The Other Side of the Bridge

by Camron Wright

  I apologize for sounding negative. In truth, I’ve always been a romantic, always wanted to settle down and have a family. Currently, the notion feels so fleeting and distant.

  I mentioned that I was single and twenty-six, that I lived with my father until his death. While all of that is true, and I’m still looking for someone to spend my life with, I haven’t always been alone. At twenty-one, with two semesters left before graduation—my first graduation—I met Eric.

  Dave turned up the volume. It was one of his favorite CDs—American Fool, with John Cougar Mellencamp singing his heartfelt ballad about Jack and Diane.

  He’d hoped that the kids would quiet down and appreciate the music; as usual, they just talked louder to compensate.

  The coastal drive was refreshing. Once they dropped the children off at Nancy’s, he would really crank up the tunes. It was frustrating. Couldn’t they see that this was real music—classic rock, feel-it-in-your-soul, sing-about-life, make-a-difference music?

  “Hey, guys, listen up,” Dave tried again. “Give John a break, will you?”

  “Who’s John?” Angel asked from the backseat. It was just enough to get Dave started.

  “Baby, we’ve had this talk before,” he preached. “John Mellencamp, singer of true music—ageless music.”

  Megan sat in the passenger’s seat, deep into her novel and oblivious to life around her. In his usual sarcastic form, Brad piped in. “Please, Dad, tell us all about it one more time.” Brittany rolled her eyes.

  “I will,” Dave replied, as he began to extol the virtues of classic rock over modern bands. “Listen to the emotion in his words—”

  The boulder slammed onto the road so suddenly that Dave just caught a glimpse before it smashed into the front passenger’s side tire. The van jolted to the left as the tire blew and the axle buckled. Brittany screamed as they slid sideways, the van vibrating violently as metal scraped the road. Dave jerked at the steering wheel, straining in vain to regain control. It wouldn’t budge.

  The air surrounding Dave felt instantly warm, hard, and impenetrable as life tore into broken pieces. Sound distorted. Time slowed. Megan’s book dropped to the floor as the van rolled onto its side and then slid over the embankment. Her hand caught Dave’s shoulder, grasping desperately for support, before slipping loose. The windshield shattered, bursting into thousands of tiny pieces, filling the van like particles in a kaleidoscope as it turned and bent and twisted. Dave tried to look over his shoulder—where were the kids? Brad should have been buckled in but was thrown against the ceiling, or was it the floor? And where were Brittany and Angel? A warm and dark liquid began to fill in the edges of the scene, blurring his vision. Where, he wondered again, was Angel?

  Then everything went black.

  I’m fascinated by circumstance—the way insignificant events catapult our lives into strange directions. It’s happened to me.

  I had a handful of classes left to graduate: one on European culture, and the rest electives. The required class was offered at two separate times, and, being a bit meticulous, I’d already worked out my schedule based on the Tuesday/Thursday course. When I couldn’t add the class online, the registrar’s office suggested I be at the school early the next morning. That’s when the water pipe broke.

  It was a main line—a huge, cavernous thing that runs below the busy streets, hidden from our view, silently carrying water through the city. And like so many things in our lives, no one thinks twice about it until it ruptures.

  On the morning I needed to register, I awoke to a street flood in front of the house, with heavy equipment digging up the asphalt and blocking my car from leaving the garage.

  Though the city’s mass transit is excellent—and I’m not complaining—I hadn’t planned on the extra time it would take to reach the school. When I arrived, registration was well under way, and the class I needed, the class I’d planned my life around, was completely full. I begged, I pleaded, I whined. They smiled and put me at the bottom of a waiting list thirty students long.

  In addition to ending up in the Monday/Friday class, I also lost my part-time job. My boss at the time had already arranged schedules, and when my circumstances changed, he couldn’t accommodate.

  I was heartbroken—until I walked into European Culture and met Eric Aldridge. He was friendly and cute and we hit it off immediately. Being a bit shy, I was flattered that he’d taken an interest in me.

  We started to date, and by Thanksgiving the relationship had turned serious. He was starting a job in L.A., and our plans were to marry after my graduation in April. We found a cute apartment in Long Beach, and though it wasn’t the ideal situation for an engaged couple, I would come down on weekends after class to spend time with him.

  As the end of the semester neared, with wedding plans under way, I was giddy. Soon I’d be married to Eric—a man I loved, a man who lifted me up, a man who helped me forget my doubts and insecurities.

  With graduation approaching, I’d planned to skip my weekend visit with Eric to finish my final project at the university. Then an odd thing happened—another water pipe ruptured near the history building, closing that portion of the campus for the weekend. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, but I packed a few things in the car and headed to L.A.

  As I reflect back now, I’m amazed how the simple bursting of a water pipe changed my life forever. If not for the flood outside my apartment the day I went to register for class, I wouldn’t have met Eric.

  And not just the first water pipe, but the second one as well. For had it not ruptured near the history building, the university would have remained open, I would have stayed to work on my project, and I wouldn’t have surprised Eric in our apartment sleeping with another woman.

