It ends on a bridge.
One hundred and thirty five feet above the murky waters of the East River, a blushing bride prepares for death. It wasn’t supposed to end here, not like this: white knuckles griping a suspension cable at the precipice of a historic feat of civil engineering. An ivory wedding dress fights the wind, each successive gust attempting to turn a rain soaked bridal gown into a sail, pulling its wearer off the ledge and towards the frigid depths below. Since she was a child, Madison Whitley had pictured her wedding day in her mind, imagined every detail, planned it during recess with her expensive private-school girlfriends: orchids and roses; black ties and ivory dresses; salmon and caviar. In her dreams, the day was perfect, everything a girl could dream of, no sign of the choking taxicab exhaust, the dirty brownstone architecture of the Brooklyn Bridge, or the icy water swelling in anticipation below it. When did it all start to go so terribly wrong, when did the thread begin to unravel? All that was left to do was to let go.
She had been so happy on that unusually warm October day in Central Park. The sun was shining and her boyfriend wanted to take a stroll, a strange desire for such a busy man like Lucas Chase. Madison couldn’t hide her excitement, he was up to something, she knew it. After slipping on a tight fitting, white Prada dress and a cashmere cardigan, she stopped to fix her makeup in the hallway mirror. She had grown quite beautiful. The young girl, who wore pink ribbons in her hair, who had once shared her childhood dreams on a playground, had become a striking woman, the kind of lady a man wants to own, to make his property, to lock away in a bedroom and never let go. She wanted to be owned, she had dreamed of it since childhood, a perfect wedding with orchids and roses, veils and bouquets. Her blonde hair was curled and filled with volume that day, falling softly on her slender shoulders. Pursing her thin lips, she applied apple red lipstick before blowing herself a kiss in the mirror and grinning, her blue eyes twinkling with anticipation; today was the day, she knew it. Lucas had given it away, the way he had stammered with nervous anticipation during the brief phone conversation. She would become Mrs. Madison Chase.
The park was bustling, it was as if all of New York was out to enjoy the unseasonable sunshine; the crowd did not bother Madison, she was the star. Everything seemed to watch her that afternoon, the tourists, the trees, the squirrels and the street vendors. She was an actress on centerstage, the spotlight was shining bright, and it was time for her solo. As they crossed the Bow Bridge, hand in hand, Lucas stopped, Madison could feel that his palm was clammy, his fingers were trembling, she took a deep breath, his nerves were so endearing, she thought nievely. He turned to face his future bride, falling clumsily down to one knee: A diamond ring, a girls best friend! Yes! Absolutely, yes! she screamed with delight, her excitement scattering a gaggle of geese from the lake, fluttering skyward they went, as she smothered Lucas with kisses and wrapped her arms around him, never to let him go. On-lookers smiled, applauded, and cheered; a proposal in the park! They were a beautiful couple, strangers inferred, they are so happy, love is just so grand in the city, park-goers mused. Did Madison miss the signs then, was some dark omen missed, a foreshadowing that had somehow eluded her. Surely she should have seen it coming, she was bright after all, not just some trophy wife, confirmation lay buried in a box in her old Soho apartment, a bachelors degree from NYU, where she had studied literature, immersed herself in Woolfe and Joyce, and dreamed of meeting a husband. But that day in the park had been so perfect, like she had dreamt it as a 9-year old girl, wishing on a star hanging low above the Manhattan skyline.
How could she have known then, that it could all end on a bridge?
Madison set to work planning the wedding, a perfect day, one she had dreamed of since she was a little girl in private school. There would be hundreds of guests, a dazzling dress, cocktails and coattails, a violin quartet. The venue was essential. Somewhere regal, like the Waldorf Astoria, maybe the Empire State Building, perhaps a vineyard up the coast, no, definitely in the city. Her mother insisted on a church. A church? she had argued, They are dingy and old, not fit for my wedding, she would insist to her mother, who was unflappable and resolute in her wishes. A compromise was eventually brokered: St. Patrick’s Cathedral for the ceremony, the Waldorf Astoria for a reception, everything a girl could dream for, a perfect wedding.
