“Unhealthy.” She supplies the word easily.
It’s not the one I would have picked, but it works well enough.
She pulls her hands away and goes on. “My therapist talked to me about this.”
“About us?”
She flushes. “About the way I felt about you, at least. Mom suspected too. She worried about it because she and Dad think we’re codependent.”
She rolls her eyes, but my stomach drops. I’ve heard that word in my own therapist’s office when discussing our friendship. I told him I preferred the term symbiotic. But I get it.
Paige is like the bumpers on a bowling alley for me. Without her, I wind up knocking random pins out of twelve different lanes before landing on a plate of fries. I guess I help Paige when she falls apart, but that doesn’t feel the same.
“I always believed we were helping each other.” She sighs. “But neither of us was getting any better, Theo. I was still an anxious mess, and you were still…”
“Me. I was still me.” I sigh. “I swear I didn’t mean for this to happen. I was going to leave you alone…let you live on or whatever.”
“I know. Me too.”
I scrape my fingers at the sides of her knees because letting her go is impossible. The idea of it swells up high in my throat, colder than fear. I push it out with a breath.
“Look, Paige, I know we can’t be like we were. I don’t know where we could go from here, but whatever’s happening to us on that bridge, I think we have a better shot of ending it if we’re together.”
“You can’t know that,” she says, but she’s tracing a finger over my hand.
“Maybe not,” I relent, “but I know I feel steadier around you. Even when I touch your lock, the haunting crap stops.”
She laughs, and it’s almost sad. “Theo, that lock isn’t magic. I put it there when I was fourteen. It was no different than wishing on a star.”
I look up, remembering. “That was the last time you were on the bridge, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” She shakes her head. “And I felt incredibly stupid afterward. Trust me, Theo. That lock didn’t bring us together. It isn’t magic. The answer to this so-called haunting is probably more logical than we think.”
“Paige, come on. I’m hearing voices. You found an earring you wore three months ago. It isn’t logical.”
She goes very still, as if she’s thinking that over. “But it could be. Coincidences do happen. And with me being anxious—”
“Anxious? You can’t anxious a purse into the water. That bridge is haunted.”
“What if it isn’t? I found impurities in that water. We’re both on medication and fresh out of a pretty serious trauma. There could be another explanation.”
I relent, pushing my hands into my messy hair. “Okay, I get it. Ghosts are well outside your comfort zone, but you can’t seriously sit here trying to tell me it’s all in our heads.”
She scoots back on the couch, with a frown. “I wish I’d kept the stupid purse. I’m starting to wonder if I made it up.”
“You didn’t make it up. I’ve smelled things and heard our conversation, Paige. You and me…even Chase.”
“That can happen. Think about it. Do you remember the night swim? The one at freshman camp? I thought there were snakes in the water.”
I remember Paige shuddering at the edge of the lake. We ended up waiting out by the cabins, eating Twinkies I stole out of a vending machine.
“You were younger then,” I argue. “Still afraid of the dark. This is different.”
“Is it? You know what people with paranormal experiences have in common?”
“Unflattering online photographs?”
“High levels of stress. Mental health issues. These people are usually written off for a reason,” she says.
“Yeah, because they’re seeing something hard to believe. If this bridge isn’t haunted, then what the hell is happening to me? To us?”
She tucks her hair behind her ear with a sigh. “I don’t know. I’m not saying it isn’t all completely bizarre. But strange things often have mundane explanations.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a high level of arsenic in the water. I think it’s leaching out of the bridge somewhere.”
“And, what, it’s only making the two of us crazy? Feels like a stretch.”
“How is that so much crazier than a ghost dropping pretzels in a river?”
“You think arsenic could drop pretzels in the water?”
“Of course not, but it could mess with my head. Make me think I’m seeing things. Make you think you’re hearing things. You’re working on the bridge, and I’m in the water. There’s a connection.”
“Do you realize how unlikely this sounds?”
“What part of this isn’t unlikely?” she asks.
She’s wearing her stubborn face, the one she puts on when she’s determined to ace a test. I tap my thumb at her ankle and watch her sigh.
“It’s not some weird chemical in the water, Paige. Deep down, I think you know that.”
She frowns. “I don’t know what I know. That’s why I need answers.”
“What if we don’t find one? What then?”
“I guess we’ll deal with that,” she says.
“Well, let’s hope you get your answer before you find something even worse. And before I have to cut off the rest of those locks. Cutting off eight knocked me flat on my ass.”
“Will you cut them all?”
“All but one,” I say. And I can tell by the way her eyes light up that I don’t have to tell her which lock will stay.
Paige
My search the next morning pulls fifteen solid resources with information on arsenic poisoning. Not that I can read them. All I can do is relive three minutes on a dirty couch. Three minutes with a boy I should never have kissed.
If my parents knew… I can barely even think it. There’s no one I can talk to about what happened with Theo. I gaze over the top of my laptop to the other half of our dorm room. It’s a mirror of my side, twin bed, small desk-shelf combo at the end. Melanie is on her laptop, poring over the industrial history of Portsville. Putting final touches on her video before we do the last hands-on research.