  Amid my tears and heartache, my father encouraged me to not give up on love, to still keep hope alive in my heart. Since he’s been gone, however, it’s been difficult to believe. Yet during times of stillness, when I sit alone and ponder my life’s direction, I try to remember my father’s wisdom. I try to believe that if it wasn’t Eric, then there still must be someone out there for me. And so I keep looking.

  Mostly, though, I find myself watching out for broken water pipes.

  chapter seven

  Dave’s head throbbed. Was everyone okay? He could still hear the sounds, smell the horror of the accident surrounding him. Yet, when he opened his eyes, it was gone.

  The sun streamed through the room’s only window. The sheets were tucked in tight, clean and sterile; the smell was clinical. He tried to sit up, but a pain shot down his left arm. A downward glance revealed a glossy translucent tube extruding from a snippet of white tape and gauze attached to his forearm.

  “Megan . . . Brad . . . Brittany . . .” His voice was hoarse and raspy. No one answered. He reached over with his right arm and pressed the red button on the side rail. Nothing. He pushed it again, and then again.

  The door swung open and a uniformed nurse scurried into the room. With darting eyes, she surveyed his condition.

  “You’re awake!” Her eyes carried a look of surprise.

  “Where am I?”

  “Connecticut Valley Hospital in Middletown.” She moved over to the bed, held his wrist for a moment, then scribbled on the bedside chart. “Please, don’t move. Stay still and let me call the doctor.” Before he could mouth his next question, she whisked herself out of the room. No sooner had the door closed than it swung back open, and in stepped a familiar figure.

  Dave glanced up. “Brock?”

  His friend’s eyes looked tired, his right cheek red with crisscrossed fabric impressions suggesting he had been sleeping against an upholstered chair. Brock approached the bed with hesitation.

  “Uh, how’s it going? I mean—wrong question.”

  “Today . . . what’s today?” Dave’s thoughts were clouded. It was difficult to string words together.


  “You missed your birthday by a day. The doctors weren’t sure at first if you were going to make it.”

  Both Dave’s hands quivered. “Megan . . . how is she?”

  Brock rocked back as he rolled in his lips. It was as if he’d been rehearsing his practiced answer for hours, but now that the question had been posed, the words had fled. All that came out was a whisper, “I’m so sorry, Dave, so very sorry.”

  Panic pounded at Dave’s chest as he shook his head back and forth, refusing to believe the news. His movement caused the alarm to sound at the central monitoring station out in the hall.

  “The kids! Where are my kids?”

  Brock cast his glance downward as he continued to shake his head.

  Emptiness poured in through the window and door, filling the room and holding Dave hard against the bed. He needed to get up and find his wife and children, but he couldn’t move his arms or legs—he couldn’t breathe. His chest ached and heaved and a pain shot into his left shoulder, but he didn’t care.

  He now wished for death to snuff out his life as well.

  While he continued to writhe and cry, a doctor entered the room and, with the help of a nurse, pushed a syringe of sedative into the IV tube that was taped to Dave’s arm. Within seconds the room and all of its surrounding agony began to fade into a brilliant white. Dave turned his head on the pillow as his body fell limp into a drug-induced sleep.

  • • •

  The reporter on CNN detailed the severity of the Midwest flood. Live video of the disaster featured farmers in rowboats floating around barns. Dave witnessed the destruction from the comfort of his living-room couch.

  “The president is scheduled to tour the area this afternoon,” the reporter continued, “and it’s widely anticipated that the governor will seek federal disaster area assistance.”

  The devastation didn’t faze Dave—it never registered as he looked past the reporter, past the television set, past the events of the day. His gaze was distant, detached.

  I enjoy my art, but honestly, I can paint anytime. Watching my kids grow up, being there with them, with you—I’m living my dream.

  The picture on the set switched to the weekly forecast, where a young, smiling meteorologist predicted a continued wet year across much of the country.

  Climb in bed, Angel, we’ll hide here ’til Mommy catches us.

  The doorbell startled him. How long had he been dreaming? He checked the tabletop for the remote—not there. He searched in between the cushions—nothing. Finally, he stepped to the set and pushed the power off. The doorbell rang again. He inched to the door, sucked in a deep breath, and pulled on the knob.

  On the porch stood six members of his Red Sox baseball team. They shifted their weight uneasily, looking like they weren’t sure how to properly stitch together the message they had come to deliver. Kevin, curly-haired and lanky, and the most outgoing on the team, had obviously been designated the spokesperson. “Hey, Coach Riley.”

  “Guys, how are you?”

  “Fine, Coach. We just, uh, well, we haven’t really had a chance to talk. And, well . . . we wanted to come by and tell you again how sorry we are, about the accident.” Kevin’s shoulders lifted, perhaps relieved to no longer carry the weight. He continued, “We’ve missed you at the games and stuff, but that’s not why we’re here.”

  Dave inhaled slowly. He couldn’t break down in front of the team.

  Kevin continued. “We didn’t know if you’d heard or not, but last Friday we took the region championship.”

