Among the Missing aka Across the Bridge

But I have no choice, I said to myself, as if the family at their picnic were challenging me. I have to stay married to him. He is all I have.

After that I stopped only in deserted places. I would turn the car onto shoulders choked with scrubby thickets of undergrowth and into roadsides filled with sagging piles of gravel and sand heaped there for highway repairs. I parked and wandered for a while in the rubble-strewn forecourt of a boarded-up and derelict service station until from an outbuilding came a hissing, spiteful-looking cat and two scraggy kittens.

Still some way before Inverness, I felt sick again and pulled over. I got out of the car to feel the rain on my face and breathe in its cold-water scent; there on the roadside, at the top of a bank of fields sloping down to the river, the air was mixed with a sharp, shelly, salt wind blowing in from the coast. Below me, the estuary flowed along, white-flecked and bright under a sudden patch of clear sky. To the east about a mile downriver, a bridge arched across from the city to the north shore, black and permanent against the smoky, distant blues and grays of the horizon where water and sky melded at the start of open sea.

The nausea passed, and to stop myself thinking about the baby, I unfolded the road atlas over the trunk of the car and began to trace the contours and place names dotted along the route I had followed, incredulous that the mountains and swaths of forest, the concrete and steel bridge and the river running beneath it could have transmuted from the actual, touchable, physical vastnesses before me into printed lines and shapes on a map. I stared at the page now softening under spattering drops of rain and felt, strangely, that it should have been the other way round, that really their first existence must have been as scribbles and marks in ink on paper, and only then, abstracted and set down, had the land risen up and taken form out of nothing more than the idea of itself, to amass and flow and come alive with air and light, and sprout crops and trees and bridges, and teem with creatures. And I longed to apply the same sense of impossibility to the surely still notional little lump of ectoplasm generating inside my body; if I disallowed any connection between that act of cellular multiplication and a real baby, maybe it wouldn’t become one, a terrifying, wondrous, real one. Maybe an abortion wouldn’t be necessary, maybe I wouldn’t have to make a decision at all. Maybe by the simple force of its mother’s incredulity, a putative human being could be so belittled and denied as to be fatally discouraged from coming into existence. Suddenly I was filled with horror that this might be so.

I folded the map up and got back in the car. I waited for a while, observing time flickering along by the numbers on the dashboard clock and wondering how long I could stay like this, enclosed and contained, halted. I wanted to arrest any further forward momentum in time or space; although stranded on the edge of a road with traffic thundering by and looking down on a river flowing fast and deep toward the sea, I was, however improbably, in the only place of safety and stillness I had. As long as I remained there, I could put off my next move, which, whenever it came and wherever it led, would take me nearer to my decision, whatever that was to be. For the future must have its location; if I refused it that, if I just didn’t turn the key in the ignition and go forward, if with every thought and breath I reduced the baby inside me to less than baby, to mereness, to nothing, perhaps I could will it not to be. I wanted its end to be painless and unknowing and without violence, and afterward I wanted to be left quiet and unnoticed. I wanted to be left alone to carry on living as before. How could it be that I would afterward suffer the loss of something I had never quite had?

But I gazed at the bridge and saw in the span of it over the water an inevitability, as if the points on each opposing bank had cried out to be joined, as if the flow of the river beneath the bridge depended upon each side’s throwing out its great black steel arch to connect across it. Events must reach forward to meet their consequences, consequences must throw backward in time bridges linking themselves to causes; where else is the meaning of all the things that happen in the world to come from, if not from connection with what happened before and what will happen next? How unbearable otherwise, if human activity were no more than a succession of haphazard little incidents exploding at random all the time over the planet, arising from and leading to nothing. The commission of even a single action surely sets in motion somewhere a yearning, distant and reluctant maybe, for its outcome eventually to have a point. However oblique or delusory the link with past or future, the connection must be attempted, for one thing must be seen to lead from or to another; we prefer a rickety and unreliable bridge between events, if that is all we can have, to none at all. I started the engine and drove on. Even after all that has happened, I do not believe anyone can behold a bridge and not feel a compulsion to find out what lies on the other side of it.

