The Bridge

by Jill Cox

  We stood like that until the sun set, neither of us saying a word.

  FIFTY-ONE

  There were visitors all over the property when I returned to Gigi’s house on Saturday after the funeral. When I walked through the front door, I could see Pete in the corner of the dining room, talking to a dark-haired young woman and what appeared to be her parents. I lingered in the foyer for a few moments, marveling at Pete’s measured responses. He laughed as the mystery guest put her thumbs on his cheeks, tugging his mouth into a grin, then let himself sink into her mother’s hug and then her father’s. Was this the famous Brooks Darby? So much of Pete’s life was still a mystery to me. I wondered if I would ever know him as well as it felt like he knew me.

  I skulked up the staircase to a long second-story corridor, and when I followed it, I came to a room that was so obviously Pete’s. One entire wall was covered in rows of black frames that featured photographs from all over the globe. I stood there in the middle of the room, with its massive ceiling, staring at each and every image, all printed in sepia for a unifying effect.

  I wondered as I gazed if they were Pete’s father’s work. But then my wits came back, and I realized I was dawdling in Pete’s bedroom during a wake, like some creepy stalker taking advantage of the prey’s distraction.

  I slid a tiny envelope out of my coat and looked around the room for an obvious place to leave it. The lamp next to his bed seemed best, so I propped it there, right next to a small photo of a very young Pete and his parents at Disneyland Paris. He was crazy cute, holding both of their hands wearing silly Mickey Mouse ears on his head, while perfect brown curls threatened to escape from underneath. And those eyes. Even as a child, Pete’s dark eyes bared his old soul.

  But before I could study his parents more closely, I heard someone clearing his throat behind me. “Trespassing is a federal offense, Miss Sullivan.”

  I turned to face Pete, who was leaning against the doorframe, rolling up his sleeves. His tie was already loosened as he hung his suit jacket on a hook by the door. I couldn’t decide if my face was on fire at being caught, at what he’d just said, or simply because he looked so beautiful I felt like I might faint. I wanted to speak, but I couldn’t. Not with the way he was looking at me.

  Pete stepped further into the room, still keeping his distance. “What’s in the envelope?”

  “Cash,” I said flatly. I pointed at a photo on the far end of the wall with a man smoking a cigarette while playing mahjong at a table. “I’d like a print of that shot right there. One of your dad’s, I assume?”

  He glanced at the image, then back at me. “No. These are all mine.”

  Pete nodded his head toward the photos, motioning for me to follow him, and for the next few minutes, the images took on new meaning as he once again walked me through his past. On the far left side was a very serious, very beautiful Kenyan child, scowling as she blew bubbles through a wand. Next was a landscape shot of a dozen humpback whales, all at different heights as they crashed out of the ocean together during a bubble feed.

  “South Island, New Zealand,” Pete explained. “Kaikoura. I took the train from Christchurch. Maybe the coolest thing I’ve ever done.”

  I pointed back to the photo of the man smoking the cigarette. “Who’s your friend?”

  He was someone Pete had met when he lived in Shanghai. Someone he’d played mahjong with every day during those lost months of his life. As he described this man he called Lucky, I began to realize how much Pete had allowed me behind the curtain of his well-guarded life over the past week. The Pete Russell I’d always known was confident, smart, sometimes annoying, always the life of the party. But that wasn’t the real Pete. And now, here in his inner sanctum, I felt like an interloper on some private mind landscape, a place where I had not exactly been invited yet never wanted to leave.

  The last image, the one directly opposite from where Pete and I stood, featured a tall, slender couple standing on the Pont des Arts. They faced away from the photographer, holding hands as they looked toward the Eiffel Tower far in the distance. “These are your parents?”

  Pete nodded, smiling up at the image. But it was more like a grimace, like he was holding back what he really felt when he saw this picture. It must have been torture to wake up every morning and see what you had lost. My mind raced, trying to find some way to divert Pete’s attention without being obvious. But, as always, he did the diverting himself.

