The Bridge
The first thing Resylia smelled when she woke up was puke.
Not the faint, respectable kind that suggested somebody had gotten a little too enthusiastic with tequila and then made a regrettable but private decision.
No.
This was industrial-strength puke.
The kind that had aspirations.
She lay perfectly still.
Maybe if she didn’t move, the smell would eventually identify itself as somebody else’s problem.
It didn’t.
She opened one eye.
Ceiling.
Not her ceiling.
She opened the other.
Definitely not her ceiling.
“Fuck.”
The man beside her groaned.
“Morning.”
Resylia turned her head.
Eww.
Of course.
She stared at him for a long moment.
His hair was sticking up on one side, his mouth was open, and one arm was flung dramatically across the pillow like he’d died in the middle of a particularly mediocre soap opera.
Resylia looked around the room.
Beer bottle.
Empty pizza box.
One of her boots.
A pair of men’s underwear hanging from the lampshade.
Her bra was wrapped around the ceiling fan.
She stared at it.
Then at Eww.
Then back at the bra.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
Eww opened one eye.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Your bra’s on the fan.”
“I can see that.”
He smiled.
“Good night, though.”
Resylia slowly looked at him.
“Do you remember last night?”
“Most of it.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“You had fun.”
“Did I?”
“You were laughing.”
“I laugh at funerals.”
“That doesn’t mean you hate funerals.”
“It actually does.”
Eww laughed.
Resylia didn’t.
Not because it wasn’t funny.
Because her head had started pounding.
She sat up.
The room tilted violently to the left.
She grabbed the mattress.
“Jesus Christ.”
“You okay?”
“No.”
She waited.
The room eventually returned to its assigned position.
Resylia looked down at herself.
She was wearing jeans, one sock and a shirt she vaguely remembered owning.
She had no idea where her other sock was.
She didn’t particularly care.
She needed her phone.
She found it underneath a pillow.
Three percent battery.
Seven missed calls.
Four text messages.
Her stomach dropped.
She opened the texts.
Elizabeth: Mom?
Then:
Elizabeth: Are you coming?
Then:
Ruth: Where are you
And finally:
Carol Ann: I love you mommy ❤️
Resylia stared at the last one.
Something inside her softened.
Carol still called her Mommy.
Not Mom.
Not Resylia.
Mommy.
She swallowed.
Typed:
I love you too baby.
She looked at it.
Deleted it.
Typed:
I love you more.
Deleted that too.
She finally sent:
I love you.
Three words.
Safe words.
Words that didn’t promise anything.
Her phone buzzed immediately.
A message from Elizabeth.
Don’t forget my dress.
Resylia closed her eyes.
Right.
The dress.
Homecoming was Friday.
Today was Wednesday.
She had promised Elizabeth a dress.
Not just any dress.
The dress.
The one Elizabeth had shown her online three weeks ago.
Black.
Expensive.
Apparently made of some magical fabric that could make a sixteen-year-old feel both beautiful and emotionally superior to everyone else at the dance.
Resylia had said they’d figure it out.
They always figured it out.
She opened her banking app.
Twenty-nine dollars and fourteen cents.
“Fuck.”
Eww rolled onto his side.
“How much you need?”
Resylia looked at him.
“For what?”
“The dress.”
She frowned.
“How do you know about the dress?”
“You talk.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Oh.”
He smiled.
“You talked about your kids for like an hour.”
Resylia looked away.
She didn’t remember that.
She wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.
Eww reached for his pants.
“Could spot you.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because every time somebody spots me money, it comes with a fucking subscription plan.”
He laughed.
“You’re dramatic.”
“I’m experienced.”
She stood.
Her knees felt unreliable.
She looked up at her bra.
It was still on the ceiling fan.
She pointed at it.
“How?”
Eww shrugged.
“Don’t remember.”
“Fantastic.”
She climbed onto the bed.
The mattress sank.
She reached.
Almost.
Missed.
Reached again.
The fan rotated one slow turn.
Her bra swung gently past her fingertips.