Yet I would not go across. I parked at a service station a short distance farther on, just before a large roundabout where one road led off left to the bridge approach and another went straight on toward the outer edge of Inverness. I went into the cafe and sat there for a long time under the swimmy canned music, sipping water, pushing my finger into a little mound of crumbs on my opened biscuit wrapper and pressing them onto my tongue. It was quiet, the flow of customers sporadic: one or two truck drivers with deliveries for the city, I supposed, and a few people in suits, slightly self-important, traveling on business. Occasionally families came in; usually the men paid for fuel while the women hauled little children to the bathrooms. Between customers, two waitresses in striped, conical hats conversed in a clipped, private lexicon of phrases and low murmurs, and exchanged looks full of knowing. They could have been telling each other secrets, or complaining about the boss, or speculating about me.

I hadn’t until that moment felt conspicuous, but I realized then how intently I must look as if I were waiting for something, perhaps for a purpose either to stay or to leave. A person with nowhere to go could go anywhere, of course, but this was not the freedom I might have supposed. I still had to be somewhere, and this seemed to bring with it an obligation either to explain my remaining where I was or to keep moving. Apologetically, I bought a cup of tea from the smirking waitresses and took it back to my table.

The fact was I did not have to sit here in this way as if under some vague suspicion, wondering where to go. There was a place on this earth where someone would be waiting for me this evening. Albeit on his terms, after his fashion, my husband wanted me. Not everybody had that. I had waited for so long for it, and I need not lose it. Why should I lose him, for the sake of a child that I had never thought I would have and that he, to be fair to him, had never led me to imagine he would want? If we had money, it would be different, but we didn’t. Col was just being honest and probably more realistic than I was. And since I hadn’t been expecting to have a baby, if I didn’t have it, I wouldn’t be continuing without anything I had been hoping for.

But I had set out in married life hoping to stay married, and if I did not, I could not shrink back into my old life. When I sold the house near Portsmouth and moved to Huddersfield, I disposed of every trace of it-not a difficult thing to do, in fact, with a life so small as to have gone almost undetected. In any case, I had grown so tired of it, tired of myself, tired of getting on my own nerves, tired of the thoughtless, overlapping, blurred accretion of years going nowhere; I had been desperate for greater distance from it, in any direction, even toward a mirage. If a mirage was what marrying Col turned out to be, it was still the first attempt I’d ever made to escape the person I had let myself become.

And escape her I had, so successfully that, except as Col’s wife, I no longer really existed. My dutiful care of my father (though I loved him) had arisen not from goodness but from a lack of vitality and imagination about myself; I stayed at home because I was diffident and unadventurous. I had not, as I had told Col, sacrificed a promising career in local government. I had been fired at twenty-five from a dull administrative job in Traffic and Highways in a restructuring simultaneous with my father’s first stroke, while three colleagues, including my fiance Barry, were kept on and retrained. Within six months Barry was my exfiance and engaged to somebody in Payroll. I may then have “devoted” myself to my father for sixteen years, denying myself the chance to meet someone else, but for most of that time I had been too isolated and easily discouraged to imagine any such thing, anyway. I did not, as I had also told Col, “enjoy my life,” and if he left me I would spend the rest of it mourning the expense of my error and trying not to think too much about what it had displaced. It would be incalculable.

I would have to get rid of the baby. I could make arrangements as soon as I got back. A month from now, it would be over. Immediately I thought this I felt sick and suddenly wanted my tea sweet, though I didn’t usually. I reached into the sugar bowl and noticed a folded slip of paper, crammed among the packets. It read, in handwritten letters,

Cash for 4 door sedan in good condition. Private Text CAR to 07883 684512 Discretion guaranteed

I glanced over at the next table, and there was a slip of paper in the bowl of sugar packets there, too, and at the table in front of me. Every bowl on every table I could see had one.

I drank my tea. I fingered the piece of paper, turning it over and over. Practicalities flooded into my mind: all