June 2002
ONE
T
he
G
eorge
W
ashington
B
ridge
had never been any-thing but strong and beautiful, its arches monumental, cablesthin and high. Kate watched them spindling like ribs past the car window as her husband drove eastbound across the span. It was atestimony to optimism, a suspension bridge, each far- fetched plate,truss, and girder an act of faith against gravity and good sense.The sun was strong, glinting off the bridge and hitting the riverlike shattered glass. Drivers traveling in both directions were shield-ing their eyes, staring as she was down the length of Manhattan. Shedidn’t know what any of them expected to see. Mushroom clouds?Skywriting in Arabic? She wished for some visible sign of drama where the towers had once stood. Then she looked toward Queens,even though it was impossible to see the site from this distance. Few people were even looking anymore, though she always would.The car reached the end of the bridge and she exhaled. Chrisglanced over and she faced the window with what she hoped lookedlike ordinary interest, damp-palmed hands loose in her lap.He angled the rearview mirror to check the backseat. The chil-dren were still asleep.“Has Dave gone back to work yet?” His voice was grave, in the way someone speaks about a bad diagnosis.
The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D. by Nichole Bernier-excerpt
Before there were blogs, there were journals. And in them we’d write as we really were, not as we wanted to appear. But there comes a day when journals outlive us. And with them, our secrets.…
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