Brackish Hearts

The water below held the depths of a great many lifetimes, held memories of a time before I existed and would hold many more of a time after my existence. I wondered if it captured the emotions of those that passed it by, grasped on to a bit of each one and buried it deep below. I mused at what stories lay hidden in that brackish river. But in the black of night, all I could see was the ebony surface, the shine of the moon glinting off the contours of the small, rhythmic waves as they gently lapped against the rocky sidewall of the bridge.

That feeling resonated with me, others only seeing me on the surface, never looking deeper to peer at the darkness growing within me, and I suddenly felt closer to the river, more akin with it, as if we had reached an understanding with one another.

It was a quiet night, not in an eerie kind of way, but in the kind of way that you finally feel like the air around you has enough room for you to let everything out, your thoughts and emotions, and let them float away, instead of them getting trapped around you by the noise of the world. I stood on the walkway at the side of the bridge, the one where people go for runs or bike rides while cars zip by in all their impatience. None of that was going on in these early hours of the morning though. Barely a car drove by and I had yet to encounter any people, thank God.

As my hands gripped the side of the bridge, I peered down at the bottle of Merlot at my feet. My favorite Merlot, Mojave Rain, saved for a special occasion. I scoffed. I suppose this was, in a sense, a very special occasion. I reached for the bottle as a sad sigh escaped my lips, opened it, releasing its aromas into the chilled air, and took a large swig. A burst of cherries and chocolate danced on my tongue for a moment, but I quickly downed the sweet, burgundy liquid. Normally I would drink this stuff slowly, savoring the expensive flavors, but tonight I had a different goal in mind. I didn’t want to feel what came next.

A well of hot tears overflowed onto my cheeks as I looked out at that clear night sky reflecting on that omniscient water, but inside I felt nothing to accompany them. Emptiness. I was too exhausted to feel anything anymore.

A third of the bottle was on its way to my head by the time I encountered another person strolling along the bridge. The only thing announcing their presence to me from far off were the streetlights along the bridge that temporarily illuminated their figure before they were blanketed in darkness once again. As the person came within earshot, a catchy tune reached me in the form of a whistle. I found myself slightly entranced as if being lulled to sleep. Either that or the wine was finally getting to me. I closed my eyes and let the melody soothe me, focusing on the highs and lows as it got louder.

“Good morning.”

My eyes snapped open and I quickly turned to where the source of the whistling stood a few feet away. He looked not young but not old either, perhaps close to my age, and had kind eyes as he shone a timid smile my way. I glanced at the time on my phone: 3:30 A.M. Certainly morning, but maybe not late enough to call it a good one.

“Is it really a ‘good’ morning if I’m awake at this hour?”

My boldness took me by surprise. Normally in these sorts of situations I would simply say something polite back and move on, not invite further conversation. Besides, tonight I was not supposed to have company, there was something I needed to do. I blamed the Merlot for my sudden shift in personality.

A genuine laugh turned the man’s timid smile into a full grin that spread all the way to his eyes as he dropped his head towards the ground and shook it a little.

“I suppose that really depends. If this is a fun night out that turned into morning with that wine bottle, then it might be. Unless, of course, you have to go to work in a few hours, in which case, you’re probably going to curse yourself later for this.”

To my surprise, I actually chuckled a little.

“Oh, I doubt I’m going to go to work tomorrow. I’m pretty sure my boss is going to give me the day off.” And every day after that.

“Oh yeah, why’s that?”

“Because I am my boss.”

That seemed to intrigue him a bit. He moved over to the side of the bridge that I was leaning against and leaned on it a respectable distance away. Great, now he thinks he can stay.

“What is it that you do?” He asked curiously.

“I’m an artist,” I said with such contempt that the eye roll came automatically.

“Ha. Aren’t we all?” he replied as he peered up at the array of stars on display above us.

Now my curiosity had been piqued. I tried to remind myself what I was here for and get myself to say something to this guy that would end the conversation quickly, but it was no use. For whatever reason, I was beginning to enjoy the company of this stranger, and the Merlot me wanted to know more about him.

“What kind of artist are you?”

“The culinary kind. I’m a chef. I’ve got my own restaurant down a street right past the end of this bridge.”

“Wow, that’s great. You’re actually living out your passion and have found success with it.” I was truly impressed, but my own jealousy betrayed me as I said it.

