The Haunted - Jessica Verday [13]
Mom said something to me, but I didn’t hear her. I was focused on just making it through this and getting it over with. All I could think about was how much I didn’t want to be here.
We crossed the street and passed by a police officer who was directing traffic and holding up a SLOW sign. When we walked closer to the huge wooden beams that made up the main arch of the new bridge, I glanced up. There weren’t any windows cut into the sides of the bridge, and it seemed oddly cumbersome and wrong. All sharp angles and rough seams. Not at all what I’d imagined from the Sleepy Hollow legend.
It was out of place.… Like me.
A podium had been set up on the sidewalk off to the side of the bridge entrance, and the man standing behind it waved us over. We had to push our way through several groups of people clustered tightly together. There wasn’t much room for anyone else to stand on the small patch of concrete.
The man introduced himself as Robert, the master of ceremonies, and then he and Mom started talking. As far as I could tell, he wasn’t going to actually be doing anything during the ceremony, but he seemed to like his title. I turned away and went to stand closer to the water.
Bracing myself with one hand on the edge of a beam, I stared down into the Crane River.
It was calm and clear. Tiny pockets of current swirled and danced as they rushed farther and farther downstream.
My fingers found each crack and split that made up the wood grain and followed the scattered, random squiggles and lines that blended into one another. As I traced across the wood, my pinkie snagged on a piece of cold metal.
Wood and metal. Tough and strong. Things that could stand the test of time. Things that hadn’t been here a couple of months ago. What if they had? Would things be different? Would Kristen not have fallen into the river? Would those thick beams have caught her? Stopped her… ?
I pondered that over and over again, running my pinkie round and round the screw head, until I felt something catch. Quickly pulling my hand away from the beam, I looked down. The skin had split, right down the middle of the finger pad.
Holding my breath in anticipation, I waited for that dark red drop to well up. For some sign of life to come pulsing out of me.
It didn’t.
Surely I would bleed. I was cut. But the blood didn’t come. Instead my pinkie just began to throb.
I held it up and watched as my finger pulsed, each movement in sync with my heartbeat, like there was a gossamer string attached from my heart to my hand. The noise of the traffic and reverberation of people began to fade. Only white static filled my ears, and I couldn’t turn away.
“Abigail!”
The sound of my name shook my concentration, and I blinked once. Mom was standing to my right, one hand gesturing for me to come over to her, and I realized what a freak I must look like, standing there with one finger raised in the air.
I blinked again. Noises started returning, and I came back to where I was and what I was supposed to be doing. The low buzz of people resumed, and I lowered my hand. Wiping my palms hastily on the sides of my skirt, I found myself repeating Mom’s earlier actions and smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle.
Get it together, Abbey. You’re in public.
I made my way over to Mom. She was nodding and smiling, talking to a reporter, while also casting discreet Is everything okay? glances my way.
I grabbed Mom’s hand and squeezed it tight, trying to send her my best I’m fine vibe. Her grip tightened and then relaxed, and I could tell she got the message. I tried to stay out of the reporter’s way, but then she must have realized I was another person to talk to. Her body language changed, and she started to inch the microphone away from Mom’s face.
Mom just compensated by smiling wider and moving her head forward each time the mike moved backward. Mom hated to give up the spotlight. By the time she was done answering