“Let’s start with the things that frustrate you.” The doctor’s question was a fair one.
“I go crazy when people say to my face that I’m still young, that I’ll get married again. Like age matters, like some other woman could replace Megan, like the act of being married was the thing that was most important—not the person.”
She nodded her agreement. “What else?”
“I hate it when people tell me that they know how I feel. No one knows how I feel. They don’t understand the moments that I shared with Megan and the children. They haven’t a clue what my family meant to me—they simply can’t. They shouldn’t say they know what I’m going through—they don’t.”
Although Dave often felt the doctor was controlling, and he still despised being forced into the sessions, he couldn’t deny that their conversations were helpful, even soothing. He continued, “I suppose you’re going to tell me to cut them some slack, that the people who say those things are only trying to help.”
“Aren’t they?”
“I guess so. It’s just confusing. How do you control yourself when you’re feeling two opposite emotions—disdain and gratitude—both at the same time?”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, David, or on others. It’s a painful process, so try to be patient.”
Her answer was indirect, not really an answer at all. Perhaps there was no answer.
“David, during our last visit you said that you were going to clean out some of Megan’s personal things from the house. Have you done that yet?”
“No. I’ve been busy at work.”
“I want to prepare you for the experience. When you do find the time, it can be difficult.” She stood and adjusted the thermostat, then added, “You said that work has been busy—I’m glad to see you’re getting involved again. I am concerned, however, that you’re using it to hide your feelings, to smooth them over rather than face them.”
He leaned forward in his chair. “I’m facing them . . . little by little.” His words were paced and steady.
“David, if you feel that working hard will assist in easing the pain, then I don’t see a problem with it. I’m just saying that you need to be careful that you don’t let it get in the way of healing.”
“That sounds just like something my mother would have said.” His tone mocked, but she accepted the comparison.
The alarm on his watch sounded. He used it to limit the length of their conversations—an excuse to get back to the office.
“The fact that you are able to reason through these feelings, David, that you are able to talk about them now—I think you’re making progress.”
He nodded his satisfaction, stood, and shook her hand. He thanked her again for her help and insight. On his way out, but before the door had closed, he confirmed what both already knew.
“See you on Friday?”
• • •
The game had been fabulous. With the Mets behind by one in the bottom of the ninth, and a runner on second base, their third baseman nailed a line drive to the shortstop. The ball bounced off his glove, and the runner on second rounded third to head for home. It was close, but the umpire yelled safe and the game was tied. At a two-and-two count, the next batter connected solidly, hammering the ball toward right field. It seemed to hang in the air, as if hesitating, but perhaps encouraged by the roaring crowd dropped just out of reach over the fence for one of the most memorable walk-off home runs Mets fans had ever witnessed.
It was nearly eleven before Brock’s car stopped in front of Dave’s house in Jamesburg. “What a game,” Brock announced for the umpteenth time.
Dave agreed, the mood celebratory. “I’m gonna run in and see if they show highlights on the news. I still can’t believe Westman’s play at the plate.”
The evening had been refreshing: no sentimentality, no discussions about pain or loss or anger—just an evening of hot dogs, beer, and baseball.
“What’s your plan for tomorrow?” Brock asked. “Do you wanna pick up some women?”
Dave laughed. “Thanks, but I’ll pass. Believe it or not, I made a haircut appointment for tomorrow morning—and on my own, I might add. After that, I’ve got some yard work to do.”
“A haircut? Way to go! But don’t strain yourself mowing. Your big meeting’s on Monday.”
“Nine a.m. in the conference room.”
“See you then.”
The friends slapped hands, then Dave stepped out and closed the car door. The night was gorgeous. He stood in the street and watched Brock drive away, and as the purr of the engine faded into the darkness, Dave wondered if there could be a more exhilarating sound in all the world. He grabbed the mail out of the box and wandered toward the house. The neighborhood was quiet, and he considered sitting on the porch for a bit to drag out the moment, until he checked the time—just after eleven. News would run for another ten minutes; then he could catch the sports recap.
He pushed his key into the lock, opened the door, and switched on the inside entry light. A flash startled him as the fixture’s last bulb blew. He’d been meaning to replace the two that were already burned out. “Nothing like darkness to force a guy into action,” he mumbled.
He felt his way into the kitchen, clicked on the light, and opened the pantry door. Where were the extra bulbs? None there. He stepped to the island and pulled open the junk drawer. Every home had one, a place for odd tools and one-of-a-kind parts that fit nothing (until after they were thrown away). He rifled through the junk, but no bulbs.
He glanced at his watch. He still had time to check the hall closet where Megan kept the cleaning solutions. Nothing. Thinking maybe she kept the bulbs up high where the kids wouldn’t break them, he pulled aside a black plastic bag that took up most of the top shelf. If he didn’t hurry, he would miss the replay of Westman’s slide.
And then an unexpected smell caught his attention.
He pulled out the bag and tore it open. It had been such a good day, a needed day, that it took a minute for the demons he’d unleashed from inside to escape and then assault.
