Push (31 page)
“What is this?” I ask as I look back up. His eyes are on me now. Watching me.
“It’s the note my mother pinned to my shirt just before she committed suicide. I was supposed to be asleep in the car.”
“Oh, David. Oh, no. No.” I look down at the note. I can see that it starts with “My bright little bird,” and I can make out something about whatever his father said not being true, but that’s all. She signed it “From your loving Momma.” I want to cry so badly. I want to crawl over to him and hold him against me. He was only eight fucking years old. Eight. Who does that to a child?
“I woke up just as she was about to jump off a bridge with sandbags tied to her feet,” he says. He curls himself up again, into a ball, and hugs his legs.
I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that two women in David’s life met such a brutal and tragic end—and each at their own hands. Both Anna and his mother jumped from a bridge. Both drowned. And both of their choices made him suffer far more than any man should. I want to squeeze myself in between his thighs and his chest and melt into him. I want to erase all the bad. I want to erase Anna and Lucia and Jenny and Kelsey and everyone else who has ever hurt him.
“I got out of the car and asked her what she was doing,” he continues, his voice soft and husky, “but I think I already knew. I think I knew for a long time that my mom was going to leave me somehow. I tried to grab her when she jumped, but I missed. And then I screamed at her. I think I told her to try to fly, to flap her arms or something. And when she didn’t, I jumped in after her. I felt around in the water for her for a long time, but it was dark and I couldn’t see. She died right in front of me, Emma, and I couldn’t save her.” By the time he finishes, he is crying. His body is heaving with sobs, and I wrap my arms around him. His face presses against the front of my shoulder, and I feel his tears seeping through the fabric of my dress. I am crying now, too. My skin is hot with anger—so much anger—for this woman and what she did to her own son. I should feel sad for her—like I do for Anna—but for some reason I can’t bring myself to pity her. He was a child, for Christ’s sake. A child. I am mad at David’s father for not being there for him, and I’m mad at David because I know that he feels as if it was his fault. But it wasn’t. How could it be? How could he think he was responsible for “fixing” his parents? How could he blame himself for his mother’s choice?
A few minutes later, he pulls away and wipes at his face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry to lay this on you, but...it’s fucked up, right? I never told anyone that I tried to save my mom because I didn’t want anyone to know that I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t save my mother.”
I look at David’s face and think about how people all over the world are walking around with massive secrets bound to their backs, weighing them down until their knees scrape the ground. It isn’t just David and me. It is everyone. We all suffer at the hands of secrets, whether we are the cause of them or not. And we are a world of self-made martyrs because of it. We try so hard to hold on to our secrets because we are afraid that no one will understand or that we’ll somehow be judged because of them. People steal and lie and cheat and murder and ignore and deceive, and their victims wear the burden of these wrongs like some kind of godforsaken badge. I am guilty of it, and so is David. But I think David is ready to give up his martyrdom. I think, like me, he is ready to slough off his secrets and move on. He already recognizes that, without them, he wouldn’t be the man that he is. But now, I think he’s finally recognizing that maybe he’ll be a better man without them.
“It’s okay, David,” I say as I brush my hand against his hair, stroking his head as if he were still the small child I am picturing in my head. For once in my life, I know the right thing to say. “You know what, she didn’t
want
to be saved. It wouldn’t have mattered what you did or said. She had already made up her mind. She saw you standing there, watching her, and she still chose to jump. She chose to do that to her own child. She was gone before her feet even left the bridge, and nothing was going to change that.”
He looks at me as if I just smacked him in the face. “She was sick. I don’t think she saw it as a choice.”
“
She had a choice
,” I say ardently. “Even if she saw suicide as her only way out, she could have made the choice to leave you out of it. But she didn’t. She involved her own child in a terrible thing—a very grown-up thing—and no child deserves that. And now
you
are the one who has had to think about it for all these years, and that is really fucking unfair.” He reaches over to me and pulls me toward him. I climb on to his lap, straddling him and wrapping myself around his body. When I hear him start to sniff back more tears, I want to weep again—but instead, I keep talking. “You’re right. It’s fucked up, David. You’re fucked up. And I can totally see why. I can’t imagine how all this has affected you for all these years. Hell, you already know how messed up I am. You know what Michael did to my life. His choices influenced everything I did for years. And your mother’s choice did the same to you. But you have to find a way to move on. You have to stop punishing yourself for something that wasn’t your fault. We both have to.”
His hands move up to my head and bend it forward, until I am face-to-face with him. He kisses me, and it is deep and lustful. The burn in my skin turns from anger to passion, and I feel loved and needed and right.
“I can’t move on by myself, Emma. I need help. I need you to make it go away,” he says when he pulls his lips from mine. His voice is scattered and nervous.
“Listen, you already know I love you, David, and I always will. If you need me to tell you those words every fucking day for the rest of our lives, I’ll do it. And I don’t ever have to hear them back. I’m not going away. We can move on together.”
David blinks up at me. His eyes are warm, roaming over my face carefully. He seems to be strengthened somehow. His back straightens and his mouth sets into a straight line.
He snakes his hands around my waist to the small of my back, weaving his fingers together and resting his palms against the base of my spine. “I know something you can do right now that will make everything better,” he says, the nervousness disappearing from his voice. “I know what I need.”
I look down at him and cup his face in my hands. I see the crazy current whipping through his body and vibrating in his eyes. I feel his skin start to warm beneath my hands, and because of it, I know that whatever he’s about to ask me to do is energizing and inciting his body far more than anything we have done before. There is utter and absolute ecstasy in his face.