The rain began falling heavier now, droplets of Manhattan precipitation soaked through her elaborate bridal gown, turning it from ceremonial pageantry to nothing more than a billowy, ivory weight. It’s supposedly good luck to have rain on a wedding day, for Madison, it will only quicken the fall. Looking back momentarily, she scans the only city she has ever known, the only place she has ever loved. Battery Park to the south, the skyscrapers of Wall Street, Soho and Chinatown, The Empire State Building, towering majestically over Midtown, and further in the distance, the trees of Central Park where she had once been so happy, so elated; a diamond ring, a girls best friend! The sun is almost finished setting on the city, its last gasps of light splay across the buildings of Manhattan casting shadows across its streets and shrouding its pedestrians in shadow. The city had always been there for her, always comforted her, never let her down. As a girl she went shopping on 5th Avenue with her mother and played on the swings at Madison Square Park with her father. As she got older, she explored the West Village, and became friends with the artists and actors of Soho and Greenich Village, during college she enjoyed the night life of the Lower East Side with Lucas. On her wedding day, she stood alone atop the one of the city’s pinnacle landmarks, a marvel of civil engineering, the Brooklyn Bridge, ready for the end. Her mothers pearl necklace encircled her neck, and her blonde hair was woven tightly in bun that framed her fragile, soft face, where sullen blue eyes surveyed her home, her city, her true love. Manhattan had never left her standing alone at an altar.
Surely there had been some sign. Her mother had always loved Lucas, which should have been all the information Madison had needed: she disagreed with her mother on almost all issues, and she had not had a boyfriend before that her mother had approved of. Lucas had that effect on most people, he had charm, he had looks, and he had money, he was compassionate and smart, funny and educated, everything a parent wants for their daughter, a man to own her, to take care of her, to hold her and never let her go. Madison’s father took a fond liking to Lucas as well, and being a daddy’s girl his approval of the relationship presented all the certainty a young woman had needed. She wanted so badly to be a bride, to have the perfect wedding, mimosa’s and buttercreame cake, fine linens and Chivari chairs, that she had ignored the signals: The tremor in Lucas’ voice that October day, the clammy hands, the trembling fingers, so unsure of himself he had seemed in Central Park. It was his self confidence that had first drawn Madison to Lucas at NYU, and this rapid departure of courage should have set off alarms in her mind. But she wanted so badly to be his, to be owned, held in his arms and never let go.
Madison grips the suspension cable tightly in her small hands, her knuckles white as she leans over the edge of the bridge, holding tightly, fighting the wind, not letting go, not yet. The murky East River waters below swath and swell, frigid water flows towards the Atlantic Ocean. A barge carrying paper product slowly trawls downstream, heading to destinations unknown. An evening bus rumbles by behind her, carrying workers whose daytime shifts have ended out of Manhattan to homes in Brooklyn, Queens, and beyond. A coward, she thinks, only I could have picked such a coward. Her mind replays the last time she saw Lucas’ face, the rehearsal dinner at The Four Seasons, it was handsome, but pale, much more so than normal. He had given her a half smile and hugged her gently, looking deeply into her blue eyes before kissing her goodnight. He must have known then what he was about to do, that he was about to break a young girls heart, about to shatter childhood dreams that had been planned since private school playgrounds. He was a coward. She would show him how brave she was, she would let go, just as he had let go of her on their wedding day.
To the south, as the last glimpse of February sun dips out of sight, the Statue of Liberty’s torch twinkles in the twilight sky. Madison admired her in a way, Lady Liberty, she was mysterious, but regal and resolute. She loved New York City, just as Madison did, watching over her home at all times, but, there was a sadness about her, a loneliness that Madison shared at that moment, standing alone on the edge of the Brooklyn Bridge. Madison had taken a ferry to Liberty Island as a girl, climbed the 354 narrow steps to the crown, where she basked in the view of Manhattan, the city where she was born, her city. From there she tried to find her school, the private school playground where she planned perfect weddings with her friends. Her father had pointed out landmarks to her, Battery Park to the west, the Empire State Building in Midtown, the Brooklyn Bridge to the east. She loved Manhattan deeply, it enveloped her, comforted her, never let her go. A gust of wind threatened to lift her from her perch on the bridge, but she clinged tighter to the suspension cable, knuckles white, not letting go, not yet. Lady Liberty didn’t need a man to own her, to hold her and never let her go, she didn’t need a perfect wedding, with candles and centerpieces, lime sorbet and champagne, she had New York. She had Manhattan.
Lucas was a coward, that was certain, and Madison was not about to let a coward get the best of her. She had New York. She had Manhattan. Carefully, she removed one hand from the suspension cable, and slipped her diamond ring off her finger. A girls best friend! she thought, as she fondled the platinum band between her finger and thumb, giving it one last look before letting go. The ring tumbled slowly down, down to the murky water of the East River, down where barges trawl the frigid waters, bringing goods to the city, down to the icy depths below the Brooklyn Bridge, where it will be lost forever, never again to be held, never to encircle another naive young girl’s finger. Madison did not see it splash, she had already hopped over the railing and hailed a cab, quite a surprise for the driver to find a soaking wet bride looking for a ride in the middle of the Brooklyn bridge.
“Waldorf Astoria,” she told the driver, “there should be some food left at the reception.”
