Drifted

Drifted

Long after I found her, she began to return to me in fragments. Not the sirens, the

police, the boat, the reporters, or the Chaplain who came by after. Only her.

Dark boots. A tiny bit of bright pink. A shape where no shape should be. Slowly

drifting past silently among the small icebergs dotting the still frozen lake. Broken slabs,

jagged and uneven, rising out of the dark water like the backs of something ancient,

carrying her along.

Your mind tries to make it into driftwood, into a trick of light, into anything else.

The details come slowly, unwillingly. Legs. A shoulder. A face. Some kind of tattoo

across her torso. Hair clinging to the surface, fanning slightly with the water’s breath.

The lake keeps its quiet, steady flow. The ice drifts. Nothing marks the moment

except that. Just a quiet, unsettling wrongness.

Maybe it’s just one of those blow-up dolls left over from a bachelor party that made its

way into the lake? Oh, please let it be. I adjust the binoculars and look again. Grabbing

my phone, I pull on boots and a raincoat and head down to the beach. It’s so

quiet, no one is out on this cold, eerie, misty morning. She has drifted. I walk down the

beach a bit, following her and the icebergs. The mist grows thicker. I dial 911.

A few minutes later a young policeman walks down the beach toward me. I hand him

my binoculars, and he looks for a long time. “It’s a body,” he says, almost to himself.

The lake is so shallow here, they just walk out in survival suits, slip a gurney under her

and bring her to shore. I walk home and pour myself a glass of wine. It’s 11:30 AM.

About an hour later, a chaplain and two grief counselors knock on my door.

I’m OK, I tell them, really. But I’m not.

After they leave, I look out to the lake. This Great Lake, the one we jokingly call The

Erie Ocean. How much could be just below, held in that cold suspension. Not just this

one body, but others. Shapes you never saw, so many shipwrecks long ago.

Later that evening the Sheriff calls. Jeanne Renee Peterson. That is her name.

Jeanne Renee Peterson.

Jumped off the Douglas MacArthur Bridge at Belle Isle three months ago.

Parked her car on the Island, walked to the middle of the bridge and jumped into the icy

Detroit River on a cold December morning. Six days before Christmas.

The Detroit police and Coast Guard had searched but never found her. Somehow, she drifted all this way, down the icy river and into the lake. Forty-six miles. The ice holding her like a frozen secret until winter lost its grip and let her go.

She was 34. Someone posted a picture. She was beautiful. Stunning. Single, with

four siblings. Left a suicide note asking to be cremated. “She was kind and generous

and loving. We just don’t understand………. please don’t judge” ……. wrote her sister.

Weeks pass, details blur, but that one moment doesn’t fade. It stays. Not sharp. Not

defined, just present. Always. Like stone stuck in mud.

I dream of her. Constantly. See her every time I gaze out to the lake. Lie in bed at

night and think about what she was carrying that morning. The pretty pink bra she

chose to wear, the warm boots. Did she lose her coat in the water, or did she walk the

bridge without it in that cold December wind? Did anyone see her? Try to talk to her?

And more agonizing – did she die from the fall or the cold? Could she swim?

I knew what I had to do. Go there. The bridge.

I chose Sunday morning. Hopefully there will be less traffic driving through Detroit, although there may be more on Belle Isle, a beautiful island city park.

The bridge looked ordinary from a distance—concrete arches against a pale sky, gulls turning in the wind, a few cars crossing. I wasn’t sure what side had parking, and as I approached there was a small but deserted lot on the city side, so I continued across the bridge to the island. Although it was a cold and windy April day, the cherry blossoms were in their glory. A few happy people taking pictures as the blossoms fell like pink snow in the cold wind. I found a place to park quite a way from the bridge, pulled on my stocking cap, wrapped my scarf around my neck and started walking to the bridge.

The MacArthur Bridge, what most people call the Belle Isle Bridge, is not soaring or dramatic up close. It is solid, classical, even elegant.

The bridge itself is a long concrete arch structure, with sidewalks running along both sides, about twelve feet wide. Every several feet, tall lamp posts topped with milky white glass globes stood along both sides, reminiscent of a fine Victorian promenade, or a bridge you might find in Paris.

I hesitate, feeling the gravity of this moment, and slowly walk toward the middle, my eyes on the concrete beneath me. I turn and place both hands on the cold metal railing, worn smooth by hands and more than a century of Detroit winters. The top of the railing is only about waist high, enough to lean against, low enough that the river still feels dangerously present. I take a deep breath and look over the edge at the dark, cold river. My heart quickens. There is about a twelve-inch ledge on the other side. Just enough room to step out on, just like in the movies. This tiny ledge, balanced between leaving and staying, is where she must have stood.

Did she think of the first person who ever told her she was beautiful,

or of the last person who made her feel invisible. Did she close her eyes?

A few people walk past me, and I wonder if they wonder why I am standing here so long in the cold wind. A few cars cross behind me as gulls cry overhead, a smell of rain in the distance, the river below, black and endless, carrying the sky. No sign that something so monumental, so irreversible ever happened here. Only the railing, smooth and ordinary beneath your hand.

This beautiful bridge, which has stood here for a century, holding back wind, weather, history and sometimes, people who come to the edge holding more than they can bear.

I turn and walk quietly, as though departing a chapel, carrying something I can’t name. I sit for a while before heading home. There are more families now, gathered around the cherry trees. Laughing, happy people, joyous as the pink blossoms fall around them.

People cross bridges.

Lakes freeze and thaw.

Days move forward.

But I remember you.