The Bridge Sitter

They call it the Suicide Bridge.

It’s not the tallest bridge in the city––not by a long shot. While the drop is still nothing to laugh at, it’s basically over a creek; it’s far outclassed by the nearest Mississippi bridge a few miles west. No, this bridge is called the Suicide Bridge because nearly twenty people have killed themselves on it, most of them being teenagers.

This bridge happens to be on the corner between my college campus and a mall outlet, running parallel right beside the nearest interstate, giving passers by a fine view of whatever’s happening up there. That’s the main reason this bridge got picked to be the Suicide Bridge: it’s the best place to make a statement. People who kill themselves like that rarely don’t want to be found; it’s usually because they feel invisible, like their problems aren’t real or that they don’t really matter.

Being new, I’d only heard the name in passing for the first time from one of my buddies. Later, I asked him about it, and he grinned and said all creepy-sounding, “It’s where lost souls go, and it’s where they stay.” like it was some cryptic prophecy. I thought it was just a joke at first, but then one of the classes I was taking included a research project on the local landmarks. I’d only recently moved there, so I thought the project would be a cool way to explore my new home territory; so, initially just to be funny, I decided to see if there was a local “suicide bridge” in town. What an awakening that was! Fifteen deaths within the span of seven years, and three of them within four months. Technically, the first one dated all the way back to the 1980s, and the next couple weren’t until over a decade later, but after a trans kid hanged themselves off it about twelve years back, it got especially popular among the emotionally vulnerable youth. I remembered seeing a pride memorial of some kind while crossing through town; through this, I discovered what it was for.

Fortunately, as I also quickly learned, there hadn’t been any suicides within the last few years. It’s also had a very strange recurring phenomenon going on for about that same length of time: early every Monday morning, from around midnight until about four or five, there have been reports of this lady who sits on the edge of the bridge and just hangs out there for a few hours. This sounded like a nifty way to boost my grade on the project, so I did some freelance sleuthing to see if anyone knew the story. Naturally, the most common rumors in circulation at the college were that some tormented soul never left the bridge, but too many people had taken photos and even a couple thermal scans, proving it was definitely a living person. Most of the people I talked to around the school had the impression it was probably a relative of one of the kids who had died there, but nobody knew for sure.

I was only three weeks into the year by now, and, as this particular project wasn’t due until the end of the semester, I didn’t have to worry about finishing it right away. But my curiosity was aroused, so I did some more investigating to see if I could find any more information. I had a lot more luck among the local cops than with other students; they were more personally familiar with this mystery woman, and a few even seemed to be on more or less friendly terms with her, but none of them could (or would) tell me more of her history. I did learn that her name was apparently “Thelma”––or maybe “Kendra,” I wasn’t too sure which. She never did anything other than sit out there on the edge of the bridge until four in the morning, then leave. No one mentioned whether or not she was homeless, which was my first assumption when I learned about her; no one knew where she lived, where she would go when she left, or anything else about her life. She just kinda seemed to show up out of nowhere, then disappear again, hence all the ghost legends. I figured the police likely knew more than they were saying, and probably wouldn’t have given me much just for privacy’s sake, if they did know anything. If I wanted to learn more about this, I reasoned, I’d have to go right to the source and go out to the bridge at midnight the next Monday. Having resolved to do this, I phoned a friend to pick my Sunday shift at the pizza place I worked at and prepared for my adventure.

Just after midnight on what was now Monday morning, I headed up to an empty gas station by the mall, parking behind a rusted-out, graffitied dumpster and walking the rest of the way. I freely admit, the walk from my car to the bridge was not comfortable at all; there were almost no working streetlights even once you got to the bridge, which meant walking what felt like a half-a-mile in total darkness. Having grown up in the country, I was more or less used to conditions with absolutely no light whatsoever, but it’s never fun. Outside of the light from my phone flashlight, I had no idea where to put my feet, and hardly any idea of where I was even going except for the lights from the highway and the one or two distant streetlights ahead that marked my destination.

As I drew nearer, I thought I could see the figure of someone sitting on the edge of the bridge, dangling their feet over the highway. Before five minutes was up, I’d reached the broken concrete of the old bridge and saw, sure enough, this lady in a windbreaker and a St. Louis Cardinals hat, sitting on the railing, humming to herself, gently swinging her legs above the tiny creek below. She looked up at my approach, but only smiled and nodded, almost as if she’d been expecting me.

“Um, hi?” I ventured, giving a small wave.

“Hello,” she greeted, then continued humming casually.

When the tension got too awkward, I broke the silence. “I’m Taylor. I just moved to this area.”

