The End of Our Story

“And the other thing is, I just keep thinking about how unfair this is. No matter what, he’ll have to walk around with this for the rest . . . of his life.” My lungs crumple at the thought. “And I don’t blame him for that. I blame Wilson.” I want to punch something. Shatter something. Ruin something, but too much is ruined already. I close my eyes, only for a second, and I see Wil bringing the golf club down. I force my eyes open at the moment of impact. Launch out of the chair and pace next to the window. Beyond the blinds is a parking lot. I wonder if there are ocean views on higher floors. I’ll tell someone: She should have an ocean view.

“I came here so you could tell me the right thing to do, and you can’t tell me the right thing to do. I don’t even know what you’d say.” I screw my eyes shut again, and I listen hard. But there is nothing, only the sound of my own breath and a nurse’s laughter outside.

“He didn’t have a choice,” I whisper. “He had to. And if I tell, it will ruin him.”

There’s a light knock on the door, and I jump.

A young nurse pokes her head in. She’s holding a clipboard. “Hi there. You the granddaughter?”

I nod. “No,” I say. “Just a friend.”

She pauses. “Well, whoever you are, I need to check on her. Mind stepping out for just a moment?”

“Okay.” I squeeze Minna’s hand and give her a kiss on the cheek. Her skin is papery, thin and dry. “Do you know if she’s gonna be okay?”

She purses her lips in an apologetic smile. “If you’re not family—”

“Got it.” I don’t look at her as I slide out of the room. I drop into one of the chairs outside the door and lean back. Close my eyes. I could sleep right here. Wait for her to wake up. I don’t want to be anywhere else. I don’t want to go home.

I feel someone close, too close, and I open my eyes.

“You must be Bridget?” The woman in front of me is not what I expected. Maybe I expected a miniature Minna: long, flowing goddess hair and a caftan. Just younger. Instead, she is short. Athletic. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, shot through with streaks of gray. She’s wearing yoga pants with a stain on the thigh and an oversized sweatshirt. I imagine her getting a call in the middle of the night. Pulling whatever clothes she could find from the floor.

“Oh,” I say. “Yeah.” I stand up, because it feels like I should stand up.

“Virginia,” she says. She is not friendly but not unfriendly. “And this is my daughter, Elizabeth.”

A girl about my age steps out from behind her mother. She is staring at the floor.

“Hey,” she says, without looking up.

“Hey,” I say.

We stand there for a while, not looking at one another, exactly, strangers with a strange thing in common.

“Is she—did the doctors tell you anything?” I ask.

She rubs her eyes. “They’re optimistic,” she says slowly. “But she’s older, you know, so these things are harder to . . .” She doesn’t finish her sentence.

“Okay, well,” I say. “That’s good.”

“Yes.” Virginia nods.

I don’t know what else to say. I thought maybe we would hug or cry together, or I’d tell her stories about Minna that she’d been dying to know for years. But she doesn’t ask and I’ve learned not to tell.

“If you, ah, need to get out of here and want some good comfort food, Nina’s Diner is good,” I tell them. “I could bring you takeout, if you want.”

“That’s kind,” Virginia says. “But we’ll be all right.”

I nod. “Yeah. Okay. Well . . . Would you call me or text or something when she wakes up?” She doesn’t say no, so I give her my number and the granddaughter enters it into her mother’s cell. I want to ask Virginia if Minna got my letter, if she read it, if we are okay now. Instead, I say an awkward good-bye and take the elevator down to the lobby.

When I pull into my driveway, a familiar outline is sitting on my steps. Henney looks deflated; on the verge of total collapse. Her skin is a pale gray. Her dark hair is pulled in a tight knot at the nape of her neck. Silver strands flutter around her temples. I feel a sharp, hot jolt of fear settle into my gut.

“Hi,” I say carefully as I lock the truck. I linger in the yard, not too close. “What’s going on, Henney? Can I help you with something?”

“He told you. I know he told you.” She tries to stand up and falters. I rush to the steps and help her to standing. She’s wearing a HINES T-shirt. The familiar letters swim in front of me.

“He shouldn’t have told you, but he did.” She leans into me, the way a child leans into her mother. I steady myself against her weight. “He loves you too much to keep anything from you, even something like this.”

“I love him, too,” I say carefully.

“I know you do.” She looks up at me. Her eyes are wet. “I know you love him. I know you don’t want to end his life, Bridget. Bridge.” She peers into my eyes. “And if you report him—if you say anything to anyone—”

“That’s not fair,” I say. I pull away. “Don’t.”

“It isn’t,” she says forcefully. “None of this is fair. It isn’t fair that I married a man who hit me, and it isn’t fair Wil’s father tried to kill him. It isn’t fair. But I’m asking. Because I’d be dead now if it wasn’t for that boy.”

“I know.” I take a step back. “I just—”

“Think about it,” she says. Her mouth hardens into a thin line. “Think about what this would do to him. You would end him. I made a promise to him that I would protect his future, Bridge. And I’ll do everything I can to keep that promise.”

I’m silent. There is nothing left to say. After a while, Henney leaves me there, standing in the yard. Holding Wil’s future heavy in my trembling hands.





BRIDGE


Summer, Senior Year


I would dream about us . . . if I could sleep. I would dive down deep to the bottom of me and scoop up the earliest memories, the very best seconds of us, and string them together like saltwater pearls and we would go on for years. Maybe when I woke up, I would know what to do. I would know whether those memories are enough to hold us up. Push us forward. Instead, I’m lost, treading water. I can’t find land.

We haven’t spoken in days. Just one text from him.

I’ll wait for you to call. I fancy you, no matter what.

I’ve read it a million times, because I miss him. On the morning of graduation, tucked under my stale sheets, waiting for the light, I read it again.

I’ll wait for you to call. I fancy you, no matter what.

I type a quick response and press SEND before I can yank it back.

I fancy you. Pick me up at 8.

I sit up in bed and power off my phone. My skull is stuffed with sparking wires. My eyes are dry and my heart beats faster than it should. I love him. I know that. But it’s all that I know, and I’m not sure it’s enough. Downstairs, Mom and Micah are whispering too loudly, dropping pans, spilling orange juice. I smell burning butter and coffee. I throw on my robe and slip into the bathroom. I can’t make the shower hot enough. I fill the bathroom with steam, and it opens me up. I let myself cry under the spray, and I feel closer to him.

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