Dave knew it was a habit that drove her husband crazy, as the man would often voice his loud disdain at company gatherings, especially after he’d sipped a few too many drinks. “You’re the boss,” he’d insist to his wife. “You don’t need to get there early.” Ellen had confided in Dave on several occasions that her being the boss was exactly the reason she did.
Dave hurried to his own office and waited for the elevator to ring its arrival on the floor. Once it did, he gave Ellen ten more minutes to settle in before he tapped on the door.
“Dave?” Her surprise appeared genuine.
“Good morning.”
Ellen stood, shook Dave’s hand, and then motioned for him to sit. For the meeting Dave had chosen his best suit—a black Armani and jacquard tie, both draped effortlessly. He wished he’d had time to get the jacket professionally pressed, but he’d had to settle for an early-morning ironing at home. Despite the rush, he wore the clothes well, with power and confidence. Other than his longer-than-average hair, Dave looked . . . normal.
“Why so early?” she asked.
Dave had planned his words carefully. There was no bluffing on this one. From the outset he’d decided to get straight to the point.
“Brock told me about BikeHouse.” Dave left out the details of filtering through Brock’s mail. Ellen nodded, waiting for him to finish. “Brock is swamped with—” Not what he’d wanted to say. The truth was that Brock was swamped with the work that Dave should have been doing. “I’d like to help out by taking on the account.”
Dave sat tall in his chair and tried to look confident, as if it were his first interview at the firm.
“The BikeHouse account?” Ellen leaned closer. “Your plate is already full, Dave. How’s your own workload coming?”
Dave understood the real question. “I’m doing better as of late . . . much better.”
She didn’t seem to buy it. “Dave, where were you three days last week—yesterday, even?”
Just like her not to miss a thing. What would sway her? “I’m here today.”
Her head bobbed in agreement. “I still think you ought to get your current accounts under control, and then we can get you going on other things.”
Dave stood. He couldn’t get emotional. It may bring sympathy, but not the account. He turned, then took a deep breath.
“Ellen, listen to me. I’ve been to hell and back.” He paused. “Actually, I guess the jury is still out on whether I’m really back. It’s been rough, and I’m sorry for the way that I’ve acted.”
“Dave, I’m not asking for an apology.”
“I know, but I owe you one. I do. I’ve let you down, I’ve let Brock down, I’ve let the entire company down—and then there’s myself.”
“I have to ask . . . what’s the big deal with BikeHouse?”
How to answer? What should he tell her? The truth? “Ellen, it’s a personal thing.”
“Personal? What do you mean?”
What dreams have you been missing out on, honey? What dreams?
“Megan . . . well, Megan would tease me about riding a Harley. We’d joke about it. I always told her that I’d like to ride one someday.”
If Ellen had been attempting to contain her flow of confusion, the dam had now burst. Dave tensed. He didn’t mean it to sound so ungrounded, so sentimental.
“Dave, I appreciate your enthusiasm. And I have to tell you that I haven’t seen you this excited about an account for . . . well, for months.”
Dave waited.
“But my answer is still no. Not yet.”
Possibilities shot through Dave’s head. He could threaten to quit. Would she risk losing him? Probably. Did Dave care? Not about the job, not lately—but that was before BikeHouse had rolled into the picture. What to do? He’d already expressed his interest. Perhaps he should just back off and wait.
“You’re right.”
Ellen tipped her head back, seeming surprised by the retreat. Dave walked toward the door. He touched the handle.
“Listen, Dave,” Ellen said.
Dave stopped, turned, waited. She opened her desk and fumbled through some cards. “I’ve been waiting for the right time to give this to you. I’ve been asking around, and I’d like you to go and visit this person, Dr. Devyn Jaspers. He comes highly recommended.” She stood, stepped forward, and held out the card.
Dave took it politely and then stared at the name. “A shrink?”
“Of sorts. He’s a grief counselor. He helps people who have experienced . . . you know, a loss.” Dave listened. “You go see Devyn, the firm will pick up the tab. Keep improving, and you just may get the account.”
“Thank you, Ellen.”
“I hope that he’ll do you some good, and then you can do me some good.” Always a boss.
“When’s the first meeting with BikeHouse?” Dave asked.
“We have our introduction a week from Monday.” She paused thoughtfully. “Tell you what—why don’t you plan to be there? We’ll play it by ear. If you’ve seen Dr. Jaspers, if things go well at the meeting, if you show me that the old Dave Riley is indeed back, then BikeHouse will be yours.”
Dave shook her hand, gripping it tightly. He still had a shot.
“The ol’ Dave Riley will be there. I promise.” He walked confidently to his office. Gloria was not yet in. He took off his jacket and hung it on a wall hook just inside. He closed the office door. He still had a chance, still had hope. After he’d checked the lock, he sank into his chair, rested his head on the desk, and with a silk handkerchief pressed tightly against his mouth to muffle the sound, he quietly began to sob.