“Welcome to the ’hood,” she said, throwing me another smile, then was quiet again.

After a few more seconds, I asked, “So, what’s your name?”

“Galma,” she replied succinctly.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, feeling a little more confident now that I actually knew her name. “What are you doing out here?”

“Watching,” was her answer, offering no elaboration.

I bit my lip hesitantly. “Hm. What are you watching for?”

“I’m on lookout duty,” she clarified. “The Lord set me here a watchman, looking out for wandering souls.” She slid me a good-natured wink.

It was a little like the crazy homeless lady I’d been expecting, but it didn’t seem like the bad kind of crazy. She definitely didn’t look like a homeless lady; her clothes were clean, her nails cut short, and she didn’t smell terrible. She kinda gave off the “laundromat lady who gives you relationship advice” vibes. But I could tell there was something about her that was out of the ordinary, though not in a bad way. “What are wandering souls like?” I inquired.

“Oh, there’s lots of kinds,” she told me. “They come out here looking for something. Some are trying to find an escape from bad places, and need someone to point ’em in the right direction. Plenty just need somebody to listen to their story and remind ’em they’re still valuable. A few of ’em come here ’cause nobody else wanna deal with ’em. But every single one of ’em; that’s what I’m set here for.”

I was still a little confused, but intrigued nonetheless. “What kinds of things do they say?”

Galma peered out into the night, tilting her head slightly, as if listening for something. Finally, she said, “I think in another couple minutes or so, you’ll find out.”

Her directness took me aback somewhat. “What do you mean?”

For the first time, she turned and looked me full in the eye. “I mean,” she said firmly, “if you wanna understand, I’ll need you to do a couple things for me.” Raising an arm, she pointed to one of the broken streetlights a few yards away, embedded in its wide, concrete base. “You get down behind that, then just listen for a while. But you don’t share no private information you hear with nobody,” she added sternly. “No videos, no hashtags, no gossip, no nothing; ya hear? You can’t go telling other people’s stories.”

I was starting to feel very unnerved, but, as I was already here, I nodded, tracing an X over my heart, then did as she instructed. Crouching as low as I could behind the concrete block, I put my phone on silent and pulled the hood of my sweatshirt up, then waited for something to happen. It had been rather chilly all day, and yesterday’s rain hadn’t entirely dried. My breath misted in the air, so I breathed very slowly and tried not to sit in a puddle as I scooted around to get into a more comfortable position. In a few seconds, I made myself go perfectly still, listening for any sound above Galma’s humming and the occasional cars driving by on the interstate.

After a few minutes, a new sound reached my ear: the shuffling of plodding footsteps, heavy but determined, and steadily approaching. When they were close enough that I knew they were on the bridge, I risked taking a peek around the edge of the streetlight for a better look. From the yellow glare from the highway, I could tell it was definitely a man’s form; tall, either short hair or thinning, and wearing a long coat. I guess he just didn’t see Galma right away––that, or he wasn’t really paying attention. I saw him standing at the edge of the bridge, looking out over the highway for several seconds. He took a few deep, slow breaths, then set one foot up onto the edge of the bridge. I saw that his shoes were definitely for business, and probably very expensive. For half a second, I thought I was about to watch something ugly, and wondered if I should get up to intervene; but the next moment, Galma spoke up.

“View don’t get any better from there, hon,” she called to the man. “Come on over and set down by me; not as many trees here.”

The man started, clearly not expecting anyone else to be out at this hour, nor in this place. After staring at Galma for a few heartbeats, he wearily complied, trudging over to her, seating himself, and swinging his legs over the edge of the barrier beside her. They were silent for a long time, staring out at the road. My legs were slowly going numb, but I knew that this was far too important to disrupt.

At length, Galma heaved a contented sigh. “I hear tall places are good for clearing your head—helps some people relax.”

“Sounds about right,” said a dull, masculine voice.

“Feels good to take some time to rest on a long journey,” Galma continued. “Road ain’t going nowhere; it’ll be there, however long it takes to get to our destination. Life is a journey, after all.”

I heard the man sigh. “When will it end?” he mumbled.

“Depends on your destination,” Galma answered peaceably. “You wanna get somewhere real, that’s gonna take some work. It might be hard, but the more you put into the journey, the more you get out of it at the end. All depends on what you’re leaving behind you.”

The man let out a noise like a snort, but without any real gusto behind it. “A line of broken lives and burned bridges?”

“You can build more bridges,” said Galma. “And whose life can you break up but your own?”

