Siren Suicides (Second Edition)

Chapter 3. Aurora Bridge

I run through the rain barefoot. I'm not ten anymore. I'm sixteen,wearing jeans and a hoodie instead of pajamas. And Papa is not catching me this time, not locking me up alone and leaving to search for my mother. It's my turn to look for her. A sudden memory from that morning nags at me. I hear echoes of the blows Father dealt to her delicate face from behind their bedroom door. I hear the swish of her nightgown against wallpaper. Somebody sings my name. Can it be her voice, calling me one last time before jumping off the bridge? All logic forgotten, mad hope sends me sprinting.

"Mom, wait for me, I'm coming!" I yell, out of breath. As soon as the words leave my lips, I think I've gone crazy. I make it to where Raye Street dead-ends into Mrs. Elliott's cookie-cutter house. I stop to sneeze three times, shaking all over.

Her poodle barks at me through the window, his front paws on the windowsill, as always. Mrs. Elliott sticks her head out, her ever-curious eyes taking in the scene for the latest neighborhood gossip. She looks like her poodle, with white curls framing her pasty round face. Her clothes are an indistinguishable pastel color. I firmly believe that she averted her eyes when my mother stopped by her front gate, perhaps uncertain of where to go. At least, that's what witnesses told police officers later. Mrs. Elliott claimed she was asleep that early in the morning. Which is bullshit, because she always takes out her stupid dog for a walk at seven in the morning sharp.

"Stop staring at me! And I hate your fucking dog!" I yell and wipe my nose, glaring.

"Oh!" She opens her mouth, covers it with her soft hand, pushes the dog back inside with her leg, and quickly shuts the door. I flip her the finger and mouth, Fuck you! as I turn and run down the mossy stairway, shaking from cold and anger.

Knowing this neighborhood so well gives me an advantage because I know my father has no way of driving onto the Aurora Bridge unless he goes south first, then finds a spot to turn around. And there aren't many. By the time he's done, I'll have gotten on to the bridge by foot.

Why the hell am I going there? To look for my mother? She's been dead for six years now. This is a ridiculous idea. Thoughts fly through my head as I pound down the forty concrete steps, clutching the railing on my right and inhaling a woodsy smell from the abundance of cypress trees.

I pause at the bottom of the stairs, looking left and right. The street is deserted at this hour. I jog across it, toward the Aurora Bridge. It rumbles under early morning traffic, a mix of commuter cars and huge delivery trucks.

I sprint to the point where the bridge begins to cross water. Another bout of sneezing makes me bend, placing my palms on my knees so that I don't lose my balance. My throat burns with irritation. I wipe my nose, stand, and glance around. Except for traffic racing to and fro, there's no one on the bridge but me. Somewhere on this side, along the middle section that soars 167 feet above the water, my mother climbed over the railing and jumped.

Mom? What did I do wrong? Why did you do it? Why did you leave me?

I look along the bridge, hating its engineers. Hating its metal guts, its height, and the fact that it has become Seattle's most popular attraction for suicide jumpers.

I slam both fists against it and yelp in pain. Tears stream freely down my cheeks, mixing with rain. Steam rises from my mouth with every breath. Fury seems to have warmed me up a bit and I don't shake as much. Propelled by the need to do anything but stand in one place and freeze, I run toward the middle of the bridge, hoping for something, looking for something near a miracle. I want to see a white nightgown and my mother's long hair brushing the wavy pattern of its collar frills. I hope for a glimpse of some kind of answer—anything at all. And I get it. Three honks from the opposite lane, going north. I stifle a cry.