I don’t pretend to be fast in my research, but I am thorough. It’s the reason the professor hired me. The trait was ingrained in me at an early age, another lesson from my father. “Katie, if you’re going to do a job, do it right.”
I don’t find his exact words in the journal, but I see notes from Patrick that foreshadow my father’s expression.
“We are spinning cable on the bridge faster than it’s ever been spun in the history of bridge building—many times faster. ’Tis a tense and contradictory job. If we don’t finish the cable by July, Roebling says the firm will lose money. Yet speed must be balanced by quality. As Strauss says, it’s a bridge to last ‘forever.’ I can’t disagree, and so for the balance between speed and quality, I let me own scale tip toward the latter. We must do the job right.”
It is a lesson that brims with my father’s wisdom, and it makes me wonder: who was this man, and why did my father have his journal?
The receptionist flashed Dave the customary smile as she pushed the clipboard in his direction. “Please fill in the pertinent information,” she said.
He carried the forms to a seat in the waiting room that greeted him with bright walls, customary magazines, and vases of fresh flowers. With the exception of an older woman asleep in a chair, it was almost homey.
Within minutes, the same receptionist stepped out and announced, “Mr. Riley, the doctor will see you now. Please come with me.”
He followed her down the hall and into the doctor’s office. Vibrant artwork lined two of the office walls; he realized it was all meant to cheer up depressed clients.
“Mr. Riley?” The doctor held out her hand. “I’m Devyn Jaspers. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He shook the woman’s hand, trying to hide his confusion. The receptionist placed the clipboard on the doctor’s desk and scurried out.
“You look perplexed.”
“I’m sorry.” Dave let go of her hand and stepped back. “I just thought—well, I thought Devyn Jaspers was . . . a man.”
Her nod was one of understanding. “Yes, I get that a lot. It’s my mother’s fault, and I’ll never forgive her.”
She motioned to the chair opposite her desk, and they both sat. He watched intently
as she scanned his information. She reminded him of a patron studying a restaurant menu, not sure what to order. He had to handle this properly, assure the outcome. The fact that she was a woman could complicate things . . . or would it help?
He studied her as she flipped the pages: perhaps early forties, though difficult to judge with her hair pulled back; organized desk—almost too organized. She sat back as she read, slightly relaxed, evident she was in no rush.
“Would you like me to call you Mr. Riley or David?” she finally asked.
As long as he could remember, everyone had called him Dave.
“David will be fine.”
She scribbled it into her notes. “Thank you, I appreciate that. And call me Devyn or Dr. Jaspers, whichever you prefer.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“Why don’t we start with a little background. Tell me about yourself.”
“Aren’t I supposed to lie on a couch or something?”
“A couch? I’m sorry. All I have is the chair. Is it not comfortable?”
“Quite comfortable. I just thought—” He shrugged off the thought. “What would you like to know?”
“How long were you married?” It was a simple question with a simple answer, but in a curious way it struck him to the core. She’d asked it in the past tense, as if to imply that the marriage was over.
“I have been married for eighteen years.”
“How old were your children?” She’d done it again. How could she be so cold? He looked up without answering, his hesitation obvious. “Are you uncomfortable talking about the accident?” she asked.
“Shouldn’t I be?”
“I want to start by saying that I’m very sorry.”
“Yeah, so am I.”
“David, you’ve had a loss that most people can’t even imagine. My job is to help you get through the grieving process in the most manageable way possible. It won’t be easy. It never is, but if you’ll try, you will get through this.” He shifted in his chair as she continued. “Have you talked much about the accident with family or friends?”
Megan had been his confidante—they had discussed everything. Now she was gone. Who could have replaced her?
Dr. Jaspers tipped her head to the side, as if anticipating Dave’s response before he had even moved his lips. “So you don’t have family? No support at all?”
“I’m an only child.”
“Friends?”
“I have associates—Brock is my friend.”
“Have you talked with Brock about the accident, about your grief?”
“Briefly. He’s never lost anyone. In fact, he’s never been with anyone long enough—well, he could never understand.”
“You should give him a chance. It will help if you talk with others about your loss, share your feelings.”
This was their first meeting—what did she know about his friends or his feelings? He had lost his wife and family, and she had the nerve to sit across from him in a padded chair and suggest that all he needed to do was talk. He studied her face more carefully. Younger than forty—thirty-five, perhaps. How much experience could she have?
“I’m just curious—are you married?” he asked coldly. He wanted to control the flow of the meeting, manipulate its outcome. He could feel his emotions taking charge.
“No, I’m not.”
“Divorced?”
“No, I’ve never been married.”
“I should hook you up with Brock.” His tone mocked.
“David, I’m here to help you. I’d like to be your friend.”
Friend—the word irritated. He’d barely met the woman. They certainly weren’t friends. “Can I be brutally honest?” Dave asked.
“If you don’t mind.”
“I see grief as something I need to deal with on my own, not pawn off on friends—or worse, strangers. If you want the honest truth, Doctor, I’m here so that Ellen, my boss, will give me an account at work, an account I need to move forward with my life. Grief is my responsibility—not yours, not my friends’—mine.”