I don’t think anything about walking out of the lab yesterday until I hear her on my way back from the restroom. Snippets of a one-sided conversation. I have no right to listen. It’s eavesdropping, and it’s wrong. And still I pause at the cracked door to our room, hand hesitating at the knob.
“…just disappeared. She was gone for hours.”
Then, “I know I have to say something. But I feel weird, you know?”
I lurch back from the door, heart pounding. That was me. I’m the one who disappeared. I walked out and vanished for three hours and came back with zero explanation. How could I not think about how weird that would look?
Everyone else was getting dinner or maybe practicing sections of their presentations. But I was kissing Theo. Living my other life.
“Well, she didn’t look like she’d been studying.” Melanie ends it with a laugh.
My cheeks burn. I’ve heard enough. I retrace my steps as quietly as I can. I go all the way to the bathroom, like if I go back far enough I’ll be able to unhear what she said.
I wait at the bathroom door, steadying myself with a hand on the wall. I need to breathe. And think.
What do I do? She said she needs to tell someone. And that someone has to be Dr. Lutmer or my parents, right?
So, now what? Confront her? I can’t imagine a more uncomfortable conversation. We still have to finish this presentation, and no way will we get through that if we’re awkward with each other.
Would it even stop her?
I think about that for a while, knowing it wouldn’t. If anything, knowing I’m listen
ing in on her private phone calls might make her that much more likely to say something. If she thinks she needs to tell, she’s going to tell.
So, she needs to think there’s nothing worth talking about.
I close my eyes and draw a steadying breath. Okay. This isn’t rocket science. I just need to fake it, and it’s not like I haven’t done enough of that over the years. If I’m not disappearing or overly stressed, she’ll get wrapped up in her own life again. She’ll forget. Hopefully.
I clomp my way back to the room, giving her every bit of possible warning. Back in the room, I offer her one of my sodas from our tiny fridge. I comment about my new conclusion and compliment her video.
Melanie smiles and chimes in, and maybe that’s all it will take. Occasionally she glances at me over the top of her laptop, when she thinks I’m not watching. I force myself to tap on the keyboard, but I feel her gaze on me, heavy enough to stall out my keystrokes.
“You seem distracted today,” she says.
So much for the forgetting-all-about-it plan. I force a smile. “A little. I’m all right.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you. When they burst in yesterday, you kind of freaked out.”
Something tells me whatever I say now will decide what she does next. I think of lying, blaming it all on that phony call. But she knows better. The best lies contain a heavy dose of truth anyway.
I sigh. “Violence like that freaks me out. I’d been feeling really good so I didn’t want to let a little drama affect that. If you have anxiety, you learn to have strategies. Rather than have a panic attack, I can take a walk. I can be in control of myself.”
“That’s really cool, Paige.” Her expression tells me she means it. Maybe even admires me for it. The flare of heat in my chest shouldn’t feel like triumph, but it does.
I click on a link, determined to change topics. “You know the plastics plant down at the river bend south of town? There was an old metal factory there that supplied several parts for the original bridge supports.”
“Yeah?”
I clear my throat. “According to this historical foundation site, that factory was plagued with worker health problems and soon shut down.”
“Because they were working with contaminated materials,” she says.
“Exactly. I’m thinking of using that in my closing statement.” I feel stronger now, more sure of the work I’ve done. “I’ll challenge the class to consider the dangers faced by workers in the past.”
“The whole presentation will be proof that we can never fully escape our own history.”
My stomach drops, but she laughs.
“Right,” I croak, a dull soft ache in my jaw.
“It’s perfect,” she says, grinning as she shuts her laptop. “That line is so perfect! Better than the stained line. Come on, let’s go finish up the river work.”
We need to check the supports by the bridge, and it was my idea. A good idea. But I don’t want to stand by that water anymore. That weathered dock is still there with stains from my blood and bits of my broken soul. That’s my history. And I don’t want to believe it will always be with me.
“Earth to Paige,” she says. “Are you ready?”
An electric chill coasts up the back of my neck. “Sure. But what if the water is too deep?”
“That’s why we’re getting the boat, remember? I think we should try to take pictures first. See if there’s any obvious visible damage above the surface. The river is about four feet lower than that year, from what I researched.”
“We need personal protective gear,” I say.
“The biology department said we could borrow some. Longer waders and those extra-long rubber lab gloves. So, what do you think?”
What I think is that Theo is at the bridge. After what happened yesterday, would Melanie put more pieces together? Even if he’s not there, will I hold it together? That bridge ratchets up all of my bad emotions. I can’t have her witnessing some kind of meltdown.
But I can’t think of an excuse that makes sense, so we head out. She smiles at me as we walk, but her gaze lingers when she looks at me. Can she tell I’m nervous? Is she watching me?
It’s completely paranoid, and I can be better than this. She’s walking like any normal person would. Still, my cheeks burn as I pull on my worn flats and force myself to smile.
