The Bridge Tender

by Marybeth Whalen

  Mistaking the reason for her smile, Marta launched into the questions Emily knew were coming. When would she go house hunting at Sunset Beach? Did Emily want her to come too? Did she have any idea what she was looking for? When would the funds be available? Did she want to get out a calendar and look at some dates? Emily put up her hand.

  “Please, I can’t talk about this yet. It’s . . . a lot. To take in.” She held up the letter. “You read what he wrote. It’s more than that, what he’s asking. I can’t—” She was silent as her words ran out. She looked at her friend. “I think I might just go lie down. It’s been a really long day.”

  “Of course. I’m sure you’re exhausted.” Marta pointed to the letter, still gripped a little too tightly in Emily’s fist. “We can deal with all that later.”

  Emily nodded. “Yes. Later.” She hugged Marta good-bye.

  “Sure you don’t need me to stay? I can.”

  Emily waved her away. “No, it’s fine. I’m just going to eat some of that vegetable soup my mom sent over and crawl into bed.”

  Marta brightened at the promise that Emily would eat. “Good.” She poked Emily in the ribs, then turned to gather her purse and umbrella. “You need to eat, girl.” Pausing in front of the oven in the kitchen, Marta studied her reflection just as Emily had done that morning. “I, on the other hand, do not need to eat.” She sucked her stomach in and turned to study her side profile. Letting her stomach pooch out again, she huffed and added, “At all.” She gave a little wave and was gone, the house falling silent after the door closed.

  Emily put the letter on the coffee table and went into the kitchen to make good on her promise to eat. But as soon as she opened the container of soup, the smell filled the room, causing her to retch. She quickly replaced the lid and shoved the container back into the fridge. She fled the kitchen, seeking the comfort of her bed, complete with a comforter she could shimmy under and pull over her head. On the way past the coffee table, she snatched up her letter and carried it with her.

  She put the letter on Ryan’s pillow while she pulled off her black dress and dropped it to the floor, knowing she would never wear it again. In honor of Ryan, she left the dress right where she’d dropped it. She slipped into one of his old T-shirts, inhaling the scent of him as she turned back the covers and dove in. A memory came over her: Ryan already in bed, watching with amusement as she shivered and jumped in after him. “You are not putting those cold feet of yours on me!” he challenged, which only meant she would try harder to do so. She smiled at the memory as she reached for the letter and pulled it to her chest. She stuck her cold feet on his side of the bed, wishing harder than ever that she would encounter the warmth of him. But all that waited for her were cold sheets on the empty side where he should be.

  Three

  March 2, 2007

  The music was so loud that Emily didn’t hear Marta enter the house, didn’t realize that she was standing there watching until she turned and shrieked—partially because she was startled to find someone standing in her house and partially because she was embarrassed. With a look that was a mixture of pity and concern, Marta strode over to the stereo and snapped the music off, thrusting the house into an awkward silence that stretched between the two of them.

  After a few seconds of staring, Emily turned and went into the kitchen, where she filled a glass with water. She drank it even though she wasn’t particularly thirsty. That is what her life had become, a series of actions all motivated by what she should be doing. It had gotten her this far—to the one-year mark. One year ago tomorrow she stood dry-eyed at his grave and threw that one single red rose down into the dirt, saving her tears for when she was alone. One year ago tomorrow Ryan pulled his stunt and spoke to her from beyond the grave, getting the last word as only he could.

  Pushing the thought aside, she rinsed her glass and put it into the dishwasher, then busied herself with washing the breakfast and lunch dishes she had piled into the sink earlier. Marta came into the kitchen and leaned against the wall, waiting, Emily knew, for her to speak. But what could she say? She missed her husband. She was still grieving no matter how many grief groups and counseling sessions and personal goals and all the other self-help blah-blah that people advised.

  Finally Marta spoke, her voice dripping with disdain. “I hate that song, you know.”

