The Bridge Tender

by Marybeth Whalen

  He chuckled. “Maybe for you. But I’m doomed.”

  “I doubt she’ll go if I don’t. This is her way of ‘getting my mind off things’ and we both know it.”

  He rose from his chair and began gathering dishes. He hadn’t eaten his pie. “One can only hope.” He didn’t comment on her mother’s efforts, or address the “things” she was trying to distract Emily from. In the past year, he never had.

  After he disappeared into the kitchen and she heard the familiar, comforting sounds of running water and her parents’ voices amidst the clatter of silverware and china, she pressed the tines of her fork into the custard, making a print on the surface of the pie. As she did she thought of how she could get out of this trip of her mother’s, planning an escape from somewhere she hadn’t even gone.

  Four

  March 2, 2007

  She woke the next morning to the sound of someone banging on her door. She shook her head and rolled her eyes. Usually Marta just used her own key and barged in. Today she wished she’d done just that—gotten coffee started before she woke her. Pulling a robe over one of Ryan’s T-shirts, she extricated herself out of the tangle of sheets and padded through the house to let Marta in, cinching the robe tightly closed as she walked. She tugged the door open with a smile, wanting her friend to know that—in spite of the tension from the day before—everything was fine. She needed Marta too much to let anything simmer under the surface of their friendship. And she also needed her friend to help her come up with a Plan B for spring break.

  “So are you here to tell me you met the love of your life last night and are running away to get married?” she joked upon seeing Marta’s face.

  Marta shook her head and pushed her way into the house, wired and excited. She placed her hands on Emily’s shoulders and steered her back into the den, pushing her down to have a seat on the couch. “What are you doing?” Emily asked, half laughing, half nervous. Marta could be odd and dramatic (Emily attributed that to her being a drama and art teacher at the school), but this was over the top even for her.

  Marta began pacing back and forth in front of the couch. “I did meet someone last night. Well, I mean I didn’t meet him for the first time. But I saw him last night.” She stopped pacing and looked at Emily. “We re-met.” She waved her hand, impatient with the need to explain. “But it had very little to do with me. He talked to me about you mostly.”

  “Me?” Emily put her hand against her chest, her eyes widening as she felt her heart pick up its pace beneath her fingers. “But why?” She didn’t like the thought of another man talking about her. She didn’t like the thought of being anyone’s topic of discussion, though she knew she had been lots of times in the past year. She heard snatches of conversations when she passed women in groups of two or three at church or school—the whispered words and grim looks. She knew they used words like poor and sad and tragic when they spoke of her. She also knew none of them wanted to be her.

  Marta grinned. “Look at your face. Don’t get all worried. It’s good.” She sat down beside Emily on the couch and put her hand on her knee, covered by the flannel of the robe. “It’s Phil.” She studied Emily’s face for a sign of recognition. “Phil Griffin?” she tried again.

  Emily tried to think of a guy from church or school but came up with nothing. She shook her head.

  Marta surprised her by hitting her knee a little too hard for emphasis. “You know Phil Griffin! From Ryan’s office? I took you there after the funeral last year.”

  Recognition dawned on Emily’s face. “Oh, yes! Phil! Of course!” She tried to act happy upon hearing the man’s name, but it was the last one she wanted to hear. Because with the mention of his name she suddenly knew why Marta was there.

  “So he was interested to hear that you never did anything with what Ryan left you. He said that he thought you were going to take immediate action. I told him that you’ve had a hard time and he said he understood. But . . .” Emily could tell Marta was trying to tread lightly, which was almost impossible for her friend.

  “Look, this was Ryan’s gift to me. There’s no timetable on when I have to redeem that gift.” Emily couldn’t keep the frustration out of her voice. There were many days she wished she’d never shared the letter with Marta, that no one—not even Phil Griffin—had known what Ryan planned. She thought about the letter she had stashed in her lingerie drawer, hidden beneath the lingerie she’d worn on their wedding night. She had memorized the words by now, the paper soft from many handlings, the folds starting to fray.