“What is it?” I ask. “What do you need me to do?”
Emma’s Epilogue
I am standing on the bridge, and in a rush of brutal and beautiful clarity, I know. I know that I am not the only one. I know that he has done this before. With other women. In other cities. On other bridges. But it doesn’t matter. They weren’t me.
How could he have been so careless?
The green fabric of my dress is clinging to my skin, and the air is calm and humid. My hands are tied behind me, but I’m not crying. I’m not fighting. My skin is not burning with anger or fear. My brain is in charge of my body, and it is telling my instincts to go fuck themselves. As I look out over the dark river, it is all falling into place. The picture is whole.
His breath is steady, deep. He’s always been the calm that feeds off my turmoil, is thrilled by it even. But not today. Today there is only peace. I know what he needs from me, and even as I stand here on the edge of everything, I love him. If he asked me to jump, I would. There would be no hesitation. I know that now, and he knows it, too. I suspect he always has.
I can feel the remarkable beauty in his anticipation. Doing this one thing is going to make him very, very happy, far happier than anything else we have ever done together. It is going to make everything better. I know it.
I will not fail.
I suddenly feel his hand on my face. I quietly sigh and push my head into his palm, feeling the softness of his skin. Inhaling his scent. His smile is small, sheltered. But if I do this, if
this
happens, his face will open with joy and his teeth will show and his eyes will brighten. He will be unstuck.
His hand falls from my face, and he drops to his knees. The sacks of sand at my feet—
on
my feet—feel dense. I stand still as he knots them slowly to my ankles. I am quiet because I am not afraid. I am not sad.
Right after we met, he brought me to this bridge. He showed me the colorful graffiti painted across the trusses and told me that this illicit art had turned a simple bridge into a masterpiece. It was someone’s opus, he said. The fact that some kid, probably unaware of his own talent, could create something so moving obviously touched him deeply. At the time, I wondered why he was so captivated by it. But now...now it is clear. He knew, even then, that all this would come to be. Because it had happened before. With the others.
Still, none of it matters.
Because I am here now, and I am the one.
He pushes me, and I fall, falling for him a second time. But this time, I am not falling in love. This time my descent is not in sweetness and metaphor. It is real. Bruising and literal. I am falling from the sky because I want him to love me as much as I love him. I want to put all of his broken pieces back together. And this is the only way to make that happen. I love him, in spite of all this. In spite of the son of a bitch that he really is. In spite of myself.
The fall is not as I anticipated. I thought it might be a rapid rush, but, instead, I feel light. As if I am floating. I struggle to see the riotously painted bridge trusses as I pass, but the darkness makes it impossible. My mind is moving slowly, thoughtfully even, but before I can take hold of another breath, I hit the water. The bubbles rise around me, tickling my body in a frothy, hard caress.
The weight of the sandbags pulls me down faster than I expected. I am under the water, and yet I can finally breathe. And I grin because I know that he is up there, on the bridge, smiling. His perfect teeth exposed. His eyes alight. He is elated. And maybe, I hope, filled with a deep, appreciative love. For me.
David’s Epilogue
The sandbags are the last thing to fall from the ledge, and, as they do, I hear a sickening swipe. It licks at my heart. I watch her fall. She is falling for me. Her body tilts softly in the air, and she hits the water feet first. I know the sandbags will pull her down fast. They always do. The bubbles rise, and the ripples widen, and she is gone. Gone because I am a goddamned son of a bitch.
I put my face in my hands and drop to my knees. I am crying. I am sobbing. I am screaming.
Shit. What have I done?
To be continued...
* * * * *
Acknowledgments
The blame for this book is to be placed squarely on the shoulders of my friend Melissa. She is the one who encouraged me to write David and Emma’s story, and her enthusiasm for this book led me through both the dark spots and the bright. Thank you, Melissa, for leading me down this road and for being such a kick-ass cheerleader. Your faith is mind-boggling.
To N.A., L.S., B.O., M.S. and M.K.: I still can’t believe I suckered you into reading an entire ream of paper full of my words. And I didn’t even have to ask twice! Your trust and confidence gave me an instant pair of “author legs” and a firm push in the right direction. Without your feedback, I would not have had the courage to put this book out into the world. You are my “fab-five,” and I will be forever grateful to have you in my life.
I feel blessed to have a set of parents and a sister who always offer me their support, no matter what kind of harebrained idea I fling at them. They have my back, and I am thankful for all their positive energy and love. My chin is up because of them.
To my agent, Nalini Akolekar of Spencerhill Associates: I knew from our very first phone call that we were going to be a perfect fit. Thanks for your patient ear, your steadfast enthusiasm, and your practical (and emotional!) advice. Your faith in this book, and its author, is so very appreciated.
Emily Ohanjanians, my editor at Harlequin MIRA, had no small task in bringing out the best in David and Emma’s story. Emily, your gentle guidance, kind words and professionalism did not go unnoticed. I know I can be a little overly passionate sometimes (okay, let’s call it what it is, kids: I can be an opinionated b#tch); your ability to corral that passion and help me turn it into a string of perfect words was more vital than you know. You deserve a medal.
And last, to my rock-solid husband: Thank you for tolerating all my neurotic outbursts, for encouraging me to take risks, for inspiring my creativity, for always allowing me to be myself, and for being the strongest person I know. You and that beautiful boy of ours are the best parts of me.
ISBN-13: 9781459256156
PUSH
Copyright © 2014 by Claire Wallis
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