“Don’t.”
Eww started laughing.
“Don’t you fucking laugh.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re laughing.”
“I’m allowed.”
“You’re contributing nothing.”
“I’m emotionally supporting you.”
“You’re emotionally supporting my bra?”
“Looks like it needs me.”
Resylia grabbed a pillow and threw it at him.
He caught it.
She finally got the bra down.
She stuffed it into her hoodie pocket.
“I’m leaving.”
“You’re not staying?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I have children.”
“So?”
Resylia stopped.
She looked back at him.
“So I have children.”
It came out sharper than she’d intended.
Eww’s expression changed.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
Then he nodded.
“Okay.”
She found her other boot.
It was underneath the bed.
She put it on.
Her hair was a disaster.
She caught her reflection in the mirror.
She looked like she’d been assembled during a power outage.
She fixed what she could.
It didn’t help.
“Good enough.”
She walked out.
The morning slapped her in the face.
Cold air.
Fog over the river.
Wet pavement.
The faint smell of wood smoke and diesel.
Blackwater was still waking up.
It was one of those towns where everybody complained there was nothing to do while simultaneously knowing everyone’s business by nine in the morning.
Resylia shoved her hands into her pockets and started walking.
She needed money.
That was the whole problem.
Money for the dress.
Money for groceries.
Money for gas.
Money for the phone bill.
Money for everything.
She had worked three jobs before.
She’d worked until her feet went numb.
She’d worked through pregnancies.
She’d worked through sleep deprivation.
She’d worked while the youngest was in the NICU and learned how to function on coffee, fear and twenty-minute naps.
She could work.
That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was that every time she started climbing out, somebody seemed to find a way to kick the ladder.
Sometimes that somebody was Jean.
Sometimes it was William.
Sometimes it was the children’s father.
And sometimes, if Resylia was being painfully honest, it was her.
She crossed the bridge.
The river moved slowly beneath her.
She was halfway across when her stomach made a noise.
Resylia stopped.
“No.”
Another noise.
She closed her eyes.
“Absolutely not.”
Her body disagreed.
She grabbed the railing.
“Oh, fuck.”
She leaned over.
And vomited.
Directly onto the Amtrak.
There was a long, beautiful silence.
The train continued beneath her.
Resylia remained bent over the railing.
She wiped her mouth.
Looked down.
The train was already moving away.
“Don’t fucking judge me.”
A horn blasted.
Resylia flipped it off.
“You’re late.”
She stood.
Then she heard laughter.
Not train laughter.
People laughter.
She turned.
A school bus was coming across the bridge.
Yellow.
Huge.
Packed with children.
Every window was filled with faces.
Resylia stared.
The bus slowed.
She stared harder.
Then she saw her.
Elizabeth.
Sixteen.
Black eyeliner.
Dark hair.
Expressionless face.
The girl she’d once called her shadow.
The girl who used to sit on the bathroom counter while Resylia did her hair.
The girl who once told her mother that if they ever got stranded on an island together, they’d survive because Mom could make dinner out of “literally anything.”
Elizabeth stared through the glass.
Her face went white.
Resylia lifted one hand.
She waved.
It was possibly the worst wave in human history.
Elizabeth didn’t wave back.
The bus rolled away.
Resylia stood there.
Then she looked at the river.
Then at the sky.
Then back toward the road.
“Okay.”
Her phone buzzed.
She looked down.
A notification.
Someone had tagged her in a video.
Resylia opened it.
There she was.
Vomiting off the bridge.
The train horn.
The school bus.
The whole humiliating spectacle.
The caption:
BLACKWATER MOM OF THE YEAR 😂💀
Resylia stared.
The view count climbed.
Thirty-seven.
Eighty-two.
One hundred and twenty.
“People need hobbies.”
Another comment appeared.
Isn’t that Elizabeth’s mom?
Another:
Those kids have been through enough.
Another:
Jean has been raising them anyway.
Resylia stopped breathing.
Jean.
She scrolled.
There it was.
Jean had commented.