“Well, I’d hardly say it’s been all that successful. Up and running for four years and still I can barely make ends meet every month.” He sighed. “The first two years I didn’t even make a profit. Now with the amount of debt I have, those payments cut in bigtime to the profits I do make. But, don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love what I do. I wouldn’t change it for anything.”

His answer surprised me and ebbed my jealousy a bit. Perhaps I wasn’t completely alone in my struggles to make a career out of my artistry.

“I’m sorry for assuming.” I locked eyes with him as I said it, and we both sat in reflection for a moment.

“I quit my day job a year ago to become a full-time artist. A painter, specifically. It hasn’t turned out well for me. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I did it, honestly. It’s not like I had a real plan before I quit. One day I just got so tired of doing a job I hated and being miserable. So, I stopped.”

I brought the bottle of Merlot to my lips and took another sip.

“My boyfriend left me a couple months later, he had never supported that decision. The only person who really supported me in it was my best friend. She’s kind of the one who inspired me to do it. Anyway, here I am a year later with nothing to show for it all.”

“Why isn’t she here now, helping you finish off that bottle?”

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and a scarring pain filled my chest.

“She passed away, four months ago. Cancer,” I managed to say as I choked back tears. I wasn’t sure why I was telling my whole personal life to this stranger, but somehow it made it easier that I didn’t know him, and that he didn’t know me.

I could feel his eyes on me as I said it, I didn’t want to look over at him and see the pity in them.

“She made me realize that life was too short. That’s why I began painting full-time. I wanted to appreciate every moment life gave me, for her. I couldn’t even manage to do that right.”

The tears had broken free from my eyes now and streamed down my face, leaving a salty trail along my cheeks as I felt my own worthlessness.

I expected the man to awkwardly apologize and run away, but instead he just slowly turned around to stare down at the river, a contemplative and slightly sad expression on his face. We stood there for a while in silence, lost in our thoughts.

“Brackish hearts,” he mumbled after a few minutes, as if to himself.

“What?”

“Uh, we have brackish hearts.” He seemed slightly embarrassed that I had actually heard him. Seeing the confusion on my face, he began again.

“It’s a phrase my grandfather used to say. The water, in this river, it’s brackish, so the organisms that live in it can only thrive when there is the right balance of saltwater and freshwater. If too much salt gets into the water, and the balance is thrown off, the plants and animals will suffer, and some will die. When I was little, whenever I was having a hard time, my grandfather would tell me how human hearts are the same as brackish water. If too many negative things throw it off balance, we cannot thrive. We have to find a way to allow more freshwater in, to restore the balance in our hearts, or we, like the animals in that river, may not survive. Sorry, I know, it’s silly,” he shook his head and let out an embarrassed laugh.

“No, no, I like it,” I stammered. “How did your grandfather…balance the waters, when there was too much salt?”

He looked into the distance and a soft smile graced his face.

“My grandmother. He always told me she was his light, and that I would need to find that thing that would be my light someday, the freshwater to balance out the salt.”

“And have you?”

Our eyes met and lingered for a moment.

“I’m not sure yet,” he finally responded.

“What are you doing out here so late anyway?” I asked after a few moments.

“Insomnia. I take walks over the bridge when I can’t sleep. I don’t usually encounter anyone else up here though. What about you?”

I pondered hard for a minute about whether I should answer him honestly.

“I came here to jump off. Maybe even see my friend again.”

To my surprise, he didn’t flinch.

“I guess I’ve interrupted you, then.”

Thrown off, I was unsure of what to say.

“Would you mind terribly if I interrupted just a little longer?” he inquired, scanning my face for an answer.

My mind spun for a while before meeting his gaze and impulsively spouting out an answer.

“No, I don’t think I would.”

That smile that spread all the way to his soft eyes adorned his face again, and he looked like a little kid that had just won a toy at the fair.

“Good, because that Merlot you’ve got deserves a proper set of glasses, and I have some back at my restaurant. We don’t open for a while, but I think I can make an exception.”

As we walked across the bridge, back towards the quaint street that was home to a quaint little restaurant, the early morning sun began to dawn over the river, bathing it in luminescence. For the first time in months, I felt the light reach my skin, warm my face, glint off my hair. The small waves that had unsettled the river all night balanced out until the still water was a perfect mirror of the sky. The river knew my story now, and transformed into something beautiful in the wake of it. Maybe I, too, could balance out my brackish heart.