The Other Side of the Bridge

by Camron Wright

  “Yes, that was definitely much better.”

  He could feel her breath against his neck; his arms stayed wrapped around her body. It was innocent, unplanned, but when Dave recognized what was happening, he wasn’t sure if he should pull away or pull her closer. The feeling was warm, yet awkward, pleasant, yet painful.

  When he did finally let go, confusion edged in between them. With both at a loss for words, neither he nor Crystal spoke.

  Jared came to the rescue. “Are you gonna stand there all day, Mom, or bat?”

  “Yeah,” Dave added, his sarcasm masking a still flooding river of emotion. “Are you gonna stand there all day, or bat?”

  Crystal smiled contently as she pulled the bat back into position. Dave took over for Jared, who moved behind home plate. Gracie, her interest long since gone, was picking dandelions on the far side of first base.

  Dave pitched. Crystal swung. Jared called it from behind the plate.

  “Strike three—you’re out!”

  • • •

  The game was a massacre. Though Crystal struck out more than she hit, the boys made up the difference. Dave could smack the ball far into the outfield, but Jared and Glen quickly developed a system for getting the ball back to home plate before Dave could run the bases. With Gracie to follow, they were usually able to force Dave out at home and still manage to tag their sister out as well.

  After an hour Crystal called the game, and everyone headed home.

  It was one of the most pleasant Sundays Dave had spent in months.

  After dinner, while the children were getting ready for bed, Crystal stepped to the couch where Dave was calculating routes on his phone and then checking them against his printed maps.

  Crystal stepped close and whispered almost covertly, “The shop for your bike opens tomorrow. Tonight’s our last chance to talk. I’ll meet you for coffee at the kitchen table in fifteen minutes.”

  Dave nodded his agreement, then watched her slip into Gracie’s room to help her get ready for bed. He couldn’t deny he was enjoying his time here—despite feeling uneasy about getting sidetracked. He finished a few more calculations, folded up his map, then started the coffee. When Crystal entered, he’d already poured the cups.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, sitting beside him. “You seem a little tense.”

  “I didn’t sleep much last night, and I guess I’m worried about fixing my bike.”

  “I had a hard time sleeping as well. We should’ve stayed up to talk.”

  He smiled at her humor. It was familiar. “Yeah, we should have.”

  “Listen,” she said, “these kitchen chairs make my butt sore. Let’s sit on the couch.”

  He agreed, and soon they were seated next to each other in the family room. Tonight they skipped the small talk.

  “Why are you so worried about the motorcycle?” Crystal asked. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  “In a hurry?”

  “Well, you seem a bit apprehensive—as if we’re keeping you from something.”

  “You’re perceptive.”

  “It’s a woman thing.”

  She waited for his answer. He paused, deciding how best to explain.

  “This probably won’t make sense, and I’m sure afterwards you’ll think I’m unstable, but the truth is that I’m going to the Golden Gate Bridge to look for answers.”

  It was a thoughtful pause. “I can understand that.” Her voice was calm, sincere. He waited a moment for her next question, the follow-up question. It didn’t come.

  “Don’t you want to know what answers?” Dave finally asked. “I mean, that’s the next thing everyone asks.”

  “I know exactly what answers.”

  “Really? That’s surprising, because even I’m not sure myself most of the time.”

  “Yes, you are—you just don’t realize it. You’re looking for the same answers that everyone looks for in their life. Let me take a guess—questions like, why me? Why not me? How do I make the pain go away? Will I ever find love again? How do I get up and survive tomorrow after everything that I’ve been through today?” She paused. “So, how am I doing?”

  “How do you know these things?”

  “Because they’re the same questions I asked myself when I packed up the children and moved here—some of the same questions I still ask myself. I am curious about one thing, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why did you choose the bridge?”

  “I think it chose me. I’ve been told that my grandfather considered it a special place. I figured if the bridge worked for him, it might work for me.”

  He watched her lips press together, her head nod forward, her eyes narrow, as she seemed to agree. He had never met anyone, except perhaps Megan, with such empathy. And Crystal was not only perceptive, she was charming—and beautiful, in a girl-next-door sort of way. As he studied her, he realized that she returned his gaze, that she was looking directly into his eyes, yet not saying a word. He wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t—or didn’t.

  Like an actor on stage, on perfect cue, she leaned over in the dim light of the night and kissed him. He kissed her back.

