BECAUSE I CRAWLED UP THE far side, I need to cross the bridge. Although I don’t believe the search-and-rescue people will find me, it would be stupid not to head their way. The helicopter, the sound of the dogs, all of that pulls me down the road. Not only that, but my best guess is that the town I saw from the mansion is in the same direction. It’s hard to say, after getting lost, but my gut says the town, the search and rescue, all of it is on the other side of the bridge.
Walking across the bridge is eerie. The river is far below me, but the fog hides any clue of just how high up I am. If anything, the fog is even thicker up here. There’s not a lot to see, but what can be seen looks old. The pavement is cracked; the guardrail is rusted. This isn’t a big freeway with a bunch of lanes and fresh asphalt. It’s an old two-lane country highway. But beggars can’t be choosers. It’s a road. It’s paved. It’s going somewhere, and at some point someone will drive past. I’m so close to saved I already know what it feels like.
Finding the road must have given me a boost of adrenaline. Or maybe it was optimism. Whatever it was, it’s gone again. The parts of me that are wet have turned to ice. My feet hurt. My shoulders hurt. The only thing I have in all the world is the white line in front of me. I follow it like a drunk taking a field sobriety test.
I wish I had the moon to talk to. Of course, the moon still hangs in the sky, far beyond the fog, but that’s not good enough. I need to see him to talk to him. At this point I’d settle for being able to see some trees, or even the far side of the road.
How long I walk before I hear an engine, I don’t know. But it’s like hearing angels sing. The car is far away, giving me a chance to prepare myself. I can’t screw this up. I can’t.
A new wrinkle presents itself. With this fog they won’t see me until they’re on top of me. I stand close to the yellow line. Walking on the shoulder of the road might say “I’m minding my own business.” Standing in the middle of the road says “I’m in trouble.” I slip off my coat, both because my white T-shirt underneath will show up better and so I can flag them down with the jacket.
All I can see are headlights in the mist. I start waving the jacket, just in case they already see me. I want to wave the jacket hard, above my head, but my damn arms won’t do it. I have to settle for a strange matador-type motion.
The headlights are close now. This is it.
I flap the jacket harder, as hard as I can.
I edge as close to the yellow line as I dare.
Here it comes.
“Help!” I don’t know if they can hear me, but I scream anyway. “Help!”
In less than a second the car takes shape out of the mist. It is new and black, with four doors. It swerves to avoid me even as it smacks me with the blare of its horn. It accelerates away, its red taillights looking angry in the night. Then it is gone. Altogether gone.
“Idiot!” I want to throw something at it. “You idiot! What do you think? You think I want to be here? You think this is fun? You think I’m crazy?” I pause. “Well, you’d be right on that last point.” There is the tiniest bit of humor that comes out of saying that, but that glimpse of normalcy only makes everything worse. There is nothing normal here, nothing funny. Nothing good.
For a while there’s nothing I can do but stand in the middle of the road, because going forward hurts too much. Going forward means continuing to try, when trying is so hard. The world is filled with idiots and assholes and monsters. Where are the guardian angels? Where are the decent people? Where are the people with sense? Where have they all disappeared to? Why try, when no one will help me? No one will ever help me. I am alone.
I return to my long walk to nowhere.
No. Not alone. My family and friends care. More than care. They love me. People are searching for me. I lost hold of these facts once, and I can’t afford to do it again. It’s important to hold on to this. My family and friends love me. People are searching for me. These things are real. I cannot see them, but I must believe they’re real.
I stick to the yellow line. Might as well stay in the center. It would take energy to move over to the side. The one good thing about the silence is that no cars are going to sneak up on me.
As I walk, I try to force myself to remember the faces of loved ones, envision rescue teams searching for me. It even occurs to me the idiot driver might call 911 to say there’s a crazy person bothering cars out in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe they were shocked by the sight of me and only later realized I was in trouble.
So far the highway has sloped gently downhill. It didn’t dawn on me that I should be grateful for that until the slope switches dramatically. Now, as I climb steadily uphill, everything becomes harder. No energy for positive thoughts. No energy for anything but putting one foot in front of the other.