  “I told him that I would talk to you about it. That I’d be bossy if I had to.”

  Emily gave her a half smile. “And that would be different from usual . . . how?”

  Marta cocked her head and bugged her eyes out at her. “Hey. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  “Look, I appreciate that you and Phil both think I need to cash in on Ryan’s last wish. And I intend to—someday. I promise.” She held her hand up as if taking an oath, pleased she’d kept calm and they’d put the issue to rest for now. She stood up and started to the kitchen for coffee, but Marta’s voice halted her.

  “Wellll,” Marta replied. “I kinda promised him something a little more . . . definite than that.”

  She spun around and faced Marta. “What did you promise?”

  Marta had a panicked look on her face. “Look, there was this really creepy guy who was trying to talk to me and the longer I kept talking to Phil, the more that guy had to wait. I figured if I kept him waiting long enough, he’d give up. So, really, when you think about it, this conversation I’m about to relay to you just might’ve saved my life. So that should actually make you feel good about my promise.”

  Emily couldn’t keep from smiling. “Well, when you put it that way, maybe I won’t kill you right away.”

  “Trust me, I think creepy guy might’ve.” Marta shuddered.

  “So what did you promise?” Emily just wanted to get it over with.

  “I promised Phil that I would make you go there for spring break. That I’d help you find a house.”

  Emily thought of her mother’s announcement about spring break and the dread that had filled her at the thought of a week trapped in a cabin in Pigeon Forge with her parents and Marta. But this new suggestion wasn’t much better. In fact, in some ways it was worse. Emily hadn’t returned to Sunset Beach since her honeymoon with Ryan. There’d never been enough money, enough time. They’d just started planning a return trip when Ryan was diagnosed. And the thought of going back—of crossing that bridge—just seemed too huge to even contemplate. What could Ryan have been thinking?

  Marta pulled her phone from her pocket and responded to a text while Emily was thinking.

  “What are you doing?”

  “That was Phil, checking to see if I’d talked to you yet. He’s excited about our plan.”

  Our plan. Who was “our” exactly? Marta and Emily or Marta and Phil? She tried to remember what Phil looked like, but all she could recall from those hazy days after Ryan’s death were shadowy figures ducking in and out of her line of sight. Phil was—as far as she could recall—a pleasant enough person, rather nondescript. Had he been wearing a wedding ring? Were there pictures of a family on his desk? She raised her eyebrows. “Why do I feel like all of this is just some scheme to keep you and Phil talking?”

  Marta gave her a smirk, then turned around and went to the kitchen ahead of her. Over the sound of the cupboards opening and water running, she called out, “Well, I mean, he is a lawyer.” With a sigh that was dramatic enough to rival one of Marta’s, Emily followed her friend into the kitchen. She’d never needed coffee more.

  After Marta finally drained the last of the coffee in the pot and left, Emily slid the chain lock on her door into place. She found herself tiptoeing back to her bedroom, as if she were trying to sneak up on herself. She chuckled at her actions, admitting that she was acting crazy. And why not? Her parents were trying to whisk her away to Pigeon Forge and Ma
rta was forcing her to go to the one place in the world she didn’t want to go. To be honest, she didn’t know which of the two scenarios was the worse option.

  She sat down in front of her dresser and pulled open the drawer containing Ryan’s letter. She took it from its hiding place and held it to her, just as she always did, imagining he was hugging her. “Hi,” she said to the ceiling. “I sure wish you were here to help me decide.” She laughed at herself. “’Course, if you were here none of this would be happening. We’d be spending spring break finally planting that garden in the backyard.” She wondered if there was some sort of gardening camp she could enroll herself in for the week of spring break, an ironclad excuse to stay home, one that required a nonrefundable hefty deposit. She opened the letter and read the words she could almost recite from memory, her eyes running over the swirl and tilt of the familiar handwriting. She only allowed herself to take out the letter once in a while, focusing as much as she could on staying busy and not wallowing in her grief. And yet with the trip on her mind, her grief was catching up to her, her thoughts of Ryan unavoidable.