  You have your whole life ahead of you, Ponytail Man. I’m just happy that I’m the one you’ve picked to share it with.

  The feeling was strange—exhilarating, yet profoundly confusing. His pounding heart was being stabbed by tiny pins, and yet he couldn’t discern if the emotion was excitement, guilt, or sorrow. Either way, she was the first woman he had kissed—truly kissed—since Megan.

  I love you, honey. Have a wonderful birthday! And, remember, no matter what, I’ll always be younger.

  In the past, when he couldn’t take the pain of memory any longer, he would force the thoughts away, compel himself to think of other things. In an instant, as Crystal kissed him and he kissed her back, he realized that he was consciously forcing thoughts of Megan from his head. When he recognized what he was doing, the whole notion made him nauseous. He pulled away and looked down.

  She followed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “It’s okay.” The shakiness of his words betrayed the ache now swelling in his chest.

  “It’s not okay. I’m so sorry.”

  He wished that he could retract the moment, change the past—but he knew that such hopes were wasted. Experience had been a meticulous tutor.

  “I have to leave early tomorrow. I need to get some rest,” he said as he stood, trying to not act cold but knowing he was failing miserably.

  “I understand. I’ll see you in the morning.” She excused herself and headed to her own room.

  Dave readied himself for bed and climbed into his sleeping bag. For the second consecutive night, he lay on the couch with his eyes wide open. The walls in the house were thin, and as he contemplated his departure in the morning, he wondered if the muffled sound coming from the back bedroom was that of someone crying.

  • • •

  In the morning he was gone. She was sure he didn’t realize it, but leaving the way that he had, without saying good-bye, caused a flood of familiar and painful memories to surface.

  She fixed breakfast for the children in silence and then readied them for the day. With school out for the summer, Crystal worked three days a week at the district office while the kids played at a day-care center across the street.

  Today, instead of going in to work, she dropped the children off and then drove back home. She’d hoped to see his bike parked out front. Nothing. She walked around the outside of the house and glanced past the field and over toward the park. No trace—nobody there. It was as if he’d been a dream, as if she had imagined the whole encounter. She also knew from painful experience that hoping would never change reality.

  She reached for her keys, considered driving to Darin’s RV to
find him. She wanted to tell him again that she was sorry. She stepped to her car and kicked the tire in frustration before looking heavenward.

  I had to go and kiss him. What was I thinking?

  She weighed heading back to work. They would wonder why she was so late. Instead, she walked inside, called in sick, and then dropped onto the couch. By eleven-thirty, she still hadn’t moved. She couldn’t.

  At the sound of the approaching bike, she jerked upright, bolted to the door, took a breath to collect herself, then stepped quietly onto the porch. She watched him pull into the driveway, drive up onto the walk, and stop just short of the steps. He turned off his bike and removed his black helmet.

  “I see you got your bike fixed,” she said.

  “It was the carburetor.”

  “I would have driven you down to the shop. You didn’t have to walk.”

  “That’s okay. I had to push the bike down anyway—and I was up early.”

  “Well, I’m glad they could help—glad you could get it fixed.”

  He nodded. “I’m relieved that I caught you. I was afraid you would have already gone.”

  “I called in sick today.” She hesitated, then added, “I need to tell you again, Dave, that I’m sorry about last night.”

  He held his finger to his lips. “Please, not another word. I think last night I may have sorely overreacted.”

  She waited, didn’t answer, let him continue.

  “I didn’t mean to run out so quickly this morning. It’s just that if I don’t go now, I won’t make the bridge in time. I need to make it by the Fourth of July.”

  She didn’t understand his urgency, why the date should matter, but she accepted that it did. “Be careful.”

  “Crystal, if this was another place or another time . . .” He paused, taking obvious care to choose his words. “But the thing is—I just don’t have anything that I can offer you right now. I’m not sure that I ever will. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

  “I understand,” she replied, even though she didn’t.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Gracie missed saying good-bye. I wasn’t sure what to tell her.”

  Dave cringed. “It was early and she was asleep.” Even now his excuse sounded hollow. “Please tell her that I’m sorry.”

  “Okay, if that’s what you’d like.”

  Then silence let each know that it was time. He had mounted the Harley and started to put on his helmet when she spoke. “I hope you find your answers, Dave Riley.”

  He stayed on the bike but reached out his hand toward her. She took it, held it. A quick hug followed—a brief embrace—the kind you might give a friend or a relative. It would have to be enough.

