Enza Gandolfo - The Bridge

‘Please promise me,’ Mary pleaded, interrupting her thoughts, ‘that you won’t hurt yourself.’

Jo promised.

Cross my heart, hope to fly, stick a cupcake in my eye. Ash’s singsong voice in her ear. So many pinkie promises, little fingers locked together.

After Mary left, Jo went back to her room, to the list she’d made of suicide options. She longed to fall into a long deep sleep, for all the anxiety and pain to disappear. But though she might not deserve to live, she knew she wouldn’t be able to kill herself. And not just because of what it might do to her grandmother and her mother.

Jo screwed up the list and threw it in the bin. And then took it out, unscrewed it, and ripped it into tiny pieces and threw them in the bin. To live — what would that mean? Prison, first, but after that? She couldn’t keep living in her mother’s house, down the road from Ash’s family. She’d have to leave. Run away. She’d change her name. To Smith or Jones or Brown. An ordinary name. A name that no one would remember. Anna Smith. Kate Jones. Live alone in some remote place as far away as possible.

You can’t run away from me. You can’t run far enough.

Where did the missing go? People disappeared; they disappeared for a lifetime with no trace. Jo had written an essay on missing people for a school assignment in Year 9. She’d discovered that it wasn’t a crime to go missing. The police refused to spend too much time looking for adults who went missing unless there were suspicious circumstances — blood, abandoned cars, break-ins. Some people just stepped out of their lives. Sometimes without even leaving a note. More than 35,000 people a year, in fact. Some came back or were found after a couple of days. But others kept going, leaving everything behind. At the time, she’d imagined the fear of being discovered would be unbearable; a lifetime of looking over one’s shoulder. Now, she thought of the relief of being anonymous and unattached.

She didn’t think about forgiveness. She didn’t believe in God. Before Ash died, she believed the dead were dead, gone. She and Ash made fun of the religious people — Seventh-day Adventists, Jehovah’s Witnesses — who came door to door, selling God as if he was a vacuum cleaner , as Mandy would say.

‘God forgives everything. You have to be sorry and be prepared to do the penance,’ Mary often said.

What penance would make up for killing you, Ash?

Are you kidding? Penance?

Ash had big plans and all kinds of ambitions. She was going to be a renowned lawyer. She was going to fight for human rights across the globe. She was going to work for the United Nations.

Did she owe Ash a life?

Did she owe the world Ash’s life?

You owe me.

Sarah and Mandy were sitting on the back verandah, looking out at the backyard. At the tall gumtree, at red bottlebrushes in full bloom, at the kangaroo paws — orange and yellow — and the clumps of native grasses. It was a mild spring evening. The bridge, visible over the back fence, was a dark line against a pink and grey sky.

Mandy brought out two glasses and a longneck.

‘No thanks, I still have to drop the car off at the office,’ Sarah said, shaking her head at the offer of a beer.

‘Just in case you change your mind. It’s the only thing I have. I threw out all the alcohol in the house last week. A friend brought this around, homemade beer, her father makes crates of it. It’s not great, but it’s not too bad. Drinkable.’

Sarah rolled a cigarette. She’d been on her way back to the office from a meeting in Williamstown when she decided to drop in on Mandy. She was still working on developing Jo’s case and wanted to get more sense of the relationship between the two girls, and also the two families.

‘We come from different worlds,’ Mandy said when Sarah asked about Ashleigh’s family. ‘Sometimes I felt like I wasn’t good enough. Early in the girls’ friendship, Rae and Alex made lots of suggestions. About sending Jo to this class or that, but those classes — I mean, they’re for kids, but they cost a packet… But we were civil and polite to each other. We’re not friends, never socialised, but we trusted each other with the girls.’

‘What about Ashleigh and Jo?’ Sarah asked.

‘Rae and I, both of us thought they wouldn’t be friends for long. Ashleigh was at the top of the class. Jo isn’t academic. I mean, she’s fine, you know, she gets through, but I think Rae thought Jo wasn’t smart enough to be Ashleigh’s friend — not that she ever said that to me, but I could tell that’s what she thought. She would say things like, “Ashleigh helped Jo with her homework,” “Ashleigh is so quick at maths, so much better than me, my God,” “Ashleigh reads so fast.”’

‘Do you think Ashleigh used that against Jo?’

‘Jo’s not dumb.’ Mandy shrugged. ‘They’re both readers, but Ashleigh finished a book every couple of days, whereas it takes Jo weeks. But, look, Rae and Alex didn’t interfere — they’ve been good to Jo. I guess they were used to having her around: they invited Jo to all the family events, even holidays. And I invited Ashleigh to ours, but of course we don’t do as much. Got so we didn’t go anywhere without Ashleigh.’

‘Did Jo like going to Ashleigh’s house? Did she feel comfortable there?’

‘Yes, at least as far as I know.’

‘Jo said Ashleigh wanted to be a lawyer?’

‘That girl wanted to change the world…’ Mandy choked up and couldn’t finish the sentence. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It is sad.’

After Mandy composed herself, Sarah continued. ‘Mandy, have you talked to Jo about why she and Ashleigh were arguing in the car?’

‘No.’

‘Was Ashleigh ever mean to Jo?’

‘I don’t think so, no.’

‘Do you have any idea what they were fighting about?’

‘No. You’re supposed to know your kids, what’s happening in their lives, but I don’t know much about Jo’s life, not much at all. One minute you know everything there is to know about your child, and suddenly they have a separate life and the parent has no access. Most of the time I have no idea what Jo is thinking or feeling. How is it possible that I have no access to my own daughter?’ There was despair and regret in Mandy’s voice. Sarah reached out and put her hand on Mandy’s arm and they sat together in silence for several minutes.

The week after Ashleigh’s funeral had been unusually warm for spring, but suddenly the city had turned grey. Dark clouds appeared late morning, and by early evening there were storms — lightning, thunder, and heavy downpours. On the street, neighbours discussed Melbourne’s volatile weather, the predictions for a long, hot summer, and the ongoing fears that climate change was increasing the risk of bushfires. At home the conversation was minimal, reduced to the organisation of meals and Paolina’s doctor’s appointments. Most afternoons they made their way to their son’s house and sat with whoever happened to be there — Alex, Rae, Jane, Rae’s parents, neighbours, friends, extended family — in the kitchen or the front living room, keeping company. But all Antonello wanted to do was to be alone.

Some visitors spoke at length, didn’t stop speaking, told their stories about Ashleigh or avoided mentioning Ashleigh at all and instead recounted car accident after car accident, tragedy after tragedy, the horrible things that happened to other people. Alex came into the room to greet each new visitor, his face expectant, but after a few minutes, unable to sit still, he wandered off, into the garden or the garage or the shed. If Rae was in the room, she was the focus, the one they hugged, the one they wept over. Rae let them. She was an experienced school principal; she understood how to keep her emotions contained. In the gaps and silences, she talked about going back to work ( maybe tomorrow, maybe next week ) and she talked about the court case ( we need to make sure that girl pays for what she’s done ). In the bleakness, some visitors sprang at these statements, adding their own commentary: Drunk drivers should be locked up for a long time, throw away the key I reckon, they have to be taught a lesson. Those that might’ve spoken for Jo, who might’ve empathised with her, kept silent.