The Bridge: A Novel

by Karen Kingsbury

  “The first?” She stopped and stared at him. “What happens then?”

  “You didn’t hear?” He dug his hands in his back pockets. The explanation clearly pained him. She could see that. “The owner is selling the building. If he can’t buy it, they want him out. There’s a for-sale sign in the window.”

  Molly felt her shoulders slump. “Then what’s the point if he won’t have a store?”

  “We have to start somewhere.” Ryan’s smile was bittersweet, the same one he’d given her when she left him way back when. “That’s what Scarlett O’Hara would say, right?”

  For a moment she wasn’t standing here a few days before Christmas, pretending to be married. She was back in her car, driving him to The Bridge and laughing about the plot twists in Gone with the Wind. She smiled, and for the first time in years, she felt nineteen again. “Yes. That is what she’d say.”

  They finished loading the boxes and then drove them to Vanderbilt Hospital. Together they got them through the front door, and Ryan found a dolly. Four trips later, they walked up to Donna, winded from the effort.

  “This is unbelievable.” Donna put her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. “I can’t believe it. Every one of those books was brought in for Charlie?”

  “There’s more.” Ryan chuckled. “Lots more.”

  “Amazing.” Donna looked like she wasn’t sure whether she should laugh or cry. Instead she hugged each of them. “Seeing you here together. Everything feels like it’s going to be okay.”

  “It is.” Ryan looked at the boxes stacked against the far wall. He moved closer to the hospital bed. “You need to wake up, Charlie. You have books to stock.” Ten seconds passed, but Charlie didn’t move, didn’t give any sign whatsoever that he could hear. Slowly Ryan turned away and looked at Donna. “Any improvements?”

  “Actually, yes.” Though the corners of her lips lifted a little, her eyes remained worried. “The doctor said he’s seen more brain activity. He tried to let Charlie breathe on his own, but that didn’t last long. A couple minutes, maybe.”

  “That’s more than before. Ask the doctor to try that again.” Molly looked from Donna to Charlie and back. The hospital scene was painfully familiar. “I remember when my mom was sick, especially at the end. A doctor needs to be encouraged, working with patients like Charlie. Patients need an advocate, Donna. Seriously.”

  Donna nodded, listening. “I don’t want him to get worse.”

  “Then keep pushing for them to take him off the ventilator. Being on the vent, that’s what makes patients sicker.”

  “I’ve heard that,” Ryan agreed. “Pneumonia can set in. Molly’s right. The sooner they get him breathing on his own, the better.”

  “Okay.” Donna looked more determined. “I’ll call for the doctor as soon as you leave.”

  “Perfect.” Ryan hesitated. “Before we leave, let’s pray.”

  Again Molly wasn’t sure how to feel. But if Ryan was leading, she was content to listen. He held his hands out to her and Donna, and the three of them formed a tight circle. Ryan asked God to breathe healing into Charlie’s lungs and give him the strength to fight for life. Molly caught most of the words, but she was distracted. Not by the feel of her hand in Ryan’s larger one. But because while he prayed, an idea came to her.

  Maybe the best idea she’d ever had.

  They weren’t quite in the elevator when Molly turned to him, her excitement bursting. “I know how I can help Charlie.”

  “How?” He looked mildly amused. As if this might be another of her wild plans, like having him over for dinner that night in Brentwood.

  “Ryan!” She didn’t want him mocking her. “I’m serious.” Her tone sounded wounded, but she kept her expression relaxed. So he wouldn’t know her real feelings. “Take me to The Bridge.”

  “Now?” They had planned to go back to Sally’s Mercantile for the rest of the books.

  “Yes, now.” She smiled, and it felt wonderful. Even if everything about this day together was pretend. “Come on. It won’t take long.”

  “Fine.” He chuckled but didn’t seem to mind. Besides, the drive would give them a chance to catch up. “I guess it’s only fitting, huh? You and I driving from this neighborhood down Franklin, to the Bridge.”

  She hadn’t thought about that. “Can you . . . take the detour? Through campus?”

