“We’re halfway across, dude,” David said. “Let’s take a minute so you can look around.”
Josh stopped. He was shaking violently, but his knees hadn’t buckled again. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground. If he didn’t look up, did it count? It would. It did.
But Lauren would want him to see the view. She loved new experiences. She loved heights, the ridiculous woman. She’d never backed down from anything, at least not that he knew of. That time in La Jolla, when she went hang gliding, and she was so happy, so alive.
He raised his eyes slowly, slowly, got his gaze about a foot off the ground, saw the glittering water, then looked back at the beloved pavement. If he ran, how long would it take him to get back on solid ground? Bicyclists whizzed past on the walkway, and hey, wasn’t it a walkway, did they have to be so fast, and what if a car jumped the lane and killed him, and all these people, really, did they all have a death wish?
Don’t be a loser.
Lauren’s voice was so clear . . . the fond way she had said that line, the challenge he’d always accepted. He gripped the railing and forced his head up and kept his eyes open. For a second, the scene swam in front of him, and he thought he might vomit, or faint, or fall, but then the view came into focus.
San Francisco’s buildings, white and sharp against the sky. Alcatraz. Marin. Boats and birds. He turned around and saw the Pacific spreading out, so blue and vast.
It was . . . stunning.
I hope you can see this, honey.
A deep breath that didn’t quite work. Another one. Another, slower one. Relax and breathe, he used to say to his wife. Relax and breathe, nice and slow. If she could do it, so could he. After all, she’d been facing death. He was just being a wuss.
The blue was so intense against the sunlit bridge that the air seemed to shimmer. “It’s beautiful,” he said, though his knees were still shaking.
“Right?” David asked.
“Right.”
“Check it out, dude. Fog’s coming in.” David pointed behind them, to the San Francisco skyline, and there was the legendary cloud bank, tumbling over itself. In seconds, it had erased the view and swallowed the bridge. Josh couldn’t see the water, or the city, or the sky.
“I should get going, man. You headed to Marin? We can walk together if you want.”
“No, no. I’ll go back to the city. Thank you.”
“You cool?”
“So cool.” Josh stuck out his hand. “Thank you, David. This meant a lot to me.”
“A pleasure . . . uh, what’s your name?”
“Joshua.”
“A pleasure, Joshua! Take care, dude!”
Some people were simply, undeniably decent. Radley. Jen. Darius. This guy.
The walk back was easier. Piece of cake, really, since he couldn’t see how high up he was. He wove through the other pedestrians, dodged those taking photos. Dang. He should have taken a picture for Laur—
Nope. He couldn’t take pictures for her anymore.
That thought would’ve dropped him a few months ago. This time, it only stopped him for a few seconds.
Then, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and took a shot of the bridge, the upper reaches fading into the now-gray sky. He texted it to his mom, Jen, Radley and Ben. Then, after a second’s pause, added Sarah to the chat. What would Lauren say?
Walked over the Golden Gate Bridge like a boss. See you later, acrophobia.
He hadn’t been a loser. He’d done something he was afraid of.
His wife would’ve been so proud.
24
Joshua
Month nine
November
ON A COLD, dark evening in November, Sarah came by with a letter.
“I have a date, or I’d be more sociable,” she called as Pebbles whined and barked and wagged. “Bye!”
“Have fun,” he said, picking up the envelope.
A date, huh? She did look really pretty, her hair shiny, red lipstick on. He knew she dated—well, Lauren used to tell him about her misadventures, and there was the pyramid scheme guy who’d come to his first, disastrous dinner party. But he’d never met her boyfriend per se. He’d just seen her a few days ago when Radley and she had come over to watch a movie, and she hadn’t mentioned anyone, so maybe this was just another bad first date in the making.
Well. He had a letter from his wife to read.
He went through his pre-letter tradition—shower, clean clothes, a half glass of wine. Then he picked up the letter, holding it carefully, studying her handwriting, the fat swirl of the J, the long tail of the a.
Joshua, #9
Counting this letter, there were only a few more waiting for him. After that, she’d really be gone.
Nine months since she died. How could he have lived this long without her? It seemed like nine years, nine decades. Every memory was so precious, and yet . . . his throat tightened to think about it . . . every memory also receded further into the distance. Sometimes, he felt like he was remembering the memory, not the actual moments—remembering the times he remembered their wedding, going over every minute they’d spent together . . . well, except her last day. That one could stay suppressed for eternity as far as he was concerned.
He wanted to think of her, in real life. He wanted to hear her voice, smell her scent, not just describe it to himself. He’d watched the movies they’d taken of each other. Every one. He watched their wedding video at least a hundred times. He scrolled through thousands of their pictures on his computer.
He looked like a different person in those photos. He looked so . . . young. Even in the pictures where she had a cannula, or she was in the hospital, he looked happy, assured and in love. Dazzlingly in love, confident that he was loved back just as much.
At least he had given her that. All his love, his whole heart. He’d known such happiness, such love every damn day. And these letters reminded him of that.
With a deep breath, he opened this one reverently, slowly.
Hello, honey!
How are you? I wish I knew what time of year it was so I could give you better things to do . . . you know, like if I knew it was winter, I could say, “Make a snowman with some random children!” (Except you might get arrested on suspicion of being a pedophile, so maybe not that.) Or if I knew this month was May, I could say, “Plant a garden!” (Better! Make sure you do that in May!)
Last month’s “task” was lame, and I’m sorry for that. I was trying to be well-rounded and wanted you to do something related to your career. It sounded like the advice you’d get in a fortune cookie. “Do something you’re scared of.” Lame, Lauren! (But if you did, I’m SO PROUD OF YOU!)