After the words had spilled out, he was angry at himself for having betrayed his motives. He’d wanted to remain in control and he’d blown it.
“Forced into it?”
“No gun, but essentially, yes.”
“I take it that your work is suffering?”
“What do you think?”
She ignored the question. “In what ways, exactly?”
He wished that he could stand up and walk out, even slam the door on his exit, but his boss would certainly find out. Instead, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
“Tired. I feel tired. I drive around late at night. I oversleep, show up late. I find my thoughts constantly wandering. I can’t concentrate. I watch people bickering at the office about petty things that don’t matter and it makes me want to scream.”
“Grieving can be exhausting.” She made a note on her pad, then put down her pen. “I can help you get through what you’re feeling right now, David. I can’t take it away or make it disappear, but if you’ll work with me, I can soften, perhaps even shorten, your grieving process. I need your help . . . if you’ll let me.”
One minute she was so clinical, so cold—now instantly sincere. Sincere? He pondered the word. It was her job to be sincere; it was her job to pretend.
She waited to speak again until he looked directly at her. “You said earlier that your friend Brock has never truly loved someone, and so he doesn’t know what it means to experience true loss. Then you asked if I’d ever been married. I understand your meaning, what you were implying. You need to know, David, that I do know what it feels like to lose someone.”
Her directness caught him off guard, and he regretted his harshness. She continued. “I can never know exactly what you are feeling—no one can—and in that aspect, you are indeed standing all alone. But don’t you dare think for a moment that I don’t care or that I can’t empathize.”
“I didn’t mean it to come out that way.”
After a long, almost painful moment, she spoke words that seemed to carry extra sadness. “David, I’d like you to take as much time as you need, but tell me all about Megan—why you loved her, why you miss her. Then, when you’re finished, I’ll tell you a little about Jonathan and my loss as well.”
chapter thirteen
I should be working on the society’s report, but instead spend hours studying the journal. Before bed, I continue to read Patrick O’Riley’s words.
“I’m working with a team of lads, hard and calloused men, on the Marin tower. Today a fierce storm far out at sea caused tremendous swells to roll into the bay, swells that caused the tower to pitch and sway.
“As the tower shifted, I grabbed a beam for support, then glanced at me men to see if I’d been betrayed by me terror as a coward. ’Twas odd, but I noticed the fear of death in their eyes as well. Later, in the pub, I asked Bull Myers about it, the most hardened of men. He grunted and said, ‘A man without fear is a fool.’ He is right. Men who deny fear, they take chances, do stupid things to prove valor.
“I no longer try to mask me fear. I see no shame to admit that the bridge scares the life from me. But what is even more frightful is the thought of not holding Anna and the young ones in me arms again. And so as it grows heavenward, and I climb the tower day by day, me fear grows into courage and keeps me safe.
“Courageous men are not fearless men, but those who climb despite fear. Everyone has a bridge to climb. At the end of the day, fear and I shake hands and part knowing we’ll meet again when we climb our bridge together.”
As I read Patrick’s words, I imagine the panic my own father must have felt working on the bridge. And yet, I don’t remember ever seeing his fear. Oh, he’d tell me that work was forbidding, even terrifying, but I didn’t notice it in his eyes—only in mine.
>
Since my father’s death I have avoided towers, preferring to stay huddled on the ground. I wonder about uncertainties, my own swells and storms. Will I ever be as courageous as Patrick O’Riley, or as brave as my own father?
While the lesson is significant, it is Patrick’s affection I find most stirring. Below his wisdom, in the margins of the page, Patrick often wrote thoughts of Anna. They are always apart from the engineering calculations, as if he didn’t want their significance to be lost or confused. I don’t pretend to understand their meaning, but two phrases cause reflection. They are haunting expressions, but words that carry strength.
“With this crown, I give my loyalty.”
“With these hands, I promise to serve.”
Ellen was reviewing financial charts on her computer when Dave tapped lightly on the door.
“Dave, come in. Listen, I just spoke with Abel at the governor’s office. They said your conclusions on voter trends were right on the money. They’ve calculated a projected six percent increase in turnout next election cycle with limited resource outlays. They’re talking about expanding the study.”
“That’s great.” Dave tried to sound excited.
“You’re not thrilled?” she asked.
“Of course I am. It’s fabulous. Listen, I’ve been seeing Dr. Jaspers.”
“Already?”
“Three times since we talked, counting this morning.”
“Well, that’s great. So, he’s competent?”
“Of course. Our meetings are going well. I’m scheduled twice a week now for the next eight weeks. I just thought you should know.”
Ellen nodded her approval. “Thanks, Dave—and have him bill the firm directly if insurance doesn’t cover it.”
Dave paused at the door. “You’ve never met the doctor, have you?”
“No. A friend gave me the card and said he was terrific. Why do you ask?”
“The he is actually a she.”
“He’s a woman?”
The Other Side of the Bridge Page 7