  He hesitated. “Are you sure?” His look said he wasn’t, that maybe this was more than either of them could take. But then he was the one who had apologized. He’d seen her only as a friend, so what harm could there be in going back? Just this once.

  “Very sure.”

  They reached his truck and climbed inside. The hospital was a mile from Belmont. Ryan drove south on Twenty-first, left on Wedgewood, and right on Belmont Circle, through the heart of the campus. Neither of them said anything as he drove slowly past Fidelity Hall and the music business center, past McWhorter Hall and Massey Performing Arts Center. Every building, every stretch of sidewalk the two of them had walked and talked and laughed along.

  At one point he nearly stopped, clearly as caught up in the remembering as she was. “It feels like yesterday.”

  “I guess I never thought it would end.”

  “Yeah . . .” He gave her a strange look but then turned his attention back to the campus. “I thought I was the only one who felt that way.”

  His comment seemed deeper than the words seemed to imply. Molly couldn’t begin to sort through the reason or the meaning.

  Ryan circled up to Caldwell and east to Twelfth. From there it was easy to get to Franklin Road. They’d done the drive a few hundred times together. She angled herself so she could study him, the man he had become. “I hear you’re famous.”

  “What?” He looked at her once, and then again, before turning his attention back to the road. “Who says that?”

  “The article on Twitter. You play guitar for one of the nation’s top country acts.”

  “I did play.” His laugh sounded self-deprecating. “Now I’m just an unemployed famous guitar player.”

  Her laughter joined his. “Not for long.”

  “It’s been a few weeks.”

  “Sounds like you could use the break.” She smiled, proud of him, regardless of the way he’d hurt her so long ago. Never mind her heartache. He had followed his dream, and she was happy for him. “Did your wife go with you on the road?”

  Again he gave her the strangest glance, then a slight shake of his head. “No wife.” They reached a red light, and he turned to her. “What made you think I was married?” He sounded more baffled than amused. “Twitter say that, too?”

  “No.” She had to tread lightly here. She didn’t want to take the conversation too far back. “I just thought . . . I mean—” She felt her face getting hot. “You were in love with her, Ryan. She waited for you for two years.”

  “I cared about her.” His eyes held hers. “But I wasn’t in love with her.”

  She looked away first, turned her eyes to the road ahead of them. The light turned green and he did the same. “So you never married?”

  “No.” He thought for a few seconds. “I barely had time to date between show runs.”

  “Hmmm.” Her heart took the blow, and a handful of emotions filled her senses, stopping her from saying anything else. He had never married, and yet he’d never called her? Had he cared that little for her? It was one thing to think he’d apologized for kissing her because he was in love with the girl back home. This was something entirely different: the idea that he would rather be single than pursue her.

  “You okay?” He moved like he might reach for her hand, then he stopped himself. “You’re quiet.”

  “Just thinking.” She didn’t look at him, couldn’t take the way her heart would betray her if she did. “All this time . . . I pictured you married. Maybe with two or three kids by now.”

  “Nope. Twenty-eight and single.” He leaned back, squinting against the glare of the snow on the fields
surrounding Franklin Road. “And you, Molly? I assume you’re happy?”

  She thought for a few seconds. If he came out and asked her, she wouldn’t lie. His question assumed she was married, so she let the ruse remain. Better than having him pity her. “Yes. I’m in Portland now.”

  “Oregon?” He seemed as surprised as she had been a few minutes ago. “I thought you were in San Francisco.”

  “A lot’s changed.” She hoped he couldn’t hear her pounding heart. “My dad died four years ago. Cardiac arrest. My mom passed away a year after that from cancer.”

  “Molly . . . I didn’t know.” His expression softened, and this time he put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  “I wasn’t close to them. You know that.”

  “Still . . .” He paused, as if he didn’t want to rush the moment. “So what happened to your dad’s company?”

  “Preston runs it.” She wouldn’t have been surprised if her heart burst from her chest, it was beating so hard. “I run the Allen Foundation. Transferred it to the Northwest.” Though she still hadn’t lied, she was close.

