Bridge: a shade short story (2 page)

karaoke,

laser tag,

etc.,

etc.,

etc.

Things that won’t get you arrested

or pregnant

or killed.

Three girls walk straight toward me,

platform flip-flops thunking the boardwalk.

The one on the right,

with a dark ponytail and glasses,

suddenly lags behind,

pretends to focus on her

giant tub of Thrasher’s fries.

I pretend too,

stepping aside,

then,

at the last second,

I enter her path.

She swerves.

I point at her. “Ha!

I knew you could see me.”

“Go away.”

The girl keeps walking.

I zoom up to her.

“I know this is weird,

but I need your help.”

She shakes her head,

munches another fry.

“I need you to talk to my brother Mickey.

If it helps, he’s really cute—

like me, only with dark hair and a pulse—

and his girlfriend isn’t with him this week.”

She rolls her eyes, like I’m a total asshole.

(Which I am.)

“I’m scared he might kill himself.”

She stops.

♪

Mickey drifts

through our favorite cheesy gift shop,

as always

drawn to the aisle

with the religious stuff.

Candles for saints

or Hindu gods

or voodoo spirits.

Light a match,

summon the divine,

like it’s that easy.

Mickey stops,

picks up a

white

porcelain

Pietà
—

that Michelangelo statue

of Mary cradling Jesus’s

thin

limp

corpse.

I tell Krista what to say

so he’ll know she’s for real,

so he’ll know I’m for real.

She doesn’t sidle.

She doesn’t shift.

She stalks, right up to him.

“It reminds him of you,” she says,

“the way you held him the night he died.”

The statue shatters on the floor.

Jesus’s head pops off,

shoots through my feet,

rolls under the shelf across the aisle.

Mickey brushes past Krista,

making another escape.

She grabs his wrist,

her fingers a handcuff.

“Look! I don’t have time to chase you

while you pretend you don’t want to talk to him.

So let’s just do this, okay?”

He scowls down at her.

“Who are you?”

“I’m no one.”

She lets go of his wrist.

“I think that’s the point.”

♪

The ocean’s rhythm

isn’t.

I count the seconds between waves

and realize that

they crash when they crash,

with no regular timing,

like our ex-drummer

when he was drunk.

Like my heart’s final beats,

1,000

in three minutes.

The waves’ arrhythmia

is all I hear in my brother’s silence.

We sit side by side on the pier,

our legs dangling over the edge.

He and Krista pass a cigarette

back and forth

through me.

Mickey has quit smoking

six times in two months.

I splay my fingers,

admiring how the smoke curls

around and within

their violet glow,

like dry ice at a rock concert.

Mickey drops the cigarette butt

into his can of Pepsi.

It sizzles as the fire dies.

“He was so heavy.”

He presses the back of his hand

against his mouth,

as if those four words

are the first drops in a flood

that will drown us all.

“Heavy, like a sandbag,

in my arms.

And behind that door.

It took both of us,

me and our sister, Siobhan,

to push it open.

I thought, What idiot got so wasted

they passed out on our bathroom floor?

And probably puked all over

Mom’s favorite guest towels,

and we’ll have to clean it up,

and I swear to God

this is the last party

we’ll ever have.”

He shakes the Pepsi can,

the cigarette butt rattling

staccato.

“So the door finally opens,

and there’s no puke,

no blood,

no nothing.

Just him.

Clean and dead.”

I remember watching Mickey

drag my body into the hall,

start CPR with Siobhan.

No matter how much they pressed

and breathed

and cried

and cursed

and screeeeeeeeamed,

I couldn’t come back.

“I’m sorry.”

Krista repeats my words.

“Who’s sorry?” Mickey asks her. “You or him?”

“When I speak for myself,

I’ll hold up my hand.”

She makes a Boy-Scouty gesture,

then lowers her hand.

“Logan is sorry.”

He flinches at the sound of my name.

“What the hell’s he sorry about?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him.

“But you were really pissed off that night,

so I figured I should apologize.”

Mickey puts his head in his hands

when he hears my answer.

“I didn’t mean to yell at him.”

“You always yelled at me.”

I pause to let Krista translate.

“Why would you stop when I died?”

“I did not always yell at him!”

Krista raises her hand.

“You’re yelling at him right now.”

“Well—he—”

Mickey chokes out six

or seven

incoherent syllables

before lurching to his feet.

He stomps away,

down the boardwalk.

Fast enough for drama

but slow enough to follow.

“Sorry.”

I hunch my shoulders

as Krista stands, sighing.

“Stop saying ‘sorry.’

Mickey should be saying that.”

“He won’t.”

I get up to join her.

“He’s a douche.”

♪

“Your turn to talk,”

Krista tells me

as we catch up to Mickey

down the boardwalk.

The first question is easy.

“Ask him why he hates me.”

She rolls her eyes,

but does as I ask.

