pam,” she said.
“Like from The Office.”
“Exactly.”
In their short amount of time together they’d already gotten in the habit of ping-ponging their questions and answers. She’d ask him a question, and he’d ignore it completely, only to answer three questions later, both of them remembering where they left off. He was easy to like. He’d put his backpack at his feet and taken his jacket off. Tallie took it from him, hung it on the hook in the laundry room so it could drip.
“I could help cook. I’ll eat,” he said, sitting on the couch.
“Great! Okay. That’s what we’ll do.” She went to her bedroom and returned with some dry clothes. “You can put these on,” she said, handing them to him. “And I’ll go to the bedroom and change, too. Then we’ll make dinner.”
Tallie closed and locked her bedroom door and put her ear against it, listening for him. Listening for what? Anything. She slid onto the floor and got the papers from her pockets. Opened the first one. He had standard man’s handwriting—small printing, almost cursive. She looked at the bottom to see if it was signed. No. But at the top, a name.
Christine.
My dear bright Christine, my love and life. My world went dark when you left. You are my whole heart. I am broken and empty without you. What else is left for me to do? I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I’m so sorry for everything. Please don’t be mad at me. I love you.
I love you
so
much
God.
Dammit.
Christine.
Tallie put her ear to the door to listen again. Nothing. She refolded the first letter, opened the other piece of paper. No name at the bottom. But at the top.
Brenna, my sunshine. It’s dark now.
Please don’t be mad at me.
I love you
so
much
I
The letter was unfinished. She pulled out her phone and googled Christine and Clementine, Kentucky, knowing it’d be impossible to find anything useful without any other information. She entered Brenna and Clementine, Kentucky, and nothing still. She tried both names together. A fruitless search. She took a peek at the Clementine Most Wanted list to scan for anyone resembling him. Nope. She widened her search to Louisville’s Most Wanted, Kentucky’s Most Wanted, America’s Most Wanted. Flicked through, squinting to recognize someone. Thankfully, she didn’t.
Tallie didn’t have a strong internet presence, just a rarely updated, mostly private Facebook page and nothing online linking her to her therapy practice. On the practice website, she was listed as Ms. T. L. Clark, as it always had been, before and after her divorce. She hadn’t taken Joel’s last name, content with her own. If Bridge tried to look her up, he wouldn’t find anything.
If he were her actual client, she would’ve been required to report his suicide attempt to someone else. If he were her actual client, she would be taking therapy notes. If their time together so far had been a scheduled appointment:
Client Name: No Last Name, “Bridge”
Age: 31
Bridge makes eye contact easily. Naturally quiet? He smiled once, maybe twice. Anxiety? Suicidal ideation. Depressive. The suicide attempt may have been his first, may have been impulsive. Bridge is funny and charming. He appears to be healthy, level-headed (despite the attempt), and thoughtful. His body language is relaxed, appetite normal.
Medication: antihistamines.
Bonus: the cats like him.
Barriers to Treatment: won’t give his name. Doesn’t seem to think his suicide attempt was a big deal. Also…hasn’t consented to treatment.
Family/Friends (?): Christine and/or Brenna?
Client’s Goals: ??
Tallie put both letters in her top drawer, underneath the black lace she hadn’t thought about wearing since Joel left. She took off her old clothes, put on new ones—a long-sleeved shirt with her alma mater’s growling mascot on the front, a pair of black leggings. She went to her bathroom, peed, smoothed her hair down, slipped clear lip gloss across her mouth, and checked the mirror. When she walked into the living room, Bridge was sitting in the same spot in the dry change of clothes she’d given him, like they’d magically appeared on his body. The cats purred in his lap.
“You’re up for cooking? Anything you don’t like to eat?” she asked. She was hungry; he was hungry, too. They were just two people who needed to eat. Everyone needed to eat. It was okay for them to eat together. Joel never really cooked and could be a picky eater, depending on his mood. She thought of the picture of him she saw on social media, the one of him grilling like a jackass.
“I like to cook, and I’m not picky,” Bridge said, tenderly lifting each cat and placing it on the couch next to him. Tallie bent to pick up the damp clothes folded neatly at his feet. “You don’t have to—”
“Not a word. I’m washing these for you,” she said, taking them. She went to her laundry room and started a load. “And even though we’re to break bread together soon, you still won’t tell me your name?” she asked when she was in front of him again. He was committed to the mystique. She was curious to see how long it would last.
“It’s Emmett,” he said. So easily, as if all she needed to do was ask kindly, one more time.
Client Name: No Last Name, Emmett.
“Okay, Emmett. Let’s go to the kitchen.”
EMMETT
Emmett could go to the bridge after dinner. He’d once wondered if the aching would ever stop and it hadn’t, so wasn’t the bridge his last hope? His only hope? Death and hope wrestled, tangled tight. Was there anything left but the bridge?
He’d peeked out when he was in the coffee-shop bathroom and seen Tallie going through his jacket, taking his letters. She was playing investigator and probably marathoned Law & Order: SVU with her cats in her lap. Probably worshipped Olivia Benson.
Tallie had given him a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants, a sweater. Leftovers from her ex-husband. He went into his backpack, got out his medicine, and took it by filling his hand up with what water it could hold and throwing his head back. Pointless to take his medicine, but so what? Tallie had reminded him of it, and she was being so nice.
Before climbing over the railing, he’d counted the vehicles as he stood on the bridge.
(Seven vans. Five pickup trucks. Four delivery trucks. Fifteen cars. One motorcycle, one bike. One hooded person in the distance, walking away. The bridge lights are on, but one is flickering. One of the cars honks. Someone has graffitied a neon-yellow dick on the steel next to an ABORTION STOPS A BEATING HEART bumper sticker.)
And now it was time to make dinner. Dinner with Tallie. Tallulah Clark. A stranger. He’d never met anyone named Tallulah before and predicted she’d act differently from the other people he knew, which was true. She asked a lot of questions and smiled at him like he hadn’t just been standing on a bridge wanting to jump, wanting to quiet the noise, wanting it all to end somehow.