  Ryan nodded, thoughtful. “So it all worked out. Just like your father wanted.”

  She didn’t deny the fact. If he didn’t care enough to call after sending her away with his apology, then he didn’t deserve the details.

  Neither that nor the truth.

  They pulled up in front of The Bridge and stepped onto the snowy curb. Someone had cleared the sidewalks, apparently, and even on this late Sunday afternoon, shoppers were making their way along the row of quaint stores and boutiques. Molly didn’t want to think about the past for another minute. But here, there was no way around it.

  She spotted the for-sale sign in the window, pulled out her cell phone, and snapped a picture.

  “I know. I did the same thing,” Ryan’s voice was heavy, a reflection of his heart. “One of these days the sign will be down. I figured I’d get my picture while I could.”

  “Exactly.” She checked the photo as she followed him to the front door. It was perfectly clear, easy to read the phone number on the sign. She waited while he found the key in a plant beside the door, and they walked inside. Tears stung her eyes as she looked around. She leaned back against the cold brick wall. “I don’t know what I expected. But this is worse.”

  “He lost everything.” Ryan walked around the front counter and opened the drawer. “His scrapbook. The one with all his favorite customers.”

  “His family . . . that’s what he called us.” She stood opposite Ryan and ran her fingers over the book.

  “I used this to find some of the people through Facebook.” He gave her a wry look. “Not you, obviously. I wasn’t sure what name you were using.”

  “I’m not on Facebook.” Again she tiptoed around her reality. “Too busy.”

  “Just Twitter, huh?” He smiled at her.

  “Mm-hm. Less upkeep.” She couldn’t take looking into his eyes. With a quick breath, she turned and walked across the front room to the fireplace. Her eyes followed the stairs up to the second floor. “He can’t lose this place.”

  “Which reminds me.” Ryan came to her and stopped a few feet away. “What’s your idea?”

  “Idea?” She felt her face go blank and she gave him a guilty smile. “I guess I forgot.”

  Again his expression told her he wasn’t sure about the way she was acting. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes.” She laughed. “Let’s get back to the Mercantile. We need to get a few more books back to the hospital so Charlie sees them when he wakes up.”

  She loved turning the focus back to the book drive, back to something real and tangible they could do for Charlie Barton. Molly believed he would wake up. That had to be why his brain was showing more function. The hope that lay in the next twenty-four hours made her trip to Nashville worthwhile, and it dulled the ache in her heart for the one thing she didn’t want to think about. Not then and not the next morning, when a group of customers gathered at the Mercantile to pray for Charlie.

  If Ryan wasn’t married, why hadn’t he called?

  C HA P T E R T E N

  Donna couldn’t take her eyes off the books. Nine boxes delivered by Molly and Ryan yesterday and another three this morning. She had done a rough count and the number nearly dropped her to her knees. The townspeople of Franklin had collected almost as many books as Charlie had intended to buy. Not only that, but some people had donated cash with notes like the one she’d just read: You gave me my first book for free, something I never forgot. Back then you told me I could pay for it whenever I had the money. Well, Charlie Barton, I have the money now. Lots of it. So here’s a thousand dollars. Keep your bookstore open. We need it—all of us.

  Good thing Ryan had room in his storage unit for them. He’d arranged a group of people to move them the day after Christmas.

  Altogether, nearly two thousand dollars had been collected and tucked into the boxes of donations. All that, and the books were not just any titles. In many cases, they were the books they once purchased at The Bridge, or copies of their favorite fiction and true-life titles. Many of the books held messages—another of Ryan’s ideas. Like the messages in Charlie’s CaringBridge, the inscriptions in the books were enough to get Donna through the day, enough to keep her believing for a miracle.

  If people loved Charlie enough to do this, then maybe God wasn’t finished with him. She could only pray she was right. Especially now, late on the morning of Christmas Eve.

  Donna moved closer to Charlie’s bedside. “Hello, Charlie.” She smiled, studying the lines on his face, willing his eyes to open. “Merry Christmas.”