  Tears streamed freely down her face as she finished reading, dripping from her chin and hitting the carpet. She sniffed loudly and swiped at her nose. The letter had that effect on her every time. She slumped over on her side and stared at the letter through watery vision, the letters swimming in front of her. She blinked them away and saw the words, “Promise me.” He used to always make her pinky swear whenever she promised him something. It was a goofy thing to do and it never failed to make her laugh, but she always went along with it. Well, this was one promise he hadn’t gotten her to pinky swear to. So maybe that meant he couldn’t hold her to it?

  She could hear his response: Nice try, Em. That’s weak.

  She thought of another time she wanted to get away. It was the first time he had to be admitted to the hospital, the first time she’d seen him truly sick, staying beside him yet helpless to stop his misery. She’d never felt more useless in her whole life, more incapacitated. When his mother came to relieve her so she could shower and get a nap, she fled the hospital, raced home, and crawled into their bed, burrowing under the covers to block out the light of day. From her cocoon she tried to stop the memories of the past few days from replaying in her head, the worries about what was going to happen and doubts that Ryan would ever get better. She had to be strong for him, she told herself, falling asleep mid-thought.

  For a split second when she woke, she forgot why she was there and what was happening. She wriggled and stretched and inhaled the smell of home—her laundry, her sheets, her nice cozy bed. Then she realized it had grown dark outside as she slept, a large yellow moon outside their window replacing the sun that had shone brightly before. Disoriented for a moment, she looked at the clock. It was 7:18 p.m. She’d slept for hours, released into the sweet oblivion of sleep. But consciousness brought reality with it.

  She remembered where she was, and where she was supposed to be, leaping from bed and racing around so she could get back to the hospital, her heart in her throat as she dialed her mother-in-law to check on him. “Take your time, honey. He’s just sleeping. Get a shower. Get something to eat. You won’t do him any good if you wear yourself out,” Ryan’s mother said. Emily forced herself to slow down and do what she’d been told. Her mother-in-law was right. She showered and dressed, and even made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, eating it over the sink as she surveyed her quiet, empty house. He would come home again. She tried to keep her thoughts positive. He had to get better.

  On the way back to the hospital, she felt her heart rate begin to pick up the closer she got to the parking deck. The place had become far too familiar, a place she both hated to leave and longed to get away from. At the stoplight just before the turnoff to the hospital she saw the building, looming large and white against the black sky. She could see the helicopter used for emergencies sleeping on the roof. She could see the hundreds of windows, some lit from within, some dark, all containing stories of birth and death, illness and healing. She looked away from the place, focusing instead on the red light ahead of her. And for those few minutes before the light turned green, she wished as hard as she could that that light would just stay red so that she didn’t have to return to her sick husband.

  She was ashamed of that wish, bright spots of color coming to her cheeks whenever she recalled her cowardice. As Ryan suffered she’d been the weak one. She had pretended to be there for him when all she really wanted to do was hide. When push came to shove, she’d wished for a way to abandon him. She’d never told anyone about that moment at the stoplight, how fervently she’d wanted to stay right where she was, even if that meant she wasn’t with him. He had needed her, and she had betrayed him. People had called her “brave” and “strong” but they had it all wrong. They didn’t know what she was really thinking and feeling all along. And here she was, essentially doing the same thing again—desiring to stay in one place so she didn’t have to do the hard thing.

  With a sigh she got up and walked into the den where the plaque he mentioned in his letter held its place of honor on their mantel. His parents had had Jeremiah 29:11 etched into glass and presented it to them at their rehearsal dinner. Now when she read the familiar verses, the words bounced around in her head but never made it to her heart. She wasn’t sure she believed in hope and future anymore. She hugged the plaque to her and thought of the image Ryan had painted in his letter. She was walking down the beach and she was smiling. Maybe she should give his vision a chance. Maybe Ryan had known more than she did. Maybe she hadn’t found her hope and future because it was waiting at Sunset Beach. It was worth a try because she certainly hadn’t found it here. She couldn’t stay at the stoplight forever. She put the plaque down and went to find the phone so she could call the one person who would make her follow through with the search.

