I sat in the middle between Maris and Owen, listening to Loralee and Gibbes talking about fishing, something they were apparently both familiar with, having grown up by the coast, and Maris’s constant question bombardment aimed at a desultory Owen. He responded by narrating a litany of random facts that he’d either found interesting and wanted to share, or that were his way of dealing with being so close to Maris. I focused on the bright bows on Maris’s flip-flops, aware of Gibbes’s SUV heading toward the bridge and not wanting to know exactly when we’d get there.
If I were to live there, I knew I couldn’t avoid driving over bridges forever, but I was glad it was Gibbes behind the wheel instead of me. A therapist had shown me how to use breathing techniques and helpful thoughts to manage the few times I’d had to navigate a small bridge back home. I’d have to remember them, go look for my notes and practice in the quiet of my bedroom. I didn’t imagine I’d ever get used to it no matter how many times I had to cross the rivers and byways of my new home, but I’d manage. I’d simply recall Cal’s voice telling me I couldn’t do it and I would prove him wrong. One thing I knew for sure, however, was that I could never do it during a storm. And never, ever at night.
“This is the Woods bridge,” Gibbes said, turning slightly toward the back seat. “Also known locally as the Beaufort River Bridge, and the Sea Island Parkway. It’s a swing bridge.”
“What’s that?” Owen asked, sitting forward so that his seat belt strained across his chest.
“They have a man in the operations station in the middle of the span to swing the bridge open to allow boats through that are too tall to go beneath it.”
“Cool,” said Owen, looking intently out the window as we approached. A shiver ran through me as I imagined the bridge swinging open just as we reached it.
“Please keep your eyes on the road.” I realized I’d said it out loud when Gibbes’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. I closed my eyes and tried to disappear into the back of my seat.
“Did you know that this year August will have five Fridays, five Saturdays, and five Sundays? This happens only once every eight hundred and twenty-three years. The Chinese call it ‘silver pockets full.’ It’s supposed to be good luck or something.” Owen’s voice sounded loud in my ear, but not loud enough to block out the change in sound under our tires as we began a small ascent onto the bridge.
The bridge rumbled under the tires of the SUV and my hands took hold of the edges of the seats in front of me, as if they would hold me aloft while the brakes squealed and the side rails of the bridge gave way with the force of a vehicle crashing through them. As if they could save me from falling into freezing water that lapped below like the tongue of a hungry animal. Breathe. Breathe. Fill your lungs with air. Everything’s fine.
“Did you know that when you’re playing rock, paper, and scissors that you have a higher probability of winning if you always go with paper? That’s because most people don’t like making a scissors with their fingers, so they use rock because it’s easier, and paper always covers rock.” Owen was staring out the front window as if talking to no one but himself.
Maris bounced up and down in her seat, her beach bag rubbing against my arm. I didn’t pull away, happy to have a reminder that I was in South Carolina, crossing the Beaufort River, that the sun was shining and the water beneath was warm.
Fingers pressed against mine and I looked up to find Loralee watching me, her hand on mine. I was embarrassed and let my hand slip from hers as I sat back in my seat, prepared for free fall.
I stifled a sigh of relief as we reached the end of the bridge and headed away from the river, although I sensed its nearness. I was quickly learning that there was no escaping the water there, its presence as perennial as the sky. Gibbes’s gaze met mine again in the mirror and he gave me a quick nod and a smile, as if saying, Good job. I looked away, wondering how much Loralee had told him about my mother, and realized he probably knew everything. I wasn’t mad at her, merely relieved that I wouldn’t have to explain to one more person why there were things I could not do.
Gibbes’s house was down a dusty road with few neighbors, towering oaks on both sides, with swinging moss that hung lazily from knobby branches blocking the sun as we drove through. We passed a house with large, colored Christmas lights dangling from the porch right before he turned onto an unmarked driveway that led us far from the main road.
Gibbes’s house itself surprised me, although maybe it shouldn’t have. It was a midcentury modern with sparse landscaping and Christmas lights—these smaller and clear—still hanging from the gutter above the one-car garage. He gave us a brief tour inside, including a state-of-the-art kitchen and a family room with a television screen almost as wide as the wall. It was as different from the home he’d grown up in as it could have possibly been. Which, I supposed, was the point.
We stored the basket in the kitchen after deciding we’d have our picnic on the dock later, and followed Gibbes down toward the water, where a very decrepit-looking flat-bottomed boat waited.
“Is it safe?” I asked, eyeing it dubiously.