30 Days 30 Stories, Installment 14, Over the Water

I have a fear of water. I hate it, and when it's deep and flowing, and far beneath me it's almost unbearable. Ticktock seconds ticktock by while I decide if I'm going to let myself get on the bus that goes over the bridge. But I can't live in Manhattan, and unfortunately, I have to go there from time to time - in fact, more than that. I attend my counseling there. Yes, I go to counseling, not just for the water phobia but for other things, too. But that's beside the point.

One day, I was facing the bridge. I had the bridge in my sights. I was going to conquer the bridge. This was a weekly ritual - on Thursday usually, though it varied, I would have great expectations of conquering my fear. This never happened. I was used to it, it was an old friend, this ritual and the cycle of hope, fear, hope, fight, pain, loss, and self-abnegation, then the recycle the next week. It was like a personal crucible. I was sure that once I crossed this thing, I would be done - done forever. And I would be happy. I was sure I would be absolutely content with my life, confident, sure, after I accomplished it.

It was a Wednesday. The hope had come early that week. I had thought about it on Monday, in fact. The bridge faced me, I faced the bridge - and the humiliation of being stuck out in the middle of it, stranded by my fear as capably as I could be by a boat leaving me on an island. I was rocked, as usual, with visions of bridge collapses, drownings, cars full of children trapped inside...

And then I saw the dog. It was wandering out on the footbridge, all by itself. It was definitely meandering, young and starstruck with all the sounds and sights and smells. I grew up with dogs, I loved dogs, I wanted a dog, and I knew how to read dogs pretty well. I looked at it, and it's meandering steps. What was it going to do? Go all the way across the bridge into Manhattan? What would it do from there? I could only imagine a bad end. In any case, I saw the dog begin the meandering walk across the footbridge, like a misguided flower picker, smelling here, there, everywhere. He was definitely in the bike lane. I saw the bike crest the bridge, not paying attention, ipod lodged securely in arrogant bike-messenger-like ears, eyes staring out into arrogant I-know-where-I'm-going space. The dog was low, and sniffing. The biker was going fast. I could rush out, I could grab the dog. I could. But I couldn't. The water was lapping and raging in my mind, the height of the bridge was terrifying every muscle in my body. I saw the biker hit the dog, and go catapulting off of his bike. I saw the dog hit the ground, unconscious. It had been a fast collision, and it was a small dog. The biker was lithely stirring. I turned away.

I worried this for the next few days. I worried it and worried it. I walked to the bridge, I stared at the bridge, I summed up the angles of the bridge. Was there an easier way to walk it? Could I walk it without having to actually see the water? It was impossible. Water was everywhere, it was like getting in the shower and expecting not to get wet.

It took me two weeks after that before the hope bubble crested the waters of this depression. I walked slowly out to the bridge. It was afternoon, as always - but this time I had gotten off work early. It was the hour of children getting out of school. Mothers and strollers and toddlers and small children swarmed everywhere, tall laughs of small children reaching up to excite the eardrums and frission the spine. Something is electric about babies, children - something immediate and very alive. I watched the bridge, trying to look like I was just waiting for someone. How could they all cross so nonchalantly, as if it was nothing? Didn't they feel it's power, it's terror? How could they?

And then I saw it, a small child wandering away from his mother, who was busily carrying on what looked to be a vehement argument on her cell phone. He was on one of those baby-leashes, but it was pretty long, and he was wandering into the bike lane. I saw it all again. I saw it all happen in my head. I felt the guilt. And I weighed the guilt against the fear, which I must say is probably one of the most despicable things I've ever done - but that may be because I've been pretty clean and ethical all of my life. Anyways, I weighed it and I jittered, and then, because I was absolutely certain that the mother would turn, I didn't do anything for about a minute. But he was in the bike lane, and I knew that bikes were definitely coming.

I walked onto the bridge. I walked onto the water, and I walked toward the child.

There weren't any stories about it in the newspaper, but the child didn't get run over by any bikes. And I walked over the water that day. All the way. I haven't repeated it since, but I'm hoping... one of these days. Hope bubbles now - but a little more cautiously. I might actually act on it, you see.