THE BRIDGE

The Bridge

She stood on the wooden bridge, gazing down at the water coursing through the valley. It was the kind of setting that would have made a lovely photograph in some artsy coffee-table book. She could see it in her mind’s eye, a four-page spread covering every season.

In winter, ‌ icicles would be hanging from the bridge while the wide creek would be covered with ice. The deep snow would blanket the trees lined on both sides of the water, giving the whole scene a winter wonderland effect.

In spring, the fish would start jumping, and the turtles would begin basking on the rocks beside the water.

In summer, she just knew that children from the nearby village would flock to this place to laugh and splash. The cicadas would be humming in the deep, verdant vegetation. Lush ferns would line the water’s edge.

Fall would be a glorious riot of red, orange, and gold mixed with the deep green of the coniferous trees. Tall maples and white birch would sway in the autumn winds while squirrels ran here and there in their frantic collecting for the harsh winter to come.

“Kelly!” The voice rang out from the far end of the bridge, breaking into her thoughts. “Kelly?” came the voice again, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps. She had only moments to gather her thoughts.

“Oh God, help me,” she prayed fervently. She turned towards the interloper, her reverie now interrupted.

Pasting the semblance of a smile on her face, she turned and looked around.

“Hello, can I help you?” She asked in a strong British accent. She looked up into the face of a tall, dark, and handsome man. His eyes were the colour of the evening sky, and his hair was worn long, over his collar, and blew gently in the breeze. He looked like he belonged in an ad for a men’s cologne, she thought. All he lacked was a horse to mount and ride off into the sunset.

“Kelly? It’s you, isn’t it?” he questioned. “It’s me … Gil.”

“So sorry,” she said and held out her hand. “I’m Gwenith. Are you looking for someone? I haven’t seen anyone hereabouts. It's rather a secluded spot, isn’t it? Do you live hereabouts?”

Without waiting for a response, she continued.

“This certainly is lovely countryside. I never imagined Canada could be so glorious. I’ve always wanted to visit here, and I’m absolutely chuffed to be here now. I am totally knackered from the trek up to this bridge, but the view is well worth that climb.”

“Oh, excuse me then, eh?” Gil’s brow was furrowed in confusion. “I thought you were someone I used to know a long time ago. You are the spitting image of her.”

“Do tell? Well, they do say that everyone

has a double somewhere in the world.”

“I mean, I haven’t seen her since we were in high school, and that's got to be over ten years ago, probably more. But you look just the way I thought she would look. You’re not from around here then, eh?”

“Oh, I love the way you say that. I heard that Canadians use the word eh, all the time. I hope you don’t think I’m being rude, but what exactly does it mean?”

“No, no. I don’t think it’s rude. Well, it's used loosely when you want someone to agree with you. For example, you may say … lovely weather today, eh? Other people might say … lovely weather today, right? It’s sort of like when you want a response back.”

“Interesting,” she responded.

Gil continued to stare at her intently, then questioned. “So … where exactly are you from?”

“London, born and bred. But as you can see, I'm currently holidaying in rural Ontario.”

“I can’t believe how much you look like Kelly,” Gil murmured.

“Was she a school chum or a girlfriend?”

“A girlfriend. It’s a bit of a sad tale, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, how so?”

“We were boyfriend and girlfriend from the time we were little. We were inseparable. She didn’t have a happy home life. Her parents were both drunk all the time and abusive. We spent most of our waking hours together at my house. My parents adored her and knew she had a rough life, so the door was always open to her.”

He paused for a moment and ran his hands through his hair as if he was distracted.

“We were in our last semester of school, due to graduate in a few days. We were planning on getting married shortly after graduation so she could permanently escape from her family life. The next thing we know, Kelly’s parents were murdered in their bed one night. Both were shot through the head, and Kelly was missing.

Gil sighed heavily and looked away for a moment.

“The police didn’t know if Kelly had been kidnapped or…if she was the shooter. They searched for her for ages. There were missing person flyers, billboards all points bulletins out for her. A nationwide search.”

Gil sighed again and turned to look her directly in the eye.

“The cops never found Kelly, never found the gun. Nothing. Zilch. I never saw her again. Until today, when I thought it was Kelly standing on the bridge. Here, exactly where we used to stand to look down into the ravine. The exact place where we had our first kiss. The exact spot where I asked Kelly to marry me. Look! You can still see where we carved our names in the wooden railing in the middle of the bridge.” He took his finger and traced a heart carved deep in the wood. In the heart, you could still read ‘Kelly and Gil.’

Gil looked at her, “Kelly used to say this was our trysting place. In middle school, we would often sneak out at night in secret and meet here. It was our rendezvous spot. Kelly always thought Trysting Place sounded more romantic; she loved to read. She said it was her way of escaping the realities of life.”

Gwenith cleared her throat.”Well, it’s starting to get dark now, so I should be heading back. I don’t want to be eaten by a moose, or a beaver, or a wolf.”

“I see you are up on your Canadian wildlife.”

“Yes, I did a little research before I came.”

Gil held out his hand, “Well, it was nice to meet you … Gwenith.”

She placed her hand in his. “You too, Gil. Thanks for sharing your story.”

Gil glanced down at their joined hands. Then raised their hands, still clasped, to his eyes. “That scratch on the back of your hand, that long scar … I’m sure Kelly had one right there too.”

She pulled her hand away quickly and pulled her long-sleeved sweater over the mark. “What a coincidence. Mine is from a lorry accident, you know, a truck. It messed up my left arm too.” She pulled up her sleeve, revealing a puckered mark at her elbow.

“Kelly never had a scar like that,” he said.

“I really must go now,” she blurted out, her accent was stronger now. She turned and hurried down the bridge the way she had come.

At the end of the bridge, she darted a glance back and saw him standing exactly where they had been talking. One hand on the railing. She wondered if his fingers were doing exactly what her fingers had done earlier today, when she had traced the heart and the letters that they both had carved into the railing all those years ago.