Keep the Ghost

14. Crossing the gulf

 Still walking, except now I'm all the way to the Port Lavaca causeway. Clear day, pale sky, white clouds. No souls walk here, just mine. The heat of the day bleaches the earth clean, scares off even the insects. I do like that about Texan weather—the antiseptic sun. 

The bridge shudders every time a car passes, a tiny wobble I never noticed while driving. 

A car honks as it moves to avoid clipping my left side. There is only a narrow cement ledge here, not designed for walking on. I'm interrupting the morning commute.

The Gulf of Mexico is about fifty feet below me. Ahead, the bridge slopes upward, to make way for tall vessels. Below that hump in the bridge, the water is carved deep so that ships can move through the channel. I'm heading for the peak. 

Another car honks, swerves. 

I keep moving, walking at a steady pace, hands in my pockets. Today, a walk is not just a walk, and these are the most difficult steps of my life. My destination is my unmaking. 

I count furiously, to keep myself moving. When the fear comes, I concentrate on counting faster, louder, until I shout the numbers internally, and they consume my mind. There is no space for anything else; there can be no space. 

The wind snaps across my face, catches my t-shirt and pulls it against my body. Sweltering wind, salted spray. I can feel the fine particles grind on my skin, pull the moisture from my face. 

One foot in front of the other. That's my whole world. Walking, and counting. I climb the incline. Soon, my head crests the top of the curve, and I'm here.

And now I can't seem to count loud enough.

It's a hundred foot drop down to the water below. I stand at the apex of the bridge and turn to face the bay, stepping up on the knee-high cement guard that prevents cars from tumbling over the edge.

I look down. I expected a straight drop, but I can see some stone fixtures from the bridge extend a foot or two, maybe ten feet below me. Below that, the brown waters of the gulf. Thick as chocolate milk, constantly clouded from the soft silt that makes the floor of the sea. 

My knees bend to hold my balance as another gust of wind hits, pulls me to the left. I stretch out my arms to my sides, fingertips pointing at the horizon. The sun is behind me. 

I hear the squeal of tires on road; a car lurches to a stop, and the next truck jerks into the opposite lane, hitting his brakes as well. The cars behind all struggle to brake in time.

I nearly cause an accident. But I just stand on the edge of the world, arms out, unmoving.

A car door opens. I tilt my head to the left. An overweight bald man waves his arms, belly bouncing. He jumps up and down, vying for my attention. More doors open, more concerned strangers get out. 

No one gets too close. The shouting drowns within the roar of the wind and the scream of my nerves. 

I have counted all the numbers.

Then I turn to look back at the water, and all strength leaves me. I see my destiny a hundred feet below. My knees buckle. I lean over the side, and become dizzy; the world seems to lurch up behind me as I pitch forward.

And I take that moment, bend my knees and push. 

Slow cataclysm. I'm airborne. Facing the sky first, watching it spin away, watching the bridge shrink from me, vision tunneling. I am within a moment that divides by half infinitely, accelerating endlessly. Muddy water rushes toward me, and I push my hands in front of my head, forming a spear.

All the force in the world thrusts me into hard darkness. Each molecule of water reacts to my intrusion, and the entire ocean is split to make way for one unwelcome visitor.

Another body for the gulf—Sean Reilly dies today.