THE EIGHTEENTH of May is a warm day, and so I walk. Sam’s school is on the inside of a bend in the river Thames five miles west of the center. Four Underground lines converge at Hammersmith, and from there I walk past some of the places Dickens mentions in novels, although they are now occupied by office buildings and old brick houses.

I’ve been up all night, beseeching the hours to pass more quickly, for I have vowed to live a different life. I’m going to tell Eddie that I’ve loved her since the very first time I saw her dance, and I’m not going to be late for today’s meeting with my son. I’m never going to make either of those two people wait for me again. Ever again.

I feel like running!

Everything takes on greater clarity as I step through the magnificent arch onto Hammersmith Bridge: the warmth of the sun, the waves sparkling and winking as if the summer were already beaming at us, and the delicate, sweet scent of the trees.

I breathe in deeply. Will Eddie take me back? Will Sam like me?

I can already spy the pink blossom of the Japanese cherry trees, reaching out toward the honey-colored sun, along the riverbank by St. Paul’s School.

I smile when I see the young couple kissing. A few yards farther on, a beggar is leaning against the green railings. He’s wearing a threadbare tuxedo and appears to be setting up shop by laying out some sheets of cardboard in a patch of sunlight.

Nearing the other side of Hammersmith Bridge, I pause for a moment to savor the warm, silky air. I’m about to see my son. Life’s so beautiful. Why didn’t I come to this realization earlier?

A pleasure craft is forging up the Thames toward me. A girl is standing on the second railing from the top with her face tilted to catch the May sunshine when a chance wave slaps against the hull, raising the stern and throwing the girl forward. She doesn’t utter a sound, but her eyes are brimming with boundless curiosity.

We watch her fall—the kissing couple, the beggar in the threadbare tuxedo, and I. The beggar whispers, “Oh my God!” The couple stare at me. None of them moves a muscle as the child floats downriver, away from the bridge and its four crenellated towers.

It’s a matter of life and death, so I clamber over the green cast-iron railing, wait until the small figure surfaces below me, and jump.

DAY THIRTY-SEVEN

Sam