  He didn’t make a sound. But something in his expression seemed to change. She waited, watching. “You breathed on your own for half an hour this morning.” With all the love she had for the man in the hospital bed, she stood and kissed his forehead, touching her lips gently to his forehead. “I love you, Charlie. Please, honey, wake up.” She kissed him once more, on the cheek this time. “I need you.”

  The sound of voices came from the hallway, and Donna turned around. Carolers, maybe. Charlie’s nurse had told her that sometimes on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, church groups would come through the halls singing. As the voices drew near, Donna was sure that’s what this was. Carolers. The song was “O Holy Night,” and the refrain filled the sixth-floor ICU.

  “O holy night . . . the stars are brightly shining . . . this is the night of our dear Savior’s birth.”

  Donna looked at her husband’s still form. “Did you hear that, Charlie? This is the night. It’s Christmas Eve, Charlie.”

  Suddenly, his right hand moved. Not much and not for long, but Donna was convinced. He had moved his hand! Could that mean he was coming out of the coma? She rang for his nurse.

  “Yes?”

  “He’s moving. I promise, I saw his hand move!”

  “Yes, Mrs. Barton. Someone will be right in.”

  Donna turned to watch the door, overwhelmed and shaking from the possibility. The carolers were getting closer, singing about a thrill of hope and the weary world rejoicing. All Donna could think was there couldn’t be a better song for the backdrop of what might be happening at this very moment.

  The possibility that Charlie was waking up.

  Instead of passing by the room, the carolers filed in. First two, and then three more, and then an entire stream of carolers. Tears filled Donna’s eyes, and she sat slowly by her husband’s hospital bed, unable to take it all in. They hadn’t come for the hospital wing; they had come for Charlie. Donna figured it out when the last of the singers entered the room.

  Molly and Ryan.

  Ryan winked at her and kept up the song, filling the room with a message of a new and glorious morn. When they reached the part about falling on their knees, Donna saw Charlie move again. Both hands this time. She remembered stories in the Bible where victory came when the people sang. There had never been a song more beautiful than this.
>
  Donna looked from face to face, and another realization hit her. This wasn’t a church group coming to cheer Charlie up. These were his customers. Her hand flew to her mouth, tears streaming down her face as she recognized the people who had donated books and money. They had found a way here to sing about the greatest miracle of all.

  The miracle of baby Jesus in a manger.

  Again Donna saw Charlie move, this time his right foot. This night was as divine as the one Charlie’s customers were singing about. Because only the touch of God could stir life back into Charlie after all these days. The song came to an end, and Ryan stepped forward. “We spent the morning praying for Charlie. That he would wake up.” He put his hand on Charlie’s foot. “A few of us figured he might want a Christmas song to wake up to.”

  Donna dabbed at her tears. “You sounded wonderful.” She looked at Charlie again. “He’s . . . been moving. For the last few minutes.”

  Charlie heard the noises, heard them blurring and mixing together. Darkness surrounded him, and he wondered if he were dead, if he were in some stage before he would meet the Lord. His head hurt, and he felt stuck. Locked in some strange kind of metal suit that made the slightest movement next to impossible.

  Dear God, where am I? How did I get here?

  Again the sound of the voices grew and for a moment they frightened Charlie. Then the words began to make sense. This wasn’t the hissing of invisible demons. It was singing. Something familiar and wonderful and filled with joy.

  The song built and grew and became the song Charlie loved best at Christmastime. “O Holy Night.” Father, am I with You in heaven? Am I dreaming?

  He remembered the van sliding out of control . . . the sounds of breaking glass and wrenching metal and . . . He had been in a terrible accident. That’s what had happened. But then why was everyone around him singing? The answer dawned on him gradually. He had to be in heaven. What other reason could there be?

  If he were in heaven, then he hadn’t had the chance to tell Donna good-bye. He wouldn’t see her again—maybe for decades—and despite the joyful singing and the laughter that followed, the thought made Charlie sadder than he’d been in all his life. In all of heaven, he wanted only one thing.