Prologue
Eddie rode the 28-19th Avenue bus to the
bridge. He carried with
him enough change for a one-way fare. He had no
identification.
It wouldn’t matter if his death was properly recorded.
Nobody would
care about it, anyway. Through the wispy morning fog he
strolled
upon the walkway that linked San Francisco with Marin
County. The
bridge had opened to foot traffic two hours prior, and few
pedestrians
were out. The thruway, however, was a logjam of cars. He
spent a
few minutes watching the commuters as they went about their
morning rituals—sipping coffee, talking on their cell
phones, or fiddling
with their radios. He burned their images into his mind and
savored
the voyeurism with the passion a dying man gives his last
meal.
He walked to his spot. He knew it well. It was at the
109th light
pole. He would face east, toward the city. Few jumped west,
as most
everyone wanted their final view to be something beautiful,
like the
elegant curves and hilly rise of the San Francisco skyline.
The fall, he knew, would last no more than four
seconds. It was
265 feet down from where he would jump, gravity pulling him
down
at over seventy-five miles per hour. The water below would
be as forgiving
as cement. Perhaps a nanosecond of pain, then nothing. He
always
found it calming to know details. He was all about facts
and
logic. It was what made him a world-class software
engineer. In
preparation for the jump he had studied the stories of many
of those
who had gone before him. He had hundreds of sad tales to
choose
from. The stories were now his own. He would soon be part of
the
legacy of death that had been the Golden Gate Bridge since
1937,
when WWI vet Harold Wobber said to a stranger, “This is as
far as I
go”—and then jumped.
At his mark, Eddie hoisted himself over the four-foot
security barrier
and lowered his body onto a wide beam he knew from research
was called “the chord.” There he paused and stared out at
the
seabirds catching drafts of warming air off the cool, choppy
waters
below and took stock of what little life he had left.
Lifting his feet
ever so slightly, until he was standing on his toes, Eddie
began to
push against the rail to hoist himself up and over the
chord.
He closed his eyes tightly. Thirty-two years of his
life darted past
his mind’s eye, so vivid that they felt real—vignettes
played in rapid
succession.
The pony ride at his fifth birthday party. Weeping
beside the
graves of his parents. Seven years old, still in shock,
sitting at the trial
next to the sheriff who had apprehended the drunk driver.
The orphanage,
then the endless chain of foster homes. Studying, alone in
his room, so much reading. Then college. His graduation.
How he
wished his parents had been there to see him. The business.
A startup.
The energy and hours. The first sale. The euphoria was
fleeting;
the sting from his partner’s betrayal would never subside.
He took a deep breath and lifted himself even higher.
A part of
him, the most secret and hidden part, was awash in a
terrible, heavy
sadness. It was overwhelmingly disappointing to him that he
hadn’t
had the courage to do what needed to be done. It would be
his dying
regret.
With an assuredness that seemed born of much
practice, he
pushed himself up and over the thin railing that ran the
length of the
chord. The moment his feet left the bridge, Eddie regretted
the
jump. He hovered for an instant in midair, as though he were
suspended
above the water by strings. The depth seemed infinite. Sun
glinted off the rippling water, shining like thousands of
tiny daggers.
His eyes widened in horror. Was there still time to turn
around and
grab hold? He twisted his body hard to the right. And then
he fell.
The acceleration took Eddie’s breath away. The pit of
his stomach
knotted with a sickening combination of gravity and fear.
His light
wind jacket flapped with the whipping sound of a sail
catching a new
breeze. The instinct for self-preservation was as powerful
as it was futile.
His eyes closed, unwilling to bear witness to his death.
Pitching forward, his arms flailed above his head,
clawing for
something to grab. His legs pumped against the air. Two
seconds
into the fall. Two more to go. He could no longer see color,
shapes,
light, or shadow. Mother, please forgive me, he thought. A
barge he
had seen in the distance before the jump faded from view.
The sun
vanished, casting everything around him into blackness. He
could
hear his own terrified scream, and nothing else. Time
passed.
Two . . . then ...one ...
His body tensed as he hit, his feet connecting first,
then his backside,
and last his head. The agony was greater than he had
imagined
it could be. The sounds of his bones cracking reverberated
in his
ears. He felt his organs loosen and shift about as though
they had
been ripped from the cartilage that held them in place. Pain
exploded
through him.
For a moment he had never felt more alive.
Water shot up his nose, cold and numbing. He gagged
on it as it
filled his throat. A violent cough to expel the seawater set
off more
jolts of agony from his broken ribs.
Facedown, he lay motionless as he began to sink. From
the blackness
below something glowed brightly, shimmering in the abyss.
He
couldn’t see it clearly but wanted to swim to it. It rose to
meet him.
It was his parents. They smiled up at him, beaming with
ghostly
white eyes and beckoning for him to join them.