  “I was fourteen when I took that picture,” he smiled again, this time wistfully. “It was the first time I’d used my dad’s camera. I think he gave it to me so he and my mom could have some privacy for a minute. That’s also the spot where my grandparents got engaged.”

  I pretended to inspect the image carefully, but despite everything – despite Pete’s unthinkable heartache and my less significant one – all my brain seemed to register was the almost deafening whoosh of my blood through my veins as Pete stepped closer. So close I could feel his sleeve brushing against my coat.

  “What’s in the envelope, Sully?” His eyes stayed on the photograph for a moment, then shifted slowly back to me. “Rule-followers like you don’t normally thumb their noses at propriety. Must be something important to make you enter a grown man’s bedroom without an invitation.”

  “I didn’t…”

  “Is it a pirate map?” He grinned, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Because I could use a little adventure right about now. Or… wait, is it that petition you’ve been threatening to write? The one banning Marshall Freeman from eating chocolate bars during class? Because you know, this highly intelligent person just told me the other day that chocolate is brain food, so…”

  Three weeks ago I might have had a snappy retort, but standing here in Pete’s bedroom as he teased me, I was mute. He watched me quietly for a moment, as though he could see all of my words escaping into the ether. But then he offered me his elbow and guided me over to the window seat at the far end of his room.

  “Have you talked to any of our friends this week?” Pete said as he fiddled with the window before pushing it open. It was unusually warm in here, I realized.

  “No one but Dan,” I answered. “You?”

  “Same.” Pete sat down across from me, elbows on his knees. “I hate to tell you this, Sully, but they are having a way better time than we are.”

  For the first time in several minutes, I felt like I could breathe normally. “Are they? Well, that’s not a huge accomplishment. They’re in Italy.”

  “Would you believe our prayers for that railway strike were heard? They’ve been stuck in Venice for most of the week.”

  “Are you trying to make me cry? Venice was the one place I was looking forward to more than anywhere else.”

  “I know you were. Me too.” Pete smiled again, and I was suddenly aware that his eyes had gone soft. “Did Dan tell you Carnavale’s still going on?”

  “No! Ugh. Rude.”

  “That’s what I said. Dan told me this creepy fog rolls in every evening. All of those masked strangers, strolling around in the haze… it’s sort of enchanting, right?”

  “You shut up, Pete Russell. I hate all four of them.”

  “I sort of hate them, too.” The warmth of his gaze and the softness in his voice filled the space between us. “But maybe you’d feel better if you knew Kelly and Harper ditched the entire Venice itinerary to hang out with some guys they met who study in Seville.”

  “What? Why would they do that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he grinned. “Maybe because my boy finally made his move, and now Dan and Anne are so in love that Harper and Kelly threatened to hitchhike back to Paris without them.”

  I actually gasped. “You’d better not be joking right now.”

  “Oh, I would never joke about the culmination of your life’s work, Emma Woodhouse.” Pete laughed quietly to himself for a moment. “I guess you understand Anne better than I do because I really thought Dan was in the friend zone.”

&n
bsp; “You did?” I crossed my arms. “Why? Dan’s fantastic.”

  “I know.” Pete glanced out at the people gathered in the backyard. “But Anne’s so reserved that I can never figure out what she’s thinking. Even about stupid things, like the weather. Maybe it’s just me. Or maybe she just trusts you more.”

  I shook my head. “She never told me how she felt either way. But the signs have been there all along.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, for one thing, Dan Thomas is the only person who really makes Anne laugh.”

  “Maybe the rest of us aren’t funny.”

  “That’s not true. You’re hilarious.”

  Pete smiled to himself as he looked out the window again. “I guess I’ve noticed one thing. Every day at lunch, when he thinks no one is looking, Dan stands up first, then gives Anne his hand to help her to her feet. Every time it happens, I wait for Anne to say, ‘Check your calendar, buddy. This is not 1793.’ But every single time, she takes his hand. It never fails to shock me.”

