I heard once, suicide is a selfish act. You’re gone, leaving your pain to other people.
So I walked back to where I parked, and drove home.
On the way back, a peculiar thing happened. I saw this image — a vision? — of me planting in a large field. It made me smile, though it was clearly a fantasy.
But as the night waned on and Max was still unwilling to show himself, the idea to end my life returned and became louder. It nagged at me like it had its own voice.
I made myself a meal, ate it alone, and the voice inside my head stared shouting — do it. Lorna has Barry now. Alice and Henry are resilient. Jennifer and Tom haven’t driven out here, what do they care? Arthur wouldn’t want to see me after he learned Lorna was taken.
Be real.
Chapter 37
Max
Snatched from our driveway, catapulted through the ethers, I land in a house I don’t recognize, spinning to reach for some sign of familiarity.
Where the fuck am I?
What am I looking at?
Quaint cupboards painted army green. A modest kitchen with a sink and stove made for one. Fridge not much bigger. Place is tidy, nothing out of place. Country-style curtains, couple pieces of fruit on the counter. Homey, but incredibly basic as in zero knickknacks.
At first I think I’m alone, it’s so quiet.
But turn around, and who do I see reading a war-fiction novel on his couch, huge boot up on a coffee table as he reads? The Scottish asshole.
I snort, “Oh great!” rolling my eyes, catching a glimpse of scotch whiskey on a slender, red shelf.
“Guy's got taste,” I grumble because I’ve enjoyed Laphroaig on the rocks back in my day. Good stuff. Powerful. But not Irish.
I sent up a prayer?
End up here?!
I hate realizing the probability of why this is the second unwelcome occasion where I’m dragged to Jack McCaffrey.
Only this time Abby is in danger.
And time is something I’ve run out of.
I begin with an uncertain, “Hey! You need to get off your ass and go to the bridge and you need to go now.”
But I barely said it, didn’t even believe my own ghost ears that I meant the words. The only person I’ve communicated with is my wife. And this Redwood tree on legs ain’t her.
Why was I brought here? Why him? Rage fuels my next attempt, “Listen you fuck, you need to get your ass off the couch,” I point at the door, pacing to it, furious, desperate, “and go save my wife!”
I swallow defeat, scanning his house and my heart for something I can do, anything, that will draw his attention.
But under the bill of his baseball cap, Jack’s eyes are off the page, staring ahead.
He’s frowning.
I gasp, “You heard me,” bending to be at his eye-level so I can watch his reactions. “You can hear me, can't you? Somewhere inside there, you can hear what I'm saying to you!”
But he blinks down, turns the page and goes back to reading like it’s any other boring old night in his solitary existence.
“Look, we're losing time here!” I jab my ghost finger toward the door. “You have to get up, get your keys and go to the bridge!!”
Nothing.
No reaction.
She’s probably there now.
The way she was driving.
My wife is about to do something we can’t take back.
I completely lose it, “Jack, I'm beggin' you. Go to the bridge. Go to the fucking bridge.”
A deep crease appears, and he pauses, staring ahead again.
It wasn’t a fluke. He can hear me, feel my fear for her, something, I don’t know. But Abby has a chance.
With all the love I have for her, I shout, “GO TO THE FUCKING BRIDGE, JACK! GO! GO NOW!”
He blinks a few times, definitely heard that. Like this is crazy he cautiously gets up, drops the book onto his coffee table, doubt in his eyes. Suddenly he turns his back on them, snatches his keys from the small shelf by his door, rips it open, and sprints for his white truck that’s waiting in the darkness.
I whisper, “That's it, run,” and knowing that won’t get through the veil, shout as loud as I can to save my wife’s life, “RUN YOU BASTARD, RUN!!”
Jack lunges and leaps inside his truck. The lights pierce and illuminate the acres of farmland his small cottage rests on. I can see it all as if I’m outside, yet I’m not. The truck skids backward, dust billows like smoke, particles floating in the beam of his headlights as he turns the wheel, skids in gravel, and races for the bridge.
Abby’s voice is everywhere, “Max!” and I blink to Jack’s ceiling, stunned that I hear so clearly her sudden cry for help.
Chapter 38
Max
Vulnerable and looking frail, bare feet on wooden planks that must hide slivers, Abby is staring over the railing. The bridge looks different at night, only the moon to light it. Bugs everywhere. And shadows.
The certainty she had is gone from her voice, pain in the whispered, “Max?”
Is that the same plea?
Did I just beat time?
“Abby! I’m right here!”
She exhales and grabs onto the railing. Now that I’ve arrived to keep her company for this final moment, she pulls herself up and over, climbs to the other side to balance on a narrow iron ledge built for maintenance and repair.
I urge her, “Abby, just wait a few minutes!” unable to say that Jack is on the way.
It should be me.
She’s mine.
Forever.
I promised.
Her hair whips in the wind as she grips the railing from behind, elbows bent, shoulder blades together, readying herself for the fall.
“Come on, look at me. Please climb down.” Stubborn, Abs takes a few deep breaths to prepare for this. “Dammit, Abigail, climb down now!
She peers into the depths, swallows hard, shakes her head with fear behind her eyes.
I beg her, “Come on, look at me!”
“Max,” she whispers, “where are you?”
“Abby, I'm here.” No reaction. “Can't you hear me?”
Still nothing.
I’ve been blocked out?
Is that possible?
Stunned, I shout to the sky, “What? What are you doing? Is this her decision to make or something?!”
“Okay,” whispers my wife as she tries to psyche herself up for what she means to do.
I suddenly realize she believes she’s alone out here. I can’t imagine that kind of pain, fear, loss of trust. It’s so untrue. I’m next to her, always have been even when she couldn’t see me.
I look to the road, where the bridge begins, having no clue how far away Jack’s property is from us.
Struggling, I beg her, “Oh God baby just...don't! Don’t!” Feeling helpless, impotent once again, I croak, “Oh God, baby don't jump. I am begging you,” and throw my plea to the stars above, “Let me talk to her!
Abby’s knuckles go white.
She grips the railing, bends forward, and whispers, “I don't want to die. I don't want to die. I don't want to die.”
“Abby, just wait! Please wait!”
Headlights flash across her skin, her nightgown catching in the light as Jack’s truck races up the road and onto the bridge. He shouts, “Abby!” leaping out and racing toward my wife, “ABBY!!!”