After the Wreck, I Picked Myself Up, Spread My Wings, and Flew Away by Joyce Carol Oates Page A

on foot. This is the first time I haven’t been in a vehicle driven by my aunt or by my uncle. Since the wreck this is the first time I have not been able to shut my eyes. Like a small child shut my eyes. Like a small child hold myself very still. Hold my breath.
    And this bridge! This bridge! A fraction of the size of the Tappan Zee!
    The Tappan Zee is three miles. High above the Hudson River, a bridge of three miles. Three miles.
    A lifetime. A deathtime.
    Three miles. And this bridge above Sable Creek is maybe one hundred feet. A wood-plank railroad bridge with a narrow walkway for pedestrians. A sign warns NO MOTORCYCLES .
    A sign warns BICYCLES MUST BE WALKED .
    A sign warns NO HORSES .
    A sign warns CAUTION : TRAIN .
    It’s a Saturday in November. It’s a Saturday alone to myself. Not a family weekend. Not for me. For the McCartys, not for me. It is an alone weekend. Mid-Saturday afternoon. Telling Aunt Caroline I’m going “hiking.” In my sailor cap, maroon canvas jacket, jeans, running shoes. Telling Aunt Caroline yes, I prefer to be alone. No, I won’t hurt myself. No, I won’t run in a desolate area. And I won’t go far.
    Four miles to Yarrow Lake, four miles back. This is the first time I’ve even attempted the Sable Creek trail since that first time.

    Since falling. Since Crow.
    But he won’t be there today. If you fall.
    Ms. Bowen won’t be there. Her fault if you fall.
    I never dropped by the gym Thursday afternoon. Not so much as glanced at the runners on the school track. It’s a joke. Running, the track team. After the wreck most things are jokes.
    In secret, on the Sable Creek trail. Liking the way at first my breathing feels SO GOOD. My feet in my running shoes on the snowy wood-chip trail feel SO GOOD. My leg muscles pulling with the strain SO GOOD. To be flying along the ground, swinging my arms. Before I begin to get tired, make the mistake of breathing through my mouth.
    My breath is steaming. Panting/steaming.
    I’m wearing gloves. Still, my fingers are getting cold.
    My running shoes are damp. My wool socks are damp. My breath is coming faster. Can’t get my stride, my arms feel wrong. The air feels wrong. A gust of wind blows off my hat, I have to stop to retrieve my hat. The inside of my hat is filthy. The band across my forehead, filthy. My hat should be cleaned. My hat should be replaced. I don’t know how to replace my hat. Don’t know what happened to Mom’s identical hat.
    Four miles. Three miles.
    So much can happen in a single mile.

    Suddenly I see the bridge ahead. I’m not expecting to see a bridge. It looks as if the running trail continues across the bridge. The first time I didn’t come this far on the trail. I’d fallen, I had given up. I was finished. But this time, though I am not running very well, though I am panting, and my arms feel wrong, and my legs feel wrong, I am not going to give up. I see that Sable Creek is wider here. A smaller stream has emptied into Sable Creek, now it’s quite a bit wider. Yarrow Lake must be about a mile and a half ahead. This is a desolate stretch of trail. This is a desolate part of the state park. No one is running on the wood-chip trail this afternoon, it’s crusted with snow. The air is damp-cold, seeping into your bones. Dry-cold is good; damp-cold is not good.

    My breath is coming quick and ragged. I am going to have to cross that bridge. Unless I turn back, I am going to have to cross that bridge. Already I’m winded, climbing to the bridge. The trail is surprisingly steep. The icy snow is slippery. The soles of my running shoes are slippery. At the top I shield my eyes against the sun. It’s a cold November sun already slanting in the sky, emitting a stingy light. I look in both directions, not seeing any train in the distance. Not hearing any train. But it could be a trick. It could be a trick to lure a pedestrian out onto the walkway above the creek. I think: If a train comes while I’m crossing this bridge, it