  “I didn’t play it for you,” she said, wishing there were more dishes to wash so she wouldn’t have to look at her friend. For lack of something better to do, she wet a dish-cloth and began wiping down the already clean counter. She was staying on top of her housekeeping, a feat she often congratulated herself for. When Ryan was alive she’d complained about always being the one to clean and tidy. Now she relished the activity, taking comfort in the familiar rhythm that came with scrubbing and washing, enjoying the sight that she could still create order in a world that did not make sense. At least she wasn’t one of those widows who let her house fall down around her ears. Widow. The word still caught in her throat like the time she accidentally swallowed a Jolly Rancher.

  Marta ignored her. “That song is just so depressing. ‘A broken hallelujah’? What is that? And the way he sings it. So hopeless. That can’t be good for you, listening to that over and over. Why don’t you find a happy song to play? It might help you.”

  At Marta’s unsolicited advice, Emily slapped the dish-cloth down on the counter with a loud squishing noise. She spun around to face her, eye to eye. “Help me what, Marta? Help me not miss my husband?” She looked away from Marta, avoiding the concern in her eyes as she continued her tirade. “A happy song isn’t going to make that happen. And let me tell you that all songs—all songs—make me think of him anyway. Happy, sad, funny, country, rock, gospel, classical—it doesn’t matter. It all reminds me of Ryan.”

  Tears filled her eyes, which made her angrier. She stalked out of the kitchen, knowing Marta would follow her. She did. She got as far as the den, where she stopped and bent over at the waist, taking deep slow breaths, something she had learned to do when she got overwhelmed, which was often. She felt Marta’s hand, tentative on her back.

  “I’m sorry,” she heard her say.

  Emily took a few more breaths before straightening up to a standing position again and facing Marta. “It’s okay.” She gave her a weak smile. “Sorry I blew up. I just . . .” She searched for words to explain, but quickly settled on her fallback phrase. “No one understands.”

  Marta turned away slightly, used to the disclaimer. “If it makes you feel better to play that depressing song, then go ahead. Play it 24/7. What do I know? I never lost the love of my life. I’d have to have had one for that to be the case.”

  She couldn’t help but smile at Marta’s reference to her nonexistent love life. Feeling insecure about a few extra pounds and still reeling after an unfortunate accident with home hair color this past year had not helped things. The two women had been quite a pair in the year since Ryan’s death. Couching it with a huge tub of popcorn and a chick flick had become de rigueur on weekends. Sometimes she was thankful for Marta and sometimes she felt guilty, knowing that in some ways she was holding her friend back. She should stop being so needy and free up Marta to go and find the great love of her life. She thought of Ryan on the beach on their honeymoon, the way the water beaded on his skin, warm from the sun. Everyone should feel that way about someone at least once. On her best days she felt blessed to have had it at all. On her worst she felt cheated, cheated, cheated that she lost it so soon.

  “So,” Marta changed the subject. “I stopped by to let you know I can’t do a movie with you tonight. I kind of have this thing I said I’d do.”

  Emily raised her eyebrows, intrigued. “Do tell.”

  “Did you see that flyer Missy Detwiler put up at school? The one with that seminar for singles at Shining Star Church?” The two both taught at the same Christian school. Randomly seated beside each other for their orientation as first-year teachers, they’d been thick as thieves ev
er since. Emily had been planning her wedding that year, and Marta had listened to her vent and obsess about wedding details so faithfully she had earned a forever spot as her best friend.

  Marta rolled her eyes. “So yeah, the church kind of has a weird name and Missy Detwiler is a bit annoying, but the seminar sounds good. They’re bringing in a speaker who wrote a book about dating and I mean, you know, I might meet a Christian guy there. Or . . . something.” Marta paused. “But I also thought maybe you’d need me to be here with you because of it being the anniversary of the funeral and . . .” Marta’s voice trailed off. She looked like a child asking permission from a parent.