The day is clear and warm, but sweat dampens my palms and back. The moment the bridge comes into view, I see him. The walking bridge is closed, and they’re halfway through replacing the planking closest to our side. Almost done, then. But locks glimmer up and down the railing, so that job is still unfinished.
“Work with a view today,” Melanie says, chuckling.
She’s probably referring to Theo and his lack of a shirt. I’ve seen him shirtless plenty, but not after kissing him. I can practically feel the heat of his skin, the scrape of his stubble against my chin.
Theo shouts something at Denny, and I turn away. I think they’re finishing up, because I can hear them walking around. Theo stops, and I’m pretty sure I know why. He’s seen us.
Melanie looks up at the bridge, grinning. She’s clearly seen him too. But the twinge in my gut isn’t jealousy. It’s fear.
Will she recognize him?
I glance up, wishing we’d picked a picnic table farther down the banks. Wishing he wasn’t thirty feet away wearing a backward hat and a devilish grin.
I pull off my zip-up sweatshirt and throw it on one of the picnic table seats, out of plain sight. Then I put on the waders, hoping he’ll ignore us.
“Hey, stranger.”
I turn toward his voice. Theo’s face is lost in shadow, but heat spreads through my chest all the same. I don’t mean to smile, but I do.
“Hey.”
“Nice outfit.”
We’re practically yelling to hear each other. Melanie cups her hand over her eyes. It’s probably too late to hope she doesn’t recognize him.
“Safety over fashion,” Melanie singsongs. “Wait. You’re Paige’s friend, right? From the lawn the other day.”
“Yeah, we’re friends,” he says.
My mind supplies a vivid flash of his hands on my face, his mouth soft and open and hungry. I cover my burning cheeks and realize I’ve forgotten my gloves.
Melanie starts to say something else, but Denny calls Theo back. Thank God. Though I’m going to be working below him. From below, he will look like that shadow I saw. Like someone who might want to jump.
I turn away, searching for the gloves. Melanie is giving me knowing looks, and I’m shaking so hard I can barely get on my boots. I can practically feel my mom eavesdropping. It’s ridiculous and paranoid, but I can’t shake it.
Ten minutes later, we’re down the banks and thigh-deep in murky river water, trying to figure out how we can get past the first support pillars. After a quick look around, it’s clear we won’t be able to get close enough. And walking around the supports we can reach yields nothing.
We walk under the bridge to the boat rental kiosk attached to the ice cream shop. The boat is easier to manage than we thought, but examining the pillars is tedious work, looking at every visible inch for weakness or wear. I can almost forget that Theo is up there. I can almost forget that my teeth and heart were broken twenty feet from this place.
Footsteps and hammers and the occasional murmur of one instruction or another are our background music as we search. We check each pillar, climbing out when we can, and reaching gloved hands into the water to feel the submerged parts when we can’t.
There are bird nests crammed on the top of the cement, close to the underside of the bridge. If I didn’t see the nests, the streaks of gray-white down the pillar sides would tell me enough. I think of avian flu and salmonella and other diseases, and I force myself to check the filthy streaked sections anyway.
Everything is
smooth and solid on the first two we check. I pull my arms out, water dripping.
“Nothing here,” I shout back to Melanie.
As we’re rowing to the next one, I spot a sliver of black on the cement, one that leads under the water. Is that a crack? I know better than to get hopeful. It’s probably rust or dirt. Maybe a plant. We swing the boat around where I can see it better.
“I think I’ve got something,” I say, pointing.
Melanie throws the anchor and scoots closer, boat bobbing in the water. She presses her fingers into the fissure, then reaches for her phone, opening the flashlight.
She nods. “Oh, yeah. This is what we’re looking for.”
The crack isn’t much, situated on the inside facing another support beam. It’d be almost impossible to see and too small to catch any real notice or attention unless someone was obsessing like we are.
“Do you think it’s big enough?” I ask.
“Wouldn’t take much,” Melanie says. “Think of food coloring in a bathtub. One drop would make a difference.”
We spend a few minutes taking notes and pictures. We measure the width and depth and note the spaces where the cement is beginning to crumble. Tiny changes. But if this is where the arsenic is coming from, this fracture is important. And so is our presentation.
We return the boat and make our way back under the bridge on the walking path. By the time we’re climbing the grassy hill back to the tables, we’re both giddy.
“I can’t believe we found it.” Melanie says as she peels off her gloves. “I suppose it’s not definitive proof.”
“Hardly,” I say, but my cheeks hurt from smiling.
“Yeah, but I’m going with Occam’s razor,” she says. “The simplest answer is usually the right one.”
I grin. “I like that theory.”
I strip off my gloves and shuffle up to the picnic table. The pair of sandals on top stops me dead.
They are lined up side by side, like someone just slipped them off. For half a second, I think I’ve interrupted a picnic. And then I look again at the gold straps. The tiny buckle. The small stain on the outside edge of the left one. Red-brown like blood.