  “That’s because you know she’d give you a black eye if you even attempted that move.”

  “Makes you wonder,” he said. But before either of us could say another word, there was a knock at the door, and both of our heads turned to find my brother standing in the doorway.

  “Hey,” Ian said, his expression shifting from stoic to confused to embarrassed all within two seconds. “Sorry to interrupt but Nurse Patty told me I might find you guys up here. They decided to release Dad this afternoon, Fee. We’re going home.”

  “What?” I glanced over at Pete, then back at Ian. “Hold on, like right now?”

  “Right now.” Ian crossed the threshold into Pete’s room. “Mum wants us to pack and check out of the hotel before… wait, who took these photos?”

  Pete’s eyes met mine one more time, and when he stood, he held out his left hand to help me to my feet. It was the tiniest gesture, one that I might never have noticed before today, but when he held on to my hand as we crossed over to Ian, I knew it hadn’t been coincidence. Once we were back in the middle of the room, Pete squeezed my hand tenderly, then released it, starting over from the beginning with the same descriptions he’d given me moments earlier.

  As Ian and Pete compared life notes through the photographs on the wall, the fingers on my right hand ached to slide back into Pete’s. Gigi’s voice suddenly filled my head. There are no accidents. No coincidences. Whether it was just for this moment or for all time, Pete and I were meant to be in each other’s lives. No one could convince me otherwise.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Eight days later, on St. Patrick’s Day, I parked myself on the floor in the far corner of Gate 23, pretending to sleep with my knees pulled to my chest and my face against my arms. But instead of sleeping, I mulled over every moment of the previous two-and-a-half weeks, wondering if it was possible to die of saltwater dehydration because your tear ducts had run dry. Mine certainly had.

  Pete never came to the gate. I boarded the plane with my assigned group, but still, no Pete.

  So when the flight attendant announced that they were about to shut the cabin doors for takeoff, I pushed the call button. Something was wrong. I knew it. So I slid open the home screen of my phone, hit redial on Pete’s American number, then stared out the window at the luggage carts loading bags onto the plane at the next gate.

  Someone’s phone rang behind me, but since the flight attendant had not yet asked everyone to turn off their electronic devices, I didn’t pay much attention. Not until the person I was calling was suddenly speaking to me in stereo.

  “Sully.” I turned to my left, and there Pete was, standing in the aisle, his phone to his ear.

  A million questions buzzed through my mind. But one look at Pete’s face, and they all disappeared. I had never seen him like this. Not when he told me about his parents. Not when Gigi died. Certainly not at her funeral or at the wake, when he’d walked around like such a boss that I’d started to believe he was superhuman.

  But he was not superhuman today. Broken blood vessels dotted his eyelids and under his eyes from crying or puking or both. I hit ‘end call’ and watched as Pete took a seat and settled in beside me.

  He didn’t say another word. He just leaned forward on his elbows, the butt of his hands against his eye sockets. Soon the flight attendant arrived with her perkiest smile, which dissolved when she saw Pete hunched over next to me. Her eyes met mine, questioning at first. But I lifted my hand to her, my eyes pleading with her not to speak, and then placed my palm on Pete’s back. She nodded, reaching above me to click off the call light, and when she left, I thought Pete might shift away from me. He did not. While we taxied through the safety demonstration, I could only hope that my hand resting on his back would reach the Pete I knew, wherever he was inside.

  When the plane stopped to take its place in line for takeoff, Pete sat up straight and looked at me, his bloodshot eyes holding mine, like he had something to say. But then the engines began to accelerate, and Pete leaned his head against the seatback, clinging to the armrests like he might fly away without them. As the plane propelled forward, tears began sliding down his cheeks.

  He didn’t open his eyes again until we arrived at DFW, and on the flight to Paris, we barely spoke. After customs at Charles de Gaulle, we grabbed a cab, which seemed the best way back to school before our ten o’clock class. As the driver pulled away from the terminal, I settled into my seat, watching the Paris morning bustle outside my window, feeling more normal than I had in seventeen days.

