We All Fall Down

by Natalie D. Richards

  “Come on,” he says. “I’ll walk you back.”

  There’s a second where I hesitate. There’s no logical reason for me to need an escort. It’s sleepwalking. I’ve done this before. Not this far and never over a bridge, but it’s nothing I shouldn’t be able to handle. When I’m on campus alone, I’ll have to handle it, right?

  Theo slides his work boot across a warped plank and gently nudges the side of my foot. I nod and we fall into step. It’s almost like nothing ever changed.

  “I know this is wacko,” I finally say when we’ve made it to the other side of the bridge.

  “You wandering the Portsville streets at five in the morning? Pretty average Thursday, if you ask me.”

  I laugh, but catch myself. “You don’t have to do this. I don’t want things between us to be weird.”

  “I’m not sure how things could be any weirder than they already are.”

  We hit the campus lawn and shuffle toward the bleached sidewalk. Theo’s dirty boots look strange against the pristine grass. He looks right at me, but I don’t feel watched.

  It makes me think of Melanie. Sitting across from me with wide, worried eyes after the dream. “You might be right about the sleepwalking. Melanie said I was talking in my sleep.”

  “You said they go hand in hand, right?” Off my nod, he plunges his hands in his pockets. “Are you on anything? New sleeping pills can aggravate that kind of thing. Mine have warning labels.”

  I’ve already considered that, but it’s nice to have someone else say it out loud. Med talk isn’t something you bring up in the cafeteria. “I don’t know. I’ve been on it a while.”

  We’re close to the center of the lawn, where I’ll take a walkway to my building, when Theo stops. “Look, I don’t want to beat a dead horse or sound like a crazy person.”

  “You always sound like a crazy person,” I say with a smile.

  “Well, in that case I won’t worry.”

  My throat tightens at the familiarity of it all. It’s hard to hold on to the reasons we can’t be us when he’s right here, grinning and bouncing on the soles of his feet.

  “Okay, I’m lying,” he says. “I am worried. I know it sounded weird, but I really have been hearing voices from the party. It’s like the party is haunting the bridge.”

  I scoff. “Haunting?”

  “Yes.” He doesn’t brush it off or acknowledge that I don’t believe in ghosts or boogeymen or things that go bump in the night. He’s serious, and he’s afraid.

  Cold air dances up my spine. “How much bad TV have you been watching?”

  The attempt at a joke falls flat.

  “You remember when we walked over the bridge before the party, that noise we heard?”

  “I remember,” I say, thinking of that terrible metal groaning. My certainty we would fall. I guess we did fall that night. Just not in the way I expected.

  “I didn’t think about it—figured it was settling like an old house does, you know?” He shakes his head. “Now, I don’t know. I’ve been drawn to that stupid bridge. Hell, I’m even working there. What if we woke something up that night? Something bad.”

  Goose bumps shrink the flesh on my arms, but I force a smirk. “Like what? A ghost?”

  “I know. You think I’m crazy for even thinking it.”

  “No,” I say, because I’m not thinking that at all. I’m thinking about spitting blood in the bathroom sink and waking up on the bridge.

  “I’m not saying it’s a ghost,” he says. “I don’t know what it is, but I think it has something to do with that night. And with me hurting you.”

  Old me would break eye contact, but I don’t want to do that this time. New me is brave. And maybe this conversation is way overdue.

  “Look, I know you didn’t mean to hurt me,” I say. “I know that you were…jealous.”

  “I was.” He swallows hard, takes a moment. “You know for years I thought you were into me.”

  “I was.”

  It’s the first time that’s been said aloud. All those secret feelings I hid are out in the open, and it’s not awkward or uncomfortable. It just is.

  He finally shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. None of that matters. Me being sorry or not meaning it will never change what I did to you. Hell, maybe that’s what this stuff on the bridge is. My sins come back to haunt me.”

  My throat feels thick and tight. “Theo…”

  “You don’t have to say anything.”

  Except I do. I close my eyes and steady myself with a breath. “It’s not only happening to you. The earring my dad found… We did walk across the bridge earlier that day. I found a bag of pretzels under the bridge too. You got me pretzels that night.”

  “I remember.”

  “Anyway, I figured it was coincidence, but then I showed up there today. And there was also a weird problem with my jaw.”

  “Your jaw?”

  “The other morning I had all this pain, even bleeding. It wasn’t normal. It’s healed now, and this was out of nowhere.”

  He scrubs a hand into his hair, hard enough to leave scratches. “I’m still hurting you. I’m still freaking making you bleed.”

  He hauls back and kicks the curb. Another kick.

  “Stop!” I grab his sleeve. “What are you talking about? You weren’t even there.”

  “But all of this leads back to me. That night, I was so wrapped up in—you know what I was wrapped up in. And I lost it, and now we’re haunted because of it.”

  “You’re haunting yourself with weird music and voices and making me bleed from the other side of the river? Come on, Theo. Why would you have anything to do with that? How?”

  He doesn’t have any answers, and neither do I. The silence stretches between us, the pink sky a reminder that I’ve got a life here waiting. I’ve got to go inside and get ready for class. I may need to convince my roommate I’m not doing a walk of shame. Or losing my mind.

