Thinking About the Bridge

On proximity, fear, and the people we’d drop everything for

If you asked my sister about this, she would probably say there was something wrong with me. She’s not entirely wrong

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When Sarah Stern disappeared, I became obsessed with what had happened to her. It was close to home. The places they were talking about weren’t abstract to me. I walked them. I knew them.

Let me start from the beginning.

I walk three to four miles a day. We live in a shore town, so I’m usually on the boards, but sometimes I take side streets for variety or to find a little shade. One Saturday morning, I was out walking and there were helicopters all over the Shark River. The Shark River separates Avon from Belmar, and there’s a bridge I walk over all the time.

I remember coming home and asking Patrick, “Any idea why the Coast Guard is all over the inlet?”

We didn’t find out right away. But the next day or two, there were search boats in the river under the bridge. Divers in the water. That’s when I heard a car had been left on the Route 35 bridge and they thought it was a suicide.

Being a way too empathetic person, I felt it immediately.

Later I learned the girl was nineteen. Her name was Sarah Stern. She lived in Belmar. My nephew John was nineteen too. He was at Monmouth University, about twenty minutes from me. I could not make sense of it.

Then I saw videos of her online. She was funny. Happy. She looked like someone with her whole life ahead of her. It made it worse. It made it impossible for me to accept that she would just decide, in one moment, to jump.

The story kept growing. The car on the bridge. The idea that she might have gone to Canada. The money she had come into. None of it added up.

At some point, it stopped being about her.

It became about the bridge.

John used to come over a lot. He would get out of his dorm, away from his roommates and swim practice, and just hang out with us. We would order food, he would play with Zee, and tell us what was going on in his world.

After everything happened, I had this very serious conversation with him. It probably sounded like my Uncle Paul when I was young. Too intense. Too direct.

I asked him if he could ever imagine a moment where he would want to jump off that bridge.

He said things were hard sometimes, but no.

And I told him, completely seriously, if you ever feel like that, call me. I don’t care what time it is. I will come get you. I won’t tell your mom. I won’t tell Patrick if you don’t want me to. I will hide you. We will figure it out.

Yes, I am a little dramatic.

But I meant every word.

A few months later, he texted me and said he was thinking about the bridge.

I didn’t hesitate. What do you need. Do I need to come get you.

He walked it back a little and said maybe he was overreacting. He just needed to get out for a while. So I picked him up, took him to dinner, and we talked, but not in a way that pushed him. I didn’t need details. I just needed him to know I was there.

He told me he was tired. He missed his family. He didn’t like his roommates. Swim practice and classes felt like too much. He didn’t even know if he wanted to be there anymore.

I told him no one was going to force him to keep doing something that made him miserable. He was nineteen. He could choose something else. Just because something looks like the right path does not mean it is.

He left after his first year.

Now he works for his town. He is a volunteer firefighter. He married another volunteer firefighter. He is happy.

And one day, after a particularly bad day at my old job, I told him I was thinking about the bridge.

He didn’t hesitate.

What can I do. I will hide you. I will come pick you up right now.

I told him I would be fine.

But he meant every word.