“I don’t hate him,” he says,

but too quick,

like a reflex,

like someone,

maybe a therapist,

has asked that question before.

“You think I’m a sellout,” I tell him.

You think I don’t care about the music.”

This he doesn’t deny,

just shoves his hands deeper

into his pockets,

slows his pace,

glares harder at the wooden slats

in front of his feet.

“So if I’m a sellout,”

I continue, slowly enough

that Krista can translate,

“then why did we play

all those songs I wrote?

Why were they good enough,

when I wasn’t?”

Mickey glares at her.

“I never said he wasn’t good enough.”

“Don’t talk to me,” Krista tells Mickey.

“Talk to Logan.”

He stops short and turns to her.

“Okay, L—”

My name catches on his tongue.

“You were good.

You were amazing.

You took my fucking breath away.”

His eyes skewer hers.

“But it wasn’t enough, was it?

No, you had to be famous.

You had to be famous
yesterday
.

You couldn’t wait until we were older,

when you could handle it.

You were just a kid,

a stupid kid.”

Mickey’s face crumples,

red with rage

and something else.

He clutches his hands

in his thick brown hair,

like he could tear it out.

“And now you’ll never be older.

You’ll never be

anything,

ever,

but a stupid kid.”

As I stare at Mickey,

feeling twelve years old again,

a whimper comes from my right.

I turn,

and Mickey turns,

to see Krista,

her eyes wide and wet,

lower lip trembling—

classic

girl

pre-cry

symptoms.

Mickey’s hands come up,

as if to grasp her shoulders.

“Oh God, I’m sorry.

I was looking at you,

but I swear I was talking to him.

You were just—”

She slaps him,

hard enough

to knock the self-righteous mask

clean off his face.

“Logan’s right,” she hisses.

“You are a douche.”

♪

Jim Morrison died in the bathtub.

They buried him in Paris,

but some people think he’s still alive,

just like Elvis.

That he’d had enough

of this bogus life

and decided to get

a brand-new one.

My brother and I

catch up to Krista

near the entrance to the

Jolly Roger Amusement Park.

She’s wiping away the tears

with her fists,

as if she can pummel her sadness

into submission.

“I’m sorry,” Mickey says

(to her).

“Can we start over?”

“No.”

Sniffle.

“But we can keep going.”

“Your turn,” I say to Krista.

“Tell us why you freaked.

But first, make Mickey buy you

a funnel cake.”

♪

On a bench

by the Ferris wheel

they eat.

I crouch a few feet in front of them,

in the middle of the foot traffic.

Apparently I never sat on that bench

in my whole life.

“My brother died when I was ten.”

Krista tugs off a long string of fried dough

and dangles it into her mouth.

Powdered sugar

showers over the edge of her lips

down to her chin.

I wonder if Mickey wants to lick it off.

I would

if I could smell

and taste,

or think of anyone but Aura.

“What happened?” Mickey asks.

“OD’d.”

A strong breeze

sweeps her hair into her mouth

as she speaks and eats.

She tucks it behind her ear.

“Officially an accident.”

“Officially?”

“I think he killed himself.

Otherwise he probably would’ve haunted me.”

Right.

To become a ghost,

your death has to be a surprise.

(Boo.)

People who thought it’d be easier

to be a ghost

than to be alive

found that out the hard way.

“How old was he?” Mickey asks Krista.

“Eighteen.

Like you.”

Another bite,

another struggle

against the blowing hair.

“You’re thinking of doing it, aren’t you?”

If I had breath,

I would hold it now,

waiting for Mickey’s answer.

“I don’t think of dying,” he says,

“so much as I think of not living.”

It starts to rain,

suddenly,

strenuously,

as if heaven itself

is bawling,

spitting,

pissing

on my brother

and his death wish.

You go, God.

If he doesn’t want his life,

can I have it?

I’d be a miserable,

pretentious

son of a bitch

if it meant living again.

I’d be him.

♪

“Keep most of the lights off,”

Krista tells Mickey

as we enter our cousins’

beachfront condo

where our family has stayed

since I was fourteen.

“That way I can still see Logan.”

“I’ll get you a towel.

And do you want a dry—”

He looks away

from her sodden T-shirt.

He has a girlfriend,

after all,

a girlfriend he’s barely touched

in 233 days.

He heads down the hall,

but she lingers by the front door,

checks that it’s unlocked.

“He won’t hurt you,” I tell her.

“I know,” she whispers.

“But after that Cindy girl died

at spring break,

my parents gave me the Talk.

They said,

‘Just because you graduated a year early

doesn’t mean you can’t be stupid.’”

We go to join Mickey,

passing the open door

of Siobhan’s room

and the closed door

where my younger brother Dylan and I

used to stay.

I’ve been there a hundred times

since I died.

Mickey stands before his bed,

his suitcase open.

“My sister’ll kill me if I steal one of her shirts,

so take this.

Keep it.”