There came a very loud sniff, followed by a very deadpan reply: “Oh, just about everyone I’ve ever known.”

“And how you think you done that?” Galma inquired.

The guy spent the next few minutes describing just about his entire life. I’m not giving names or sharing any details, mainly because I’d promised Galma I wouldn’t; hearing the details, however, shocked me to my core. All I’ll say is that this guy was basically the next thing down from a sex offender, and he’d started down that road horrifyingly early. The good part was that he recognized it for what it was and was very, very sorry; the problem was addiction that had sabotaged and dismantled his life––which, at this point, was essentially beyond repair––and finally led him here. I won’t deny the fact that, by the end of it, he’d pretty much convinced me to agree with him: killing himself would do both him and the world a major favor.

Galma let him go on without interruption, and sat in silence for a bit once he’d finished. Finally she said, “Well, sounds like you got this all worked out, how you’re a problem that you’re gonna solve for other people. Now, lemme ask you, how you think this problem’s gonna be solved for you? You think it’ll leave you better or worse off?”

This induced a wet chuckle. He paused to wipe his nose on his sleeve before answering, “Ma’am, I’m already in hell––what difference will it make either way?”

“Depends on if you’re planning to stay there,” Galma replied seriously.

“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” he retorted. “After this, the problem will be over.”

“Says who?” Galma demanded. This seemed to surprise him; he turned to face her as she continued. “You don’t know that; there ain’t a living soul who knows that. Ain’t nobody ever died and come back to tell everybody what being dead’s like. For all you know, you’ll be stuck in exactly the same place as you was, only now you’re gonna be dead on top of it. Being dead don’t change nobody.”

“What could I possibly do to change anything?” he pleaded helplessly. “I have nothing.”

“You got your eyes,” said Galma. “They’re open now. ‘Ask, and you shall receive’––you need help, you ask the Man Upstairs. Ain’t a thing He won’t do for you if you ask Him.”

This was followed by a lot of heavy sniffing, as well as a couple of undisguised sobs. At last, he asked, “If God is even real, why would He want anything to do with someone like me?”

Galma chuckled. “You’d be surprised, honey.” I heard her give the man a couple of hearty shoulder pats. “He’s forgiven worse than you, and He’ll do it again before our time’s done here. And if He ain’t real, what’s it really gonna hurt to try? Will it make you a better man to believe in Him or to not believe? And if He is real,” she added, more seriously, “what might it cost you to not believe in Him? Ain’t it better safe than sorry?”

There was another pause as he deliberated this. Then he said, “How do I live with myself now? I can’t just forgive what I’ve done, and it’s not like anyone else will.”

“The Lord has,” Galma told him. “That’s what He came here for. And He knows better than anyone that forgiveness ain’t a feeling––it’s a journey. It’s learning to live with yourself again; picking up the pieces and trying again ’till you can do it without batting an eye; spend a whole lifetime doing that for yourself and everybody you meet who wrongs you. But it’s all up to you, so ask yourself: what do you want now?”

The man took a deep breath, his breathing somehow sounding much less miserable than it had seconds ago. “I want to change. I want to do better.”

I could hear the smile in Galma’s voice as she said, “And that’s the first step to the way back, and the Lord’ll help you get the rest of the way.”

And then they prayed, right there on the edge of the bridge. By now, my hands and knees had lost all feeling, but it wasn’t a long wait. Once they finished, I heard the guy swinging himself down and then his footsteps receding. When I was certain he’d gone, I painfully lifted myself off the concrete and stared at Galma, still sitting there on the rail, gently swinging her legs and humming to herself. I’d never really thought about religion of any kind until that day, but now I thought maybe I was starting to believe in God, too.

She turned to me, and I could tell she was still smiling. “Understand my job now?”

I nodded wordlessly, still too stunned to speak.

“Go now and do likewise,” she said.

I overslept the next day and was late for one of my classes. It was a lot warmer than it had been yesterday, but it rained pretty hard for the next two days. In the end, I decided not to use the bridge for my final project. I knew whatever other subject I chose wouldn’t be nearly as good as the bridge would have been, but I didn’t want to draw too much attention to what I’d found out––not right away, and not for school––and I figured there was time enough to whip up something else once I needed it.

The first day the sun was back out, I went out to the bridge and leaned against the railing, thinking about what I’d witnessed. The highway stretched onwards on either side, running past me like a mighty river. I wondered if anyone drove by here often enough to know that, right next to the common highway everyone else used, was a crossroads, where sat one of what I hoped (and hope for still) were many guardians, keeping watch over the bridge between Life and Death, on the lookout for any wandering souls that may end up there.