  Emily could take one look at Marta and know that she was uncertain about this departure from their regular Saturday night routine, especially on this particular Saturday night. That was why she’d showed up in person instead of resorting to a quick text or phone call. But whether it was because she was uncertain about bailing on her friend or attending the event, Emily couldn’t tell. Either way, she knew it was her turn to encourage Marta. “It sounds really good. You should totally go.”

  Marta looked at her out of the corner of her eye. “Crazy idea, but would you want to go with me? I know it’s probably way too soon but—”

  Emily held up her hand and took a step back. “I’m not single, Marta. I’m a widow. That’s different.”

  “But the flyer says it’s for people who are single or single again or—”

  Emily laughed in spite of herself; the suggestion of attending some event for singles was just that absurd. “I’m not open to having this discussion.” She folded her arms across her chest and gave Marta a look that told her the case was closed.

  Marta shrugged and gave her a look that said she had thoughts of her own but was smart enough to keep them to herself. “Fine,” was all she said.

  There was silence for a moment as Emily thought about asking Marta to cancel her plans and stay with her. It would be the selfish, wrong thing to do, but the thought of spending the evening alone filled her with a whole new kind of sadness. She’d already put a movie in her queue for them to watch, one they’d both like. And yet Emily knew that she needed to let her friend go. She watched as Marta began backing toward the door, her eyes on Emily. Emily waved her on and gave her a smile that she hoped looked genuine. “I’ll be fine. You should definitely go.”

  Marta narrowed her eyes. “You sure?”

  Emily nodded and added some false enthusiasm for Marta’s benefit. “Yes! I might just go visit my parents. They’ve been asking and you just took away my best excuse.” She rolled her eyes, figuring Marta would see right through her, but she didn’t. Or she chose not to. She came back to Emily and gave her a big hug, then quickly—before Emily could change her mind, she thought—took her leave.

  Before the door could close behind Marta, Emily hollered, “Let me know how it goes! Have fun!”

  Marta turned back with a wink. “You know me—I always find a way to have fun!”

  Emily watched her friend leave, wondering when she’d stopped finding a way to have fun. A thought flitted through her mind—maybe fun hadn’t died for her when Ryan died. Maybe somewhere in the future she would become a girl who knew how to have fun again.

  Emily pushed the food around on her plate, feeling like she was twelve again and existing under her parents’ watchful eyes. She could actually feel their gazes, evaluating every bite she took, biting back their thoughts about how she was too thin, too sad, too closed off from the rest of the world. Instead of criticizing, her mother made “helpful suggestions.”

  “Why don’t you join the choir? I know how you love music.”

  “What about taking up a hobby? I hear knitting is very in vogue.”

  “If you ever do think of dating again, the Gaskell boy has just moved back to town and is quite the catch.”

  “You really should eat.”

  And that was just during this meal. Emily either changed the subject or nodded politely, always promising to think over whatever it was her mother thought would help. Internally a phrase ran on repeat play: She’s just trying to help. In some ways her mother was like Marta. Marta just had a more hip vocabulary and relevant-to-her-age-group suggestions.

  By the end of the dinner, she was looking for a way to make a speedy escape, just like Marta had once she had the all clear to go to the singles’ event. She wondered how her friend was faring and—for the briefest flicker—wondered what it would feel like to think of dating again, to talk to a man she was interested in. She couldn’t imagine ever being interested in anyone. It was like saying she’d suddenly be interested in aliens or zombies. She smiled in spite of herself.

  “What’s the smile for?” her father asked. He’d been so quiet during dinner, Emily had nearly forgotten he was there. Her mother talked enough for all of them, dominating the conversation with a running commentary on her volunteer efforts, her church involvement, and the occasional tidbit of gossip, which she always managed to look penitent for even as she doled out the news. Emily looked at her father’s plate. He’d pushed his share of food around, too, from the looks of things.