  “You should go in, right?” He takes a step back and nods. “Look, I don’t want to make this worse. I just want you to know I’m sorry. And I’m going to fix this. I’m going to find a way.”

  He takes half a step back, ready to go. I don’t want him to leave.

  My parents would tell me it’s a good thing. They’d remind me that our relationship isn’t healthy, and we should never have talked at all. Maybe not, but I’m glad he’s with me.

  Theo is already walking away when I feel the last bit of my resistance crumble.

  “Theo?” He looks surprised when he turns. “Text me if you find something?”

  The hope on his face is palpable. I smile, because even after everything, that look still gets to me. He still gets to me. And I don’t feel weak when I smile at him. I feel brave.

  Brave enough to change my mind on the friends thing?

  “I’m not going to read anything into this,” he says, but he’s grinning. It’s infectious.

  “Yeah, you are.”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  He walks away with shoulders higher than I’ve seen them in forever. I tell myself that it doesn’t matter. We still aren’t friends. We couldn’t possibly be friends. Not after everything.

  I tell myself a lot of things. I’m not sure who I’m trying to fool.

  Theo

  The thing about construction? There’s always a thing. After dropping off Paige, Denny and I spent our day measuring and arguing and placing signs that indicated intermittent bridge closures due to walkway repairs. Then we drove up to a wholesaler to pick up the lights. Denny didn’t say a word about running into Paige, but then he didn’t say much at all.

  I didn’t bring it up either, because I didn’t want to go there. Denny would tell me again that he’s pissed with her parents for pressing charges. He’s my uncle, and I get it. But he’s wrong too.

  Her
parents probably saw this coming a long time ago. Paige and I were two peas in a pod for years, and if I’d figured out how she felt about me, they probably had too. They were smart to warn her. And who could blame them for losing it after what I did? I wouldn’t have been top pick on any parent’s list, especially not after that.

  But if there’s a chance for Paige and me now? What then? Her parents aren’t wrong about her deserving better. But am I a good enough person to let that stop me? Doubt it.

  Dawn hasn’t broken when we find our way to the bridge. I want to cut the locks, but Denny had to order special cutters and nothing’s ready. So, I’ll be stringing lights instead.

  A cool mist clings to the river as I snap into my safety harness, grateful it was secured in the light of midafternoon. The climb creeps me out, every bird coo warning of the voices that might follow, every truck that rumbles or bangs in the Village sounds like a ticking clock.

  When is it going to happen again? When is whatever this thing is going to show itself?

  It’s quiet for longer than I’d expected. A steady breeze hisses through the trees clustered at the edges of the river. Denny measures boards on the walkway. A pair of early joggers make their way across, legs pumping in rhythm. It’s all too normal to fit with what I’ve heard up here.

  I’m stringing lights along the frame, messing with a plastic bag of cheap twist ties. I have to use two for each section, and my fingers are raw already from folding and pinching. I press them together, and the steady breeze turns to a murmur.

  Dread pulls, low in my gut. The murmur is indistinct, and then it’s not. First I pick out syllables, soft consonants and lost vowels I can’t quite understand.

  He’s a total screwup.

  I jerk so hard that the line on my safety harness goes taut. That’s Chase’s voice. So clear, he could have been sitting beside me, saying it again like he did that night to Paige.

  Everyone knows it.

  I press my back to the steel beam and breathe in and out. It’s just words.

  A row of doves watches me from the darkness, cooing their long, sad calls. They are pale smudges of life beneath the black lip of the top beam. I feel them watching me with their cocked heads and shiny black eyes.

  They know he’s right. I am a screwup.

  My sneaker tread slips. Catches on the next ledge down. I press my head to the metal and close my eyes. This is bullshit. Birds are not judging me, and voices, past or present, can’t hurt me.

  I wrestle my headphones out of my pocket. Push them in and crank up the volume until the music is banging hard at my ears, and my hands are busy again. The music does nothing to fight the smell of lemon candy or the strange electric heat skimming the surface of my veins.

  But it gets the job done.

  In the hours before the sun heats the metal, I string lights along the top and sides of the first two trusses. There are a few things to fix—an extension cord issue and a strand that doesn’t light—but I get those trusses fully lit.

  I climb down, exhausted, and turn off my music. Silence rushes at the hum in my ears. I swallow hard, twisting my earphone cord over and over, winding up the tiny speakers until they’re shoved deep in my pockets.

  My neck prickles, and I’m sure—absolutely sure—something is coming. Something bigger than music or phantom whispers or whatever else I’ve been through. I feel like I’m about to bear witness.

  Nothing happens, but I pull out my phone just in case. A strange heaviness lingers in the air, a stretch to the shadows that feels all wrong. My hands shake, so I hold the phone in both of them and hit the record button. I don’t know what I’m waiting for—what I’m expecting—so I swing the phone left and then right, even down at the slats underneath my feet.

  The air is hot, reeking of river and rot and the sickly sweet scent of overripe lilacs. But the lilacs are long out of season.

  You deserve better.

