No Footprints Read Online Free PDF Page A

the assistant— jisha— should have done. It was a sign of his concern. I wanted to pick up the mug and drink down his caring, but it was too soon, the tea would scald my tongue, the mug burn my fingers. I put my hand over the cup, feeling the steam. Suddenly, everything in this small, bare room—the futon on the floor, the unpainted wood dresser, the book turned face down
on the floor, the teapot, Leo in his sweatshirt and pants, the smudge of dirt on the sole of his left foot, the cool air on my neck, the grind of the bus at the corner, the scent of the tea, Leo himself—every bit of it was alive, unique, mine, too valuable to give up.
    â€ŸAfter I pulled her back, she knocked me down hard, banged my head. Then she left her cute red jacket and vanished. Why?”
    I was expecting a quote from some ancient Zen sutra. What he said was, ‟If you’re going to disappear, best not to wear red.”
    Huh?
    â€ŸWhere are you now?”
    â€ŸWhat?”
    He sipped the hot tea, put down the cup, and said nothing. He was telling me—no, waiting for me to realize—that I wasn’t operating in the now. Now? ‟All right.” I took a sip of my tea, using the movement to focus, to let go of imagining and its seductions, of the theories I wanted to try out. ‟Now,” I said, ‟I know nothing about her except that she left her jacket after I saved her from killing herself. I can only speculate—”
    â€ŸOr not,” Leo said.
    Despite everything I laughed. And he smiled too.
    â€ŸBut if I don’t speculate how am I going to find her?”
    â€ŸGoing down the wrong path isn’t necessarily progress.”
    â€ŸBut I’ve got to do something. I can’t just let her—”
    â€ŸYou have a message, from Jed Elliot. Your call’s at 6:00 am.”
    â€ŸYikes. I’ve got to get to bed. But, how can I just abandon her? I have to—”
    He turned his attention to his tea and took another sip, as if to say: Words! A flurry of words!
    I put down my cup and stood up. ‟Dammit, that’s all I’ve got!”
    He took another sip. No reproof, no response.

    I knew he understood, but I was frustrated, baffled, exhausted.
    He lifted the pot, poured more tea in my cup, but didn’t offer me the cup. He was saying the interview wasn’t over. The choice was mine.
    But even now I could see past my feelings to the choice I needed to make. I sat down again.
    As soon as I asked the question I realized it was the one beneath all the swirl. I said, ‟What is death?”
    â€ŸWhat is life?” He finished his cup.
    It wasn’t, I realized, a question. It was the answer.

5
    She’s not on the bridge now. She doesn’t know where she is, isn’t thinking about that, isn’t thinking at all. The air pings silently against her face, cold, damp, alive.
    â€ŸI’m alive. Alive!” It’s too stunning for speech. She rides on, feeling her feet against the pedals, the burn of freedom in her thighs. She looks up through the tall trees—Golden Gate Park!—at the dark sky. It’s wonderful! She wants to ride forever in the wordless freedom.
    The woman who pulled her back: How can she ever repay her? She eases off on the pedals, lets the bike roll to a stop. ‟I didn’t even thank her! I’m alive; I’m alive! ”
    She sees the red-haired woman lying on the walkway, remembers smacking her down there. Tears burst from her eyes. She’s shaking so hard she has to stop the bike. ‟How could I do that? She gave me my life!”
    Suddenly it’s vital to get back, to thank her and thank her and thank her. Frantically she looks around, trying to remember how she got here, but the moments since the stranger pulled her back over the rail have been disconnected. There is no ‟route to here,” there’s just ‟here.”
    Headlights break the fog. Police? She can’t