The leather jacket was thick and soft, the construction solid. The smell seemed to rise and circle before constricting around his neck and chest. When he turned the jacket over, he noticed the subtle Harley-Davidson logo embossed in black on the left sleeve. An envelope slid out that Dave managed to catch before it hit the floor. The flap was tucked inside; Megan hated the taste of the glue. He pulled out the card and stared—a funny card, she always bought a funny card.
There was a dog on the front and words that read, “Howl old are you again?”
Another day, another time, perhaps he’d have read the punch line and laughed. Not today. The only place his eyes focused was on Megan’s handwritten message.
Hey, Ponytail Man,
Don’t be sad, honey, about turning forty. You have your whole life ahead of you. I’m just grateful you chose me to share it with you.
Enjoy the jacket, but don’t get any ideas! Have a wonderful birthday! You are the love of my life, a life that would be incomplete without you!
Forever,
Meg
P.S. Remember, no matter what, I’ll always be younger!
It should have been a special gift—it could have been. Why did he think the pain wouldn’t return, cutting his heart like a razor? He dropped to the floor, the jacket clutched in his fingers. Heaving sobs rushed in to replace the space abandoned by the day’s happiness.
On hands and knees, Dave crawled to the cherrywood cabinet and grappled for the closest bottle—it didn’t matter what. Then, whiskey in hand, he cowered along the wall to the waiting darkness of the hall, where he began to drink . . . drink and forget.
chapter sixteen
“He’s not here yet?” Ellen questioned. Gloria shook her head. Shaun Safford from BikeHouse had been waiting in the conference room for al
most ten minutes. Not a good way to impress a client.
“I just tried his cell. He’s running late. He said to get started.”
“Late? Are you kidding?” Disappointment spread across Ellen’s face like an afternoon shadow. She turned to Gloria. “We’re going to start without him. If he arrives within ten minutes, send him in. Otherwise, tell him I have the account covered.”
“Yes, ma’am, I understand.”
Dave walked through the door twenty-two minutes later. Gloria glanced up in horror at his appearance. In place of his Armani suit and slacks, he wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a black leather jacket. Stubble showed on his face. His hair was tousled.
“Mr. Riley? Are you all right? You look like . . .” She stopped herself before the word slipped out.
Despite being late, Dave didn’t rush. He seemed to be in no hurry to get to the meeting. “Honestly, I’ve had better weekends,” he replied.
“Is there anything that I can do?” She pitied his condition, hated to see him this way. It was tragic—no, heartbreaking—to watch someone with such potential waste away.
He shook his head. “Thanks, I’m fine.”
“The meeting has started. Ms. Brewer asked me to tell you she has it covered.”
“Thanks, but I’m supposed to be in charge.”
“Yes, but she—”
He ignored her words and walked to the door. He could hear Ellen’s voice inside. He looked back at Gloria and mumbled. She couldn’t tell if he was speaking to her or to himself. Either way, it was an unfolding disaster.
“Just doing the best that I can,” he repeated.
Dave glanced down, as if noticing his appearance for the first time. Then, wiping all emotion from his face, he twisted the handle and pushed himself inside.
At eleven a.m., I grab my jacket and head out the door. The drive to the bridge is short, and I park at the south end, near Lincoln Boulevard. I enter the maintenance offices and walk past the receptionist as if I belong. She looks familiar, but I can’t remember her name. She looks like she is thinking the same about me.
Though it has been two years since my father’s death, many of the same people still work on the bridge. I am looking for one man in particular, Tom Woods.
Tom was promoted to fill the position of team supervisor after my father’s death. The two were close, and though he’s a roughened man, it was especially hard for him to accept Dad’s passing.
I find Tom sitting in the office that was once my father’s. He seems genuinely surprised by my visit. “Katie Connelly? Wait, let me guess, you’re engaged!”
I can’t tell if he is joking, but that is his nature. His subtle wit causes me to relax—to feel at home in a place that now feels foreign.
“Not yet! I’m waiting until you’re available.”
I know he’s amused, but he doesn’t smile—not at his own jokes, and certainly not at mine.
“I just need to check with Millie.” He doesn’t give me time to think of a comeback before he continues, “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Two men are sitting close, and my reluctance must be apparent.
“Tell you what,” he says, “I need some fresh air. What do you say we take a walk?”
I nod and we step out to stroll across the bridge. After a moment, I begin. “I appreciate your time.” I’m not sure how much to tell him, but I know that I must start somewhere.
“Katie, the pleasure is always mine.”
I continue, “I’m wondering, does the name Patrick O’Riley mean anything to you?”
He stops and tips his head, as if that will help him think. Seconds pass as he processes the name. “No, not that I recall, but at my age, I can barely remember what I ate for breakfast.”
I add more information, hoping it will help. “I found a journal in some of my dad’s things. It’s an old journal, Patrick’s journal. He was an engineer or a worker on the bridge.”
“You’re trying to find him?”
“I presume he’s dead. I’d just like to know more about him, about where the journal came from. I was hoping that you’d know.”