  The wood beneath my feet thrums, and I feel more than heat rolling off the trusses. Where? Where is this coming from?

  I turn to the locks, and my ears pop. A presence moves behind me. A person—I can hear them breathing in hitches and starts—but when I turn, there’s no one. It’s as if I am feeling someone’s pain. The push of someone moving closer. Reaching.

  “Theo!”

  I smack into the rail, the locks rattling. I spin, fists up. Denny crosses his arms and chuckles at me, pointing.

  “You look like you’re about to shit yourself,” he says.

  I’m still breathing hard, and my attempt to laugh stutters into a sad excuse for a grin. My hands drop, worthless, to my sides.

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  “It’s quitting time,” Denny says, adjusting his pants. “Want to grab some early lunch? Maybe a beer?”

  “Actually, I need to head into town.”

  I wasn’t alone up here today. I didn’t imagine the presence I felt any more than imagining the voices I’ve heard. It’s time to find out what happened on this bridge, and what might be left behind.

  • • •

  I pause on the library steps, frowning at the heavy wooden door. I got kicked out of this library once when I was twelve. And then again when I was fourteen. So, if that old librarian with her unnaturally dark lip liner is still in charge, this might not go well.

  I haul open the door anyway, stepping into a room with bad carpet and a vaguely floral, powdery scent. It’s strong enough to stick in the back of my throat when I walk to the desk. I don’t see the lip-liner lady, not standing at the high wooden desk that flanks the left side of the room or in any of the visible rows of bookshelves in front of me.

  There is a balding man at one of the tables to the right and a mom pushing a stroller through the children’s section. Otherwise, the place is a tomb.

  “Hello?” I ask the empty counter.

  A dark head pops up fast enough to send me jumping back. The kid—definitely not the old lady—props two thin hands on the counter and looks at me like I’ve interrupted something fascinating.

  “Hey,” I say, smiling.

  He doesn’t respond and doesn’t smile. He also looks way too young to be a librarian, or even a college student, so I look around again, hoping to see someone more…I don’t know, official. Someone who might remove a kid who decided to wander behind the desk and play librarian.

  “Well?” he asks out of nowhere, his voice croaky and strange in that way I remember from my sophomore year of high school. “Can I help you?”

  I glance at his ratty cartoon T-shirt, and I must look skeptical because I get a glare in return. I shake my head. “Uh, sorry. I’m wondering if you have any information about the history of the town bridge.”

  “Which bridge?”

  “The Cheshire Walking Bridge.”

  He stares at me, so I stare back. He’s got dark hair, a narrow face, and skin just a shade darker than mine. He’d look like any kid alive, except that he’s way too still. Almost motionless. It’s kinda freaking me out.

  Suddenly, he thrusts his chin to the left and walks off, tossing over his shoulder. “I’ll show you the reference section.”

  I scramble to keep up as he darts around the guy at the table, behind the ancient copy machine, and then left down one of the aisles with rows of matching black books that might be encyclopedias. I’m moving too fast to know for sure.

  He stops at a section where the shelves are half full, and there’s a faded label: Local History. Maybe fifteen books are leaned on the middle shelf, and the kid goes for two of the least-interesting-looking ones.

  “There’s a chapter on engineering in this one,” he says. “Probably mentions the bridge.”

  He hefts a thick volume into my hands and then pulls out a thin book with what looks like a bridge blueprint on the cover.

  “This one might have a sentence or two,” he says. “
But if you’re doing a research paper, you’re going to have better luck with the campus library. You won’t get credit if you try to pull all your sources online, so—”

  “I’m not in the college,” I say absently. “Is that really the only information?”

  He shrugs. “I suppose you could look up old building permits or blueprints at the Department of Engineering or maybe with the city planner. You know the city planner?”

  I don’t, but I nod.

  He wrinkles his nose. “I wouldn’t expect to find much, though. There are a lot of bridges along the Ohio River Valley. Nothing special about that one.”

  I snort. “So bridges covered in padlocks and rumored to be suicide hot spots aren’t special?”

  “There was only one suicide in recent history off that bridge, and the guy was mentally ill. Not the kind of tragedy people write books about.” The boy studies me now, lifting his thin nose into the air. “What exactly are you researching?”

  “Forget it,” I say, turning away. “I’ll check these.”

  I do check them. And the kid watches me like a little creeper the whole time, nothing but those weird eyes and a mop of hair visible above the top of the librarian desk. It’s unnerving, and the books are worthless.

  In one, there’s a chapter that mostly talks about the bidding for the bridge, which was originally constructed in 1849 but is now on its third incarnation. It’s also maybe the most boring story I’ve ever read, including the shit Paige had me read about Valley Forge for American history last year. It’s also worthless, unless there was a section on a violent mass murder on the bridge that I somehow skimmed right over.

  I close that book and push it aside.

  The second one doesn’t even mention the bridge, unless I’m missing something. Which is likely, knowing me, so I start back at the beginning and flip through more carefully. I have to do it a third time before I finally find it. Three sentences that give me the basic engineering components of the current structure, along with some notes about repairs made after a hurricane-related flood.