  Emily knew that seeing her was painful for him. He’d faced his own crisis of faith after Ryan died, loving him like the son he never had and aching over the loss. He’d soldiered through the funeral, delivered a moving eulogy, then collapsed in tears as soon as he was alone, her mother had shared when he wasn’t around. He’d been . . . different around Emily ever since. And different in the pulpit too. His sermons, while still challenging on an academic level, lacked the heart they once had. Emily understood, having had her own crisis of faith after Ryan’s loss—one that was still going on, if she was honest. She stood in her classroom and faithfully delivered the Bible lesson, taught her students their memory verses, and modeled good character. But inside she was screaming questions at the God who took her husband from her.

  “Em?” She heard her father’s voice again and realized she’d gotten lost in thoughts. With her mother gone from the table to fetch a dessert Emily wouldn’t eat, she could’ve told her father the truth—maybe even broached the questions she couldn’t ask anyone. Her father was her pastor, after all. Instead she just smiled again. “Nothing, Dad. Just thinking about how glad I am that spring break is coming up.”

  “Spring break?” she heard her mother call out from the kitchen. The same woman who sometimes couldn’t hear you when you were talking directly to her could inexplicably hear a conversation in the next room with no problem.

  Her mother hustled back in carrying an egg custard pie dusted with a bit of nutmeg. When Emily was little and recovering from an illness, it was always the first dessert her mother made her as soon as she was up to it. “It’ll settle your stomach,” her mother always said. This fact had never been medically substantiated but her mother believed it so fervently, Emily did too. She caught her eye and gave her a smile. The pie was her mother’s way of acknowledging how hard this day was—even if she never said it aloud. Nancy Lawson was not one to dwell on the past or get bogged down in negative thoughts, and she would be the first person to tell you about it.

  Her mother set the pie down and began to cut slices that were much too large. “I’ve got some plans for the three of us for spring break. One of the ladies in my Bible study offered us the use of her home in Pigeon Forge!” Without asking, she hefted a slice of pie onto a dessert plate and slid it in front of Emily. Emily eyed the pie for a moment before picking up her fork and taking a polite bite. But not even custard pie could settle her churning stomach. Her mother’s brilliant plans echoed in her brain as she chewed and swallowed, the custard suddenly tasting like glue in her mouth.

  “Well?” she heard and looked up from her plate. Her mother had her hands on her hips and was looking down at her, imperious. “Doesn’t that sound nice? A little getaway for all of us? And for free!”

  “Um, well, it’s just that I—I mean, I hadn’t thought about making spring break plans. I haven’t ta
lked to Marta. She’d mentioned doing something . . .” This was not true and she suspected her mother knew it. She and Marta were close but they’d never planned vacations together. Somehow traveling with Marta just sounded more depressing, a more glaring sign that she had no one else to travel with. She put down her fork. Of course, it was a far better option than the one being presented.

  “Well, she could come with us. Beverly said that their cabin is plenty big. You remember Beverly? She made the ham we served at the reception?”

  Emily nodded. That ham had been so huge she still had slices in her freezer, waiting for the day her appetite returned.

  Undeterred, her mother began collecting the dishes. “Why don’t you ask her what she had in mind and get back to me? I’ll need to let Beverly know.” She looked to Emily’s father. “Richard, it’s a very nice offer, don’t you think?”

  Her father, obviously jarred into the present by the sound of his name, nodded his head, an attempt at answering without answering.

  Her mother wasn’t swayed. “Don’t you think we should go?” she pressed.

  He made panicked eye contact with Emily before continuing the charade that he’d been actually paying attention to her mother’s ramblings. “Um, sure?”

  Clueless, her mother looked at Emily before carrying the dishes out of the room. “See? Your father wants to go.”

  Emily suppressed a grin until she was gone from the room. She turned to her father. “You just agreed to spend spring break with three women in a cabin in Pigeon Forge. Shopping at antique stores! Dollywood!” She giggled at the look on his face.

  “That’ll teach me to daydream while she’s talking,” he deadpanned.

  “I’ll figure a way to get out of it.”