The man on the overpass bridge near my house tells me he won’t jump.
He’s been there two hours now, I whisper to the 911-operator, my palms so sweaty I almost drop my phone. Pacing the same ten feet. Dark pants. Some kinda long loose overcoat.
The man on the overpass bridge grips the rail. Looks down. I inch closer, as if to admire the tops of the shivering willows beckoning me down to the river. Wind gusts up from the abyss to taunt my hair.
Maybe just a wellness check from your nearest officer? I ask the operator.
When I was seven I taught my sisters to fly. They stood on the thick, white wall that separated our garden from the city streets. I counted down from three. Tossed silver glitter into the air, yelling, Jump into the fairy dust!
Gillian, the oldest, jumped first, landing hard on her side, rolling under our mulberry tree. She clutched her ribs, groaning. Startling the Lourie birds into their call, Go Away, Go Away. It was the time of year dark red mulberries lay plump and juicy on the ground, staining Gillian’s face. Streaking her tears pink.
The man on the overpass tells me he’s just trying to get a tan. Wants me to leave him alone. He pulls his black woollen hat further down around his ears. It’s Toronto’s hottest summer on record. I’m sweltering in my tank top and cut-off shorts.
We’ll send an officer, says the operator, yawning.
When my other sister, Meggy, was sure Gillian was OK, she had taken her turn. Stood on the high wall smiling down at me, arms raised out from her sides. The African sun reddening her skin. Unknown to us that day– the scent of eucalyptus heavy in the air, our parents’ laughter rising from the patio– the sun was beginning its long, deadly bite into Meggy’s cells.
Three, two, one, Meggy and I counted down together and I tossed handfuls of glitter into the air, yelling JUMP!
Meggy didn’t jump. She flew, flapping her arms and for a moment she didn’t fall. For a moment she tread air in the cloud of sparkling dust, her long hair spread out around her. After a few seconds suspended, she landed lightly on her feet, eyes wide. Gillian and I holding our breath. The birds, silent.
I dunno? Maybe he DOES just want to get a tan? I say to the 911 operator. Was I right to call?
I picture her rolling her eyes at my self-doubt like everyone seems to since Meggy died.
Oh yeah, it’s good you called, says the operator. Jumpers happens a lot these days. Can’t always get to them in time to save them.
I couldn’t save Meggy. We grew up sharing a room. Dancing to Bowie and Duran Duran. Band posters tacked to our shared walls. Singing Starman well after lights-out. Then we grew up. I moved to Canada. By the time Meggy’s skin cancer was detected we lived different lives on different continents. Would I have seen the signs before she did if I’d stayed in Africa? Convinced her to get it checked out?
The man on the overpass bridge doesn’t move as a soundless police car slides up next to us. Another car slips down a side road into the ravine. I move to the man’s side. We lean over the bridge railing. Watch the second police car grow tiny on the road below. The valley floor leers up at us. A gust of wind whips dust into our eyes, billowing the man’s overcoat around our shared stillness as we silently wonder who can be saved.
Lisa Alletson was born in South Africa and now lives in Toronto. Her stories and poems are published in Atticus Review, Bending Genres, The Cincinnati Review, Emerge Journal, Gone Lawn, New Ohio Review, Milk Candy Review, among others. Her poetry chapbook, Good Mother Lizard, won the Headlight Review chapbook contest (2022). She’s on Twitter at @LotusTongue and Facebook at @LisaAlletson. You can find links to her published writing at www.lisaalletson.com.