Eighteen inches of reinforced concrete. Capable of reducing a vehicle to a crumpled shell; human inhabitants obliterated, sternums fractured, massive blunt-force head trauma, catastrophic internal hemorrhaging.
We crested the hill, drifting across the lanes on the final curve to catch another touch of speed. Carter negotiated the turn then allowed the car to straddle the center line. A quarter mile ahead the bridge squatted. Two narrow lanes burrowed under the railroad tracks. Two lanes split by a barrier wall—eighteen inches of reinforced concrete.
“Call it,” Carter said.
Those eighteen inches raced towards us.
Carter stared through the windshield. The two gaping holes in the hill stared back.
Carter’s fingers tightened on the wheel. I was cutting it close. I knew it. But that feeling of being in control—knowing when I’d make the call while he sat waiting, waiting, insides screaming at me to call it before we—
The car jerked in his hands and leapt to zero in on the left side of the tunnel. I could almost hear the concrete’s disappointed sigh as it buzzed by, flirting with the passenger side mirror before the tunnel coughed us back out into the night.
He let loose a low whistle. “Geez. Waited long enough, didn’tcha?”
“That’s gotta be a new record.” It was closer than I’d planned, I was surprised he’d actually held out for the call.
“If we’re gonna break that then you’re driving and I’m calling next time.”
Suicide Bridge. It was a morbid yet fitting nickname. Sometimes when I’d be driving that road alone late at night, I’d find myself drifting into center almost out of habit, waiting for Carter’s voice to call the lane decision, knowing he wasn’t there, knowing I had to make the call, had to make it before leaning into those eighteen inches, embracing oblivion. There was a reason I didn’t drive that stretch of road for a long time. Sometimes the temptation started sounding a little too logical . . .
The glasses clink as he sets them on the battered end table. The bourbon splashes, rye harmony on crystal.
“Cheers, bro.” He nudges a glass my way, and I raise it to meet his. The years have been good to Carter. The cancer has not.
We sit on the front porch. The summer night settles around us. The squeak of his rocking chair marks a quiet tempo against the echoing calls of the tree frogs down the hill below us. I nurse my drink, the heat radiating up my chest to meet the warm buzz on my tongue. The blanket of night settles deeper, a comforter tenderly tucked in by a mother humming lullabies of long-forgotten dreams.
“Thanks for bringing the card.”
I tip my glass, “Glad to.”
He stares out into the night and I wait. He refills his glass, sips, coughs. It’s a tearing sound I’ll remember as long as I live, rusty razor blades shaking in rotten burlap.
“Doctor said I’ve got six weeks. Ten tops.”
I reach for the bottle, absorbing this. “Last time we talked you said twelve months.”
“I know. Damn cancer got all motivated I guess.” He tries to laugh. I wish he wouldn’t.
“And that’s why you wanted me to come.”
“So there’s really nothing more they can do—“
He shakes his head. “I told them they can go stick some other poor fool, but I’m done. They got all uppity, but I walked myself right out of there and told ’em ‘no deal.’ They send somebody around every other day to check in on me. It’s better this way.”
I don’t argue. There’s nothing to argue about. We’ve always been straight with each other, and if there’s nothing for it, then that’s how it is, no charades, just the plain ol’ truth, slam bam thank you ma’am.
“How bad is it?”
He looks at me and part of my soul crawls away into a corner and dies. If you could open me up and look inside, you’d find the corners of my heart littered with little bits of dead soul; it’s part of what makes growing old so hard. But this is the biggest piece yet. I don’t think there’s much left now.
It’s late when I leave. Orion is slipping into the horizon, the tree frogs all long since gone to sleep, the only sound the quiet hum of the wind walking in the willows along the creek.
I hug Carter, “I’ll see ya.”
“Yep, I’ll see ya.”
We both know it’s a lie.
The dial tone broke the silence.
“Hello? This is Brian Shaw. I need to report an OD.”
“ — “
“Yes, that’s correct. You have the address?”
“ — “
“I’d guess last night. He’s in his chair, looks like he’s sleeping.”
“ — “
“No. The pill bottle is right beside him.”
“ — “
“A note? Well, he’s holding a postcard but there’s nothing written on it.”
“ — “
“Yeah, I’m sure. It’s just a blank postcard with a bridge on it.”
*Author’s note: the point of this story is neither to argue for nor against the decision of suicide, but rather to process why someone might make such a decision in the final stages of their life. This article hit me hard while I was in the process of writing.