Push(65)

David tells me it is difficult for him to believe that Thomas is still watching me when he doesn’t see him. Ever. He looks for Thomas, he says. All the time. But he never sees him. I tell him that there are a lot of people who believe in ghosts and aliens—and God, for that matter—even though they have never seen them. Just because he doesn’t see Thomas doesn’t make me a liar.
I am mad. So mad. How can he make Thomas stop when he doesn’t even believe he’s there in the first place? When I ask him that exact question, my voice is full of sarcasm and attitude.
David swipes a hand across the back of his neck, as if he is rubbing out a kink in one of his muscles. “By making him believe that there is no more you.”
I don’t understand.
David asks me if I think Thomas is watching us right now. It is a baited question, and I’m not sure what he wants me to say. Does he want the truth? Or does he want me to lie? As I consider my answer, I look down toward the end of the bridge. There is a man standing there, looking out over the water and talking on a cell phone. He’s the only person around who isn’t zipping past in a car. And I know that it is Thomas. I don’t look at David when I say yes.
David sighs. He grabs my hand again and tells me that if Thomas is watching us right now, he will see us jump off this bridge together, and he will think that I am gone. That we are gone. Then he’ll leave me alone. He won’t come back. David promises me. He promises me that Thomas will leave...me...alone. That it will be over. He promises. And I believe him. I believe him because he has never broken a promise to me before. Ever.
David knows that I cannot swim. I once refused to go boating with him at Lake Pontchartrain because of it, and he thought it was odd that I never learned.
He must see my trepidation, because a second later, he is calming my unspoken fears with talk of how we will jump together. He says that once we hit the water, he will pull me back up and drag me to the shore. I don’t have to swim. I only have to hold my breath. I can do that, I tell him. I can hold my breath.
I tell David that, yes, I will do this because I think he is right. I think this will work. I wrap my arms around David’s neck and he wraps his arms around my waist and I say thank you to him. I say thank you for making this better. For fixing this. He lets go of my waist and looks at me. He is only holding my hand now, and he tells me that on the count of three we will jump together. I know that Thomas is watching us now, and I am excited. I am thrilled that he will see us. For the first time ever, I am happy that he is here.
David counts. But when he says three, instead of jumping, he whips his hand out of mine and steps back away from the edge of the bridge. I snap my head around to David and ask him what the hell just happened. He is smiling at me. A big smile. A look of excited contentment flashes on to his face. He looks so strong. So sure. So very controlled. I know now that he isn’t going to jump. He never intended to jump.
My feet are still at the edge of the bridge. Frozen. When I turn my eyes toward the end of the bridge to look for Thomas, I see that he is gone. That no one is there. We are alone, David and I. I look down over my toes. At the water beneath the bridge. Someone is in the water. Thomas is in the water. Thomas is waiting for me. I begin to think that maybe this is how it should be. Maybe David is right. Maybe this is the way to make it better. Maybe I should just jump. Maybe I should be with Thomas.
Before I can lift my feet up off the bridge, David’s hands are on me, his palms pressing into my spine and his fingers splayed out, the tips curving slightly around my waist. And then they push me forward. They push me toward Thomas. To where I know I am supposed to be.


chapter Twenty-Nine

Emma—Present Day

I take the letter and the piece of newspaper into my apartment and sit down on the sofa to read it. David lingers nearby for a while, then disappears into the kitchen. The article, dated from this past Thursday, describes how international businessman Michael Groff was attacked the previous day, during daylight hours, by an unknown assailant. He was beaten with a baseball bat and left for dead. Complicating the attack is the fact that apparently Michael’s business, which is among the world’s top three international lumber dealers, has been implicated in the unlawful harvest and importation of exotic hardwoods, and he is awaiting trial. TruTimber Imports buys and sells wood—teak, African mahogany, macassar, East Indian rosewood, bubinga—and after a thorough undercover investigation of their international harvesting practices and import permitting procedures, the U.S. Department of Agriculture is pursuing charges against the company for various illegal actions.
The attack on Michael took place in a parking garage, and there are no known witnesses. Police are unsure as to whether the attack is related to the criminal charges pending against him.
Damn. I stand up and walk into the kitchen. David is by the sink, looking lost. I hand the letter to him. He reads it and looks up at me in question. Then I pass him the newspaper article. He leans his back against the counter, crosses his ankles and reads the article from beginning to end. When he finishes, he puts both papers down on the counter and sighs.
“Wow,” he says softly. “That’s insane.”
“I know. I can’t believe it.” My head is churning. I’m not quite sure how I am supposed to feel about this. Should I be sad? He was my mother’s husband after all, my stepfather.
Fuck that. Fuck the way I am supposed to feel. Fuck him. I feel glad, that’s how I feel.
“I’m glad,” I say out loud. David’s brow raises and his mouth opens, but he doesn’t say anything. “I’m relieved,” I add. “I hope the f*cker dies a rotten death. Shit, let’s be honest, I’d like to shake the hand of the man that swung the bat.” My hand flies up to my mouth and covers it as soon as the words come out. As if I am holding in all the other things that want to come out. All the other words I’d like to say about Michael. And then I start to laugh hysterically. Belly-cramping, side-splitting laughter spills out of me until tears are rolling out of my eyes.