  Five

  April 7, 2007

  The scent of eucalyptus enveloped her as she settled her face into the padded hole in the headrest and squeezed her eyes shut tight. Sounds of nature floated through the speaker just above her—birds calling and wind blowing. She felt herself begin to relax and let go. She was both thankful to her parents for the gift certificate they’d given her for her birthday the month before, and to herself for having the foresight to schedule this massage just before the trip she was dreading.

  The masseuse kneaded her knotted muscles, expelling the tension and luring her into a relaxation she couldn’t seem to achieve in day-to-day life. Her guard was always up, the walls around her heart fortified lest it all come crumbling down. She was in control at all times, safe within the limits of emotion she put on herself. But there under the warm and prodding hands of the woman with the Eastern European accent, she felt that control begin to slip away along with the stress and worries. She let her mind wander as the sounds from the speaker changed to the sound of a babbling brook. Caught up in the moment, she didn’t push away the memory of a day trip she and Ryan had taken together to the mountains the fall just before he got sick. They had hiked beside a stream holding hands, stopped for apples on the way home. She’d made her first apple pie that night and they’d had pie for dinner. Just pie.

  The masseuse pressed harder and something about the combination of memory and muscle release triggered an overflow of emotions. She could taste that apple pie, feel the swell of her heart as she lifted it out of the oven. She could smell the perfect blend of cinnamon and apples and the tiniest bit of nutmeg wrapped in a store-bought crust that Ryan swore tasted as good as homemade. She could feel his lips on hers as he kissed her, hear his voice as he said, “It’s perfect.” She opened her eyes and stared into the darkness as tears dripped from her face to the floor. It was perfect. And it was gone. She began to sob, embarrassed, yet unable to stop what was happening. The masseuse never stilled, just kept working away, her strong, capable hands continuing to coax out what Emily had kept locked away.

  When she was finished the masseuse waite
d until Emily was composed again before she spoke. “You carry much sadness inside you,” she said simply.

  Emily, clutching the big white towel around herself, nodded, certain her eyes were rimmed with red and her nose was glowing. She was more than a little embarrassed over falling apart and thankful that this woman she would most likely never see again had been the only witness.

  “Is good to let sadness out,” the masseuse said. She folded her hands in front of her and cocked her head. “You let sadness out, you have room for joy.” She nodded once and hurried out of the room, leaving Emily to dress and ponder just how she could accomplish that away from the massage table.

  Emily tugged her suitcase from under the bed and coughed as a cloud of dust emerged with it, trying to forget her odd experience during the massage and get back to something that felt normal. She waved her hand in front of her face to disperse the dust and pulled the suitcase up onto her bed, flinging the top back to reveal the empty space designed to hold clothes, shoes, and the like. She glanced at the packing list she’d made and frowned. There were only a few things on the list—not enough to get her through a week at the beach. She reached for the phone to call Marta and complain again. Just as she did, the phone rang. Assuming it was Marta calling to give her a pep talk, she reached for it without looking at the caller ID and answered, “I’m packing, don’t worry.”

  “I’m sorry?” a nervous male voice replied.

  “Oh, goodness! I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.” She rolled her eyes at herself and crumpled her useless packing list.

  “This is Arthur Groves, the real estate agent from Sunset Properties. I was just calling to confirm our appointment for this coming Tuesday.”

  “Oh yes, Arthur. I’ve got it down.” She didn’t say she was looking forward to it, because that just wouldn’t be true.

  The truth was she was dreading the appointment with the Realtor like other people dreaded a trip to the dentist. The other night Marta had called her on her bad attitude. “Oh poor, poor me. I have half a million dollars to spend on a beach house. Everyone please feel sorry for me.”