Enza Gandolfo - The Bridge

When she turned back towards the road, she was confronted by the barricade that had risen out of the darkness that night, the barricade that had smashed into her spinning car. There it was, the spot where metal crushed and glass shattered. Memories surfaced, and she couldn’t stop them. The loud, unbearable screams — all four of them screaming. Ash screaming. In the moment between her loss of control of the car, between the skidding and spinning and the final crash, Ash was alive, Ash was sitting next to her, alive, and Ash was screaming, her hand reaching for the steering wheel.

After the impact, silence. And then sobbing and crying, and the calling out of names. Voices and names. Ash. Mani. Laura. Jo. A round robin. Each one calling out. All except for Ash.

Jo crouched on the ground, against the rail of the boardwalk.

She heard the horns and sirens, and the voices of strangers — so many voices, are you hurt, I think she’s dead, this one is breathing, get these girls out… And now it was coming back to her, her arm reaching out for Ash, and Ash slumped onto the dashboard, a long tear of blood running from her temple, down her neck, dripping onto the floor. She reached for Ash, to catch the blood, to stop the blood. Her hand on Ash’s skin. Ash still. Ash not breathing.

‘This one is dead.’

Eyes shut tight.

Knees to chest, the feel of the rail pressing into her back.

She had reached out for Ash. All these weeks, these months, she had blocked out the image of Ash dead, of the blood, of her hand on Ash’s arm. The horror of seeing, the horror of knowing. Ash, gone.

A ship’s horn roused Jo, and she uncurled herself and stood up. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

There was no glass or metal debris in the gutter. The bent pole had been repaired. The only reminder of the accident was the small memorial to Ash: a white wooden cross, a couple of bouquets of flowers, and the faded remnants of the cards. She bent down to touch the cross. ‘Ash,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Ash. I miss you.’

When Jo turned back towards home, she saw a man walking along the path to the bridge. He had a slight limp. There was something familiar about him. And then she knew, too late: it was Ash’s grandfather. Panicked, she considered crossing the road, but he was already drawing close.

‘Hello, Jo.’ It was hard to meet his gaze. The sadness in his eyes made her shiver. She held her breath.

‘I didn’t see you until… I can go…’ She nearly said his name. Nonno Nello , that’s what she called him. She remembered him saying, ‘You can call me Antonello, or Nello if you want, or Nonno, like Ashleigh here.’ Only, he wasn’t her grandfather, he was Ash’s. What could a child call a man who was older than her own grandparents? Jo couldn’t call him Nonno Nello anymore.

‘You don’t need to go.’ There was sternness in his voice. Would he yell at her? She braced herself. She deserved it, and he was entitled to it.

Antonello stood between her and the path; she stood between him and the memorial. Overhead on the bridge, the traffic continued, immune to them — a breathy whirr, punctuated by the rattle as the heavier vehicles, trucks and semis, drove over metal strips and joins. The scaly underbelly towered over them, and Jo felt reduced, like one of the little people in fairytales about giants.

‘I come here often,’ he said. ‘I’ve been coming for years. Usually I have the place to myself.’

‘For years? Before the accident?’ Jo said.

‘Before your accident. Yes,’ Antonello said.

‘I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt Ash.’ The words came out in a rush. ‘You must hate me.’

‘Ashleigh was so beautiful. And now she’s gone, and —’

‘It’s my fault, I know it’s my fault. I’m so sorry. Please believe me.’

‘Stop. Stop, please. I don’t hate you, Jo. I’m angry and sad, but I feel sorry for you too. You must miss Ashleigh. You were so close.’

‘Rae and Alex and Jane hate me. They must.’ The words, these words, she hadn’t expected to be saying to Ash’s grandfather. She knew they hated her. Nothing else was possible, nothing but hate.

‘They’re upset and sad and it’s hard for them. We’ve lost Ashleigh.’ He sounded angry, even though he hadn’t raised his voice.

‘It’s all my fault.’ Her face was burning; she was sweating, her hands were clammy.

‘It was an accident, Jo. We’ll all have to come to terms with that — you’ll have to come to terms with that,’ Antonello said, bending down slowly to pick up a discarded milkshake cup on the edge of the path.

‘But I was drunk, and if I hadn’t been drinking… Or if I’d left the car there… It’s all my fault.’ She should stop talking. Her voice was the pleading voice of a child, whimpering. She had no right to expect him to forgive her, no right to burden him with her guilt. She stole a look at him, but he was looking at Ash’s memorial. She longed for Grandpa Tom and the strength of his arms when he had swooped her up from the floor when she was younger.

Antonello crossed the path to throw the rubbish into the bin. ‘There isn’t much point in going through what would’ve happened, if you hadn’t done this or that, because in the end it won’t make any difference. You have to find a way to live with what happened.’

‘I don’t know if I can.’ What possible life could there be? How did people put something like this behind them? Was it feasible that once she’d been punished, once she’d gone to prison, she could live again? Redemption was at the base of Mary’s religion — confess your sins, ask for forgiveness, do your penance, and then start anew. Pick yourself up , Sarah said.

‘You can.’ Antonello’s voice softened. ‘We’re stronger than we think. And if we couldn’t go on, if we couldn’t move on, when someone dies, when bad things happen, the whole world would fall apart. Every day people die, and the people that love them — not all of them, but most of them — pull themselves up by the bootstraps and keep going.’

‘But what about the people who killed them? Do we have a right to keep living?’

Antonello stretched his hand out to Jo, and she took it. His palm was cold but smooth. Not like Grandpa Tom’s hands, rough, cracked, and cut — even after all these years, even though sometimes she couldn’t call up Grandpa Tom’s face, the memory of his hands came back. Hands like sandpaper . Lines and cuts, dips and hollows. Scars, each one a story.

‘Come with me,’ Antonello said.

Jo was thin, her features sharper, than he remembered. She wasn’t beautiful, not like Ashleigh. She was a plain girl. Plain and ordinary and alive.

It snuck up on him, the desire to take her throat between his hands and wring the life out of her, the desire to slap her hard, to knock her to the ground, to shake her; to yell at the girl, to make her flinch; to scream you stupid, stupid girl ; to see her broken and bloodied. It wasn’t a sudden, all-consuming rage — it was a slow monster swelling. The impulse terrified him; he thought his propensity for such evil thoughts, for such an overwhelming desire for destruction, had gone. He closed his eyes and pushed down on the emotion.

Jo winced. He’d tightened his grip of her hand, and she was trying to pull away. He let her go. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered. He saw the terror in her face and was immediately overcome with pity, with something like love, deep and paternal. He resisted the inclination to embrace Jo. She wasn’t Ashleigh. Embracing Jo did not have the power to bring Ashleigh back to life.

Jo took several steps back, but she didn’t leave. She was the girl who had called him Nonno Nello, who he and Paolina had included on their trips with Ashleigh to the movies, shopping, to dinner. Every year they bought her a Christmas present, a chocolate rabbit at Easter, and a birthday present. Her birthday was marked on the calendar that hung above the phone in their kitchen, along with the birthdays of their children and grandchildren, their siblings and nieces and nephews. Their album included photographs of Jo with Ashleigh. The two girls laughing and scheming, having fun together. The girl in front of him was pale and tired, not much more than a child.