“I’m sorry, Katie. I wish I could help, but your father never spoke about a journal—at least not one that this old brain can recall.”
He can read my disappointment, but we continue to walk and reminisce. We talk about my father, the good man that he was, and as we do, I see the slightest sign of sadness in Tom’s face.
“Every day!” he finally whispers, though it’s almost a mumble.
“Every day what?” I ask.
“Your father,” he concedes. “I think about him every single day.”
I reach out and squeeze the man’s hand, hoping to comfort, but he wears a halo of hesitation, like the words he needs to say are lodged in his throat.
He turns to face me directly. “Katie, if I had just—”
“Tom!” I demand, stomping on the cement. “There’s nothing you could have done!”
He takes a heavy breath. “That’s hard to say,” he replies as he rocks backwards. “Katie, I don’t believe I ever told you, but I was supposed to be out on the girder with the jumper that day. It was my turn to take the next one, and I would have, except . . .”
It’s news that he shares with such sorrow, my chest tightens. “Except what?” I ask.
“Except that I forgot my gloves. We were just beginning our shift, and so I went back for them. But by the time I’d caught up to your father, he was already out on the beam across from where the boy was standing. He was just talking to the kid like they were friends in the park on a Sunday afternoon.”
“Kid? He was eighteen, right?”
“Yes, and so I guess he should be called a man, though he looked like a scared boy to me.”
“They said it was an accident. Was it?”
Tom nods as he answers. “The kid was out on the far girder and was threatening to jump. I guess he was having family problems. It took just a minute or two for your dad to talk the boy into coming back. Your father was good at that, so approachable—but then the boy lost his footing. As he slipped sideways, he grabbed onto the top of the beam with one hand, screaming and barely hanging on. The only way your dad could get close enough to help him in time was to undo his own harness.”
“I wish he hadn’t done that,” I whisper.
“Katie, not all the workers would have—but your dad was different that way. You see, some of the guys here look down on the jumpers as if they’re . . . I don’t know . . . delusional, or damaged—but not your father. People’s problems didn’t keep him from seeing them as . . . equals . . . struggling with their own issues, certainly, but, as he would say, aren’t we all?”
“Yes, I remember that.”
“It was hard because I couldn’t get there in time to help. He’d reached for the boy and had managed to grab one of his arms, except the kid was stronger than he looked. He was terrified that he was going to fall. Your dad had him, and it would have been fine, but as he swung the kid close, the boy somehow reached out with his free hand and grabbed your father’s boot, and, well . . .”
Tom’s eyes shimmer with guilt, mine with sorrow.
“It wasn’t your fault, Tom,” I reassure.
“As I said, that’s sometimes hard to say. I guess I just wanted you to know that your dad was brave—but you knew that already.”
We stand quietly for a long moment, and then I thank him. When I extend my hand to say good-bye, he surprises me by leaning forward for an unexpected embrace. Then, as I walk away, he calls after me.
“Wait, Katie. Do you remember Ben Bryant? He worked with your dad for several years before I came on board. You may want to give him a try . . . about the journal. He may know something.”
I remember Mr. Bryant as a bald and cantankerous old man, though it has been at least ten years since I
’ve seen him. I’m not even sure that I would recognize him, let alone hope that he’d remember me. “Does he still live in the city?” I ask.
“No, as I recall, he retired to Palm Springs.”
“I hope Palm Springs, California, and not Palm Springs, Florida.”
“California, all right. I think he bought a condo there with his wife—don’t remember her name. I can check with Human Resources and see if they have his number.”
I tell him how much I appreciate his help and friendship. For the second time I see a glimmer of emotion—this time, gratitude. We talk for a minute longer, then I say good-bye and head toward home.
On the drive, I am already planning. Palm Springs is eight hours away in good traffic. I have the silly banquet this weekend, but I consider driving down to see Ben the following weekend. Of course, the simpler alternative would be to look up his number and call. And yet, if he doesn’t remember me on the phone, I could blow my only chance. As I weigh the alternatives, I find words from the journal rushing into my head.
“ . . . and so for the balance between speed and quality—I let me own scale tip toward the latter.”
I decide not to rush it. At the moment, Ben Bryant is my only lead.
chapter seventeen
When Dave entered the room, all conversation stopped.
It was called the Brain Room, the place in a growing company where, every Monday morning, meetings were held with key executives to discuss strategy. Until the accident, Dave had attended every one. This morning he studied the ornate woodwork as if seeing it for the first time. A large Blackwood table filled the center of the room. Two dozen chairs outlined the perimeter; only three were currently filled.
Dave’s attention turned to those seated at the table: Ellen, Brock, and Mr. Shaun R. Safford from BikeHouse. Any one of them could have adorned the cover of a fashion catalog—anyone but Dave.
Ellen’s eyes grew noticeably wide. Shaun shifted in his chair. Brock stood, breaking the silence in an obvious rescue attempt. “Dave, glad you could make it. We’ve barely started.”
The Other Side of the Bridge Page 9