  “Glad to be back?” Pete finally said as we crossed over the Seine into the Latin Quarter.

  I turned my head toward him. “I’m getting there. You?”

  He just nodded. “Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t call you after you went back home to Lincoln City. Things got… anyway, how’s your dad?”

  “Well, he’s not playing his clarinet yet, but he’s healing.”

  “I’m glad,” Pete smiled. “So, that envelope you left me. In your letter, you mentioned hopping a ferry from Alaska to Vladivostok. Were you serious? Because I almost texted you a few times to take you up that offer. Though I’m not sure I’ve got the sea legs for it. I hear the Bering Sea is rough.”

  “Yeah,” I sighed. “Which is probably why there’s not a ferry. It was just wishful thinking on my part because I wouldn’t mind disappearing somewhere. I’m sort of done with this year, aren’t you?”

  “Funny you should say that.” Pete fixed his eyes on mine. “Maybe you’ve already guessed this about me, but when things get ugly, my first response is to run away. Most of the time, I figure out a way to push through it. But sometimes, it seems easier to start over.”

  “Sounds fairly normal to me.”

  “I guess so.” He paused, fiddling with a tiny rip in the cab’s leather seat. “But yesterday as I was walking down that long corridor to security, I just… couldn’t. So I turned and walked as far as the food court, then plopped down in an empty seat, staring into the void. Some woman must have thought I was homeless because she bought me a cup of coffee then sped away.”

  Pete turned to look out the window at something far in the distance, and every cell in my body wanted to reach across the space between us and hold him tight. But there was a raven-haired, violet-eyed girl waiting to hold him back at school, so I stayed silent and let him continue.

  “When my parents died, I was ready to run before the hospital even released me. While I was lying there immobile on the bed, I convinced myself that the pain would disappear faster if my surroundings were foreign. Gigi spent weeks trying to talk me out of it. She didn’t succeed.”

  “Well, that explains why she helped you plan your trip. If she couldn’t stop you, at least she could know where you’d be.”

  Pete laughed wistfully. “Man, we went around and around over every single thing. I asked her how helping James run the homeless shelter could ever be a bad thing. I accused her of wanting to keep me childlike and imprisoned i
n that gigantic house. I even told her she was not my mother. But Gigi took it all in stride. She kept reminding me that even if I did manage to distract myself, I was just putting off the process. The road must be walked, blah, blah, blah.”

  “Wow. Has Gigi always been such a life guru?”

  “I’m pretty sure she’s just a country music fan who ripped off a bunch of lyrics.” He paused, and the smile quickly evaporated from his face. “But Gigi’s not here to stop me now, Sully. Yesterday morning all of the old arguments flooded back into my mind. It doesn’t take much to make a difference in someone’s life. James does it every day, all day long, and he has no time to think about his own drama. So I called the Logans from the café and asked them if they knew how long it takes to expedite a Chinese visa at the San Francisco consulate.”

  My mouth suddenly went dry. “You’d do that? Just walk away?”

  “Until twenty minutes before our flight left, I was still making my pro-con list.” He looked up at the buildings outside, then back at me. “We’ll be back at school in maybe five minutes, Sully. And when we walk through those doors, everyone will sweep us back into our normal lives. Except it won’t seem normal to us, because you and I aren’t the same two people who left.”

  Pete reached across the space between us and wrapped his fingers around mine. “What I needed to tell you, Sully, is that you are the reason I got on the plane yesterday. You were there the night my parents died. You were there when Gigi died. I think you’re the only person left who knows who I really am. The only person who can bridge both worlds with me. So keep an eye on me, okay? Make sure I stay anchored to my past, that I’m still the person my family loved. It’s way too easy to lose what matters when you’re distracted.”

  FIFTY-THREE

  We share a well-known expression with the French: Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. The more things change, the more they stay the same. I’d really never understood that saying until Pete and I walked back into the Centre Lafayette that morning.