Please don’t judge someone you don’t know. Our family is handling this privately.
Resylia read it twice.
Then laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because Jean had always been good at that.
Making a knife sound like concern.
Resylia typed:
Fuck you.
She deleted it.
Typed:
Thank you for your concern.
Deleted that too.
Finally she locked her phone.
“Not today.”
She walked home.
Her trailer sat at the edge of Blackwater behind a row of other trailers, each one decorated according to the owner’s individual philosophy of poverty.
Hers had two flowerpots on the steps.
One was alive.
The other was mostly decorative dirt.
She unlocked the door.
Silence.
She looked around.
Carol Ann’s backpack was on the couch.
Resylia stopped.
She picked it up.
A tiny unicorn keychain hung from the zipper.
Carol had wanted it for Christmas.
Resylia had bought it at a dollar store.
Carol had cried when she opened it.
Not because it was cheap.
Because it was exactly what she’d asked for.
Resylia smiled.
Then her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She answered.
“Hello?”
“This is the clerk’s office.”
Resylia’s smile disappeared.
“Okay.”
“We need to confirm that you’ve received the emergency custody petition.”
Resylia stared at the wall.
“The what?”
There was a pause.
“The emergency custody petition.”
“No.”
“It was delivered to your registered address.”
“I haven’t gotten anything.”
Resylia looked toward the door.
An envelope sat on the floor.
She hadn’t noticed it.
Her stomach dropped.
“Wait.”
She picked it up.
Her name was printed across the front.
Her hands started shaking.
She opened it.
The clerk was still speaking.
“Mrs. Anderson?”
“I’m here.”
“There is a hearing scheduled for Friday morning.”
Friday.
The same day as homecoming.
Resylia stared at the paperwork.
Temporary custody.
Substance abuse.
Unsafe environment.
Best interests of the children.
Words designed to turn an entire human being into a paragraph.
She flipped the page.
The petitioner was listed.
Jean.
Of course.
“Who filed this?”
“Your documents should identify the petitioner.”
“I know who it is.”
Her voice cracked.
The clerk softened slightly.
“Do you understand the hearing date?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be appearing?”
Resylia looked around the trailer.
At Carol’s backpack.
At the empty coffee maker.
At the twenty-nine dollars in her bank account.
At her phone.
At the video that was probably halfway through the town’s Facebook feed by now.
“Yes.”
She ended the call.
She stood there.
Completely still.
Then she looked at the paperwork again.
Jean had included the video.
Of course she had.
Resylia opened the attachment.
There she was.
Vomiting off the bridge.
Timestamped.
Clear.
Humiliating.
Evidence.
She stared at the screen.
Then her phone buzzed.
Elizabeth.
Why do you keep doing this to us?
Resylia sat down.
She typed:
I’m sorry.
Deleted it.
Typed:
I’m trying.
Deleted it.
Typed:
I love you.
Deleted that too.
She finally wrote:
I’m sorry you’re hurting. I love you.
She sent it.
No response.
Resylia looked at the custody papers.
Then at the clock.
Then at her bank account.
Twenty-nine dollars.
She laughed.
“Great.”
She rubbed her face.
“Just fucking great.”
Her stomach growled.
She looked toward the kitchen.
Opened the refrigerator.
Half a bottle of creamer.
Mustard.
Pickles.
Something that had achieved sentience.
She shut it.
“Nope.”
She grabbed her keys.
She had a dress to buy.
A court hearing to survive.
A daughter who hated her.
A daughter who was angry with her.
A daughter who still called her Mommy.
And exactly twenty-nine dollars.
She opened the door.
Then stopped.
She looked down.
She was still wearing one sock.
Resylia stared at it.
“Fuck my life.”
She walked out anyway.
Because that was the thing about Resylia.
She had survived worse mornings.
Not better ones.
Just worse.
And somewhere between the bridge, the court papers, the missing coffee and the homecoming dress, a very bad idea was beginning to form.
The kind of idea that starts with:
I just need a little money.
And ends with:
Well, technically, nobody said I couldn’t.