  One of the other boys pulled out a trophy he’d been concealing and handed it to Dave. The base was polished walnut; the silver statue on top depicted a player solidly hitting a ball.

  “This is for you,” the boy added.

  “We play on Saturday for state,” Kevin piped up, “and we’ve decided to dedicate the game to Brad. We’ll understand if you can’t make it . . . but we wanted to invite you anyway.”

  Dave bit hard into his tongue, vowing to keep his choking emotions at bay. He forced what he hoped would be considered a smile.

  “I appreciate it, men. It means a lot, and it would have meant a lot to Brad.” He weighed their invitation before speaking again. “I apologize for not being there for the team the last couple of months. It has been pretty rough. But plan on me for Saturday night—count me in.”

  The boys tossed each other affirmative glances, looking happy they’d been able to do some good. “That’d be cool, Coach. We play the Twins from East Windsor and we think we can take ’em.”

  “Of course you can. I have faith in you guys.”

  “Great, we’ll see you Saturday.”

  Dave waved, waited, pushed the door closed, leaned back against the wood, and then slid down to the entry tile in a noiseless heap.

  chapter eight

  As an only daughter, I learned from my frugal father how to make simple repairs around the house. I can now afford to hire others to do this type of work, but I can’t bear the thought of disappointing my father.

  What this means is that I spent my two weeks of vacation painting the outside of my house. I’d been waiting for the painting fairies to take care of the project while I slept. When they didn’t show by the second day, I tackled the project on my own.

  The downside is coming back to the pressures of a project at the university that is behind schedule before it even starts. While most seasoned researchers would begin at the university library, I start this morning at home with my father’s roll-top desk. The shelves within the desk and the wall behind it are covered with books about the bridge. Since my father’s death, I haven’t spent much time in his den. The desk recalls lonely memories, like barbed-wire barriers keeping me at bay. Oh, I come in and dust and vacuum and clean the windows. I’ve even sorted through the drawers and straightened the stacks of papers. What I haven’t done is clean out its contents.

  The desk is old. It was old the day my father acquired it at an estate sale up in the Mission District. But the lock and drawers still work perfectly. Today, my skin chills as I twist the key to release the catch. As the desk swallows its rickety cover, I wonder, like Pandora, if demons wait inside to be released.

  But once it is opened and exposed, I am reminded that not all of the memories sheltered inside cause me grief. On the right inside panel, there is a picture I painted in the third grade of a house with a chimney and a white picket fence. I pull it toward me for a closer look.

  There are smiling faces in three of the windows and a dog named Oscar in the fourth. There are cows and pigs and a pasture blended with bushes and trees and small scribbles of yellow flowers in the yard. Next to the house, tall golden and orange spires of a bridge spring forth from the ground. The cable from the bridge connects to the house, becomes a part of it—as if the Golden Gate Bridge is connected to every home.

  It is a curious picture because there is no water, no deep rugged canyon, no ocean for the orange bridge to span. There is just a house, a family, a pasture with animals, and a bridge.

  I remember when I presented the picture to my father. He seemed pleased, but then asked, “Katie, where’s the ocean?” He meant no harm, but when he asked, I realized for the first time that I’d drawn the picture wrong. I could feel my face flush, which he must have noticed, for he pulled me close and declared it to be the best picture of the bridge he’d ever seen. We left the house and walked together to the drugstore where he purchased a frame. At home, he waited until I was watching and then hung the picture next to the spot where he liked to sit and read. It stayed near him always from then on, and to a little girl it represented a part of me that had blended with him. And though I had no memories of my mother or the cancer that took her by my second birthday, it helped me to know that I was still part of a family. Now, many years later, I’m amazed that the desire to belong, felt by a little girl so very long ago, bubbles t
o the surface with such ease.

  I know that I must begin my research, so I replace my childhood picture of the bridge and remove several volumes about the Golden Gate from the shelf—some are picture books, others are histories. As I flip their pages, I wonder what I can contribute that hasn’t already been said or drawn or written. Can an obscure university researcher make a difference to anyone?

  I work most of the day and late into the evening. After I’ve made pages of notes, my eyes begin to burn. It’s past midnight, and since I have to be at work early, I return the volumes to their shelves. It is when I look for the key, which I’d dropped into the main desk drawer, that I notice the corner of a book. Only an inch or so of its spine shows from beneath stacks of old bills. I pull it out and study the cover, but there is no title. It’s bound in leather, though it’s flaking off in small pieces from the spine to reveal a decaying, powdery fabric beneath.

  As I open the book, several pages of an old telephone directory that had been placed loose within the cover fall to the desk. I ignore them and turn to the book’s inside cover where I see the handwritten name of Patrick O’Riley. It is dated 1931. Below the date is an address in Parkside, a few miles from where I live. As I turn the pages, I see notes and hand-drawn pictures. The penmanship is hard to read, but the pages include detailed drawings and cross sections of the Golden Gate, like it could be a forgotten engineering journal of the bridge.

  I search the desk and the shelves to see if I have missed other volumes, but all I see besides old bills are more directory pages. Many of the names are crossed off, and I recognize my father’s handwriting in the margins.