  “Thanks, Crystal. I won’t forget you.”

  “Nor I you.”

  Two days earlier, when Gracie had asked if she could keep Dave Riley as a pet, Crystal had had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Standing in the driveway saying good-bye, she bit her lip again, for a different reason.

  She watched as he buckled down his helmet, started the bike, and rumbled out of the driveway. As he passed out of sight, she dropped onto the porch, leaned her head against her folded knees, and wiped at her watery eyes.

  chapter thirty-six

  I’ve been trying his number, but with no success. Every time I call, no matter day or night, the machine picks up. I’ve left three messages. No response.

  The day Janet gave me his number, I felt relieved. I was sure he was the descendant of my Patrick O’Riley—he just had to be. Now, with more time that passes, with days ticking by and still no contact, doubt chews at my heart.

  Tonight, after I dial for the second time since arriving home, I sit down at the computer and run a search on his name. At first I find nothing new, only the same information Janet has already provided. I keep clicking, continue looking. Several pages into my search, I come across a website for a marketing research company, Strategy Data International, in Manhattan. The search engine pulls up the page because among its listed employees is a man named David Riley. The address of the business is not terribly distant from the home address I have for Mr. Riley, and I wonder if he is the same man. On the company’s personnel page, he is listed as a senior vice president. I click the link and, to my surprise, a picture flashes onto my screen.

  His short hair is dark, and a look of confidence radiates in his eyes. I smile because he looks like he might be posing for the cover of a magazine—a mental picture so different from the one I’ve developed for Patrick, a bridge worker. As I study his features, I wonder if the two men resemble one another. Did the man who penned such wisdom in his engineering journal look like the person staring back at me from the computer screen? Are their features similar?

  I find myself dropping into my interrogation mode, my park-bench game. This time the questions are different.

  “Mr. Riley, do you know about your grandfather? Do you realize he spent years of his life alone, building a bridge, so that he could find hope for his family in America? If I send you this priceless journal, will you cherish it or toss it aside? And, Mr. Riley, do you still hold dreams in your heart?”

  My questions end without answers as I pick up the phone and dial his number again. On the third ring, the machine clicks into its hired service. But as I stare at the picture of David Riley smiling back from the computer, it dawns on me that I now have another avenue. It is too late today—no one will answer after hours—but first thing tomorrow I will call the offices of Strategy Data International. First thing tomorrow, I will finally talk with Mr. David Riley.

  Dave headed west. He didn’t look back.

  In the distance, miles over the horizon near the coast, a wall of cool ocean air, heavy with moisture, was sweeping inland. It was moving rapidly toward a blanket of warm desert air that had stagnated midland. Before long the two layers would collide over the San Bernardino Valley, causing the temperature to drop several degrees in just a few minutes. The billowing mass of majestic cumulus clouds was just beginning to thicken and churn near the base of the mountains.

  In the distance, a massive storm was forming.

  The phone rings only once.

  “Good morning. Strategy Data. How may I direct your call?” The young voice is polished and professional.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. David O’Riley, please.” I notice a pause.

  “Do you mean Dave Riley?”

  I chuckle. I’ve been calling Patrick by his last name, O’Riley, for so long that it sounds wrong pronounced any other way. “Yes, my mistake. May I please speak to Dave Riley?”

  “Let me transfer you.”

  After a few clicks, the phone is answered again. This time the woman sounds older, less mechanical.

  “I need to speak to Dave Riley, please.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Riley is out on . . . an extended leave. It could be several days, perhaps longer.”

  It’s odd that they don’t know when he’ll be back. I wonder what message to leave. “May I give you my number? I presume he’ll be checking for messages?”

  “He hasn’t. I’m sorry, I don’t know if he will.”

  It’s a peculiar way to run a professional corporation. But then again, I work at a university. After I recite my number, she asks, “And may I tell him what this concerns?”

  I could tell her that it’s a personal matter, but that won’t give me answers. Instead I decide to respond with a question. “Do you know if Mr. Riley had a grandfather named Patrick?”

  Her silence tells me it’s a question that she’s never been asked.

  “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have that information.”

  It was worth a shot. “If Mr. Riley does check in, please have him call me immediately. I have something valuable that may belong to him.”

  Brock was on the phone when Ellen entered for the th
ird time that morning. She waited patiently—not her usual character—until Brock finished.

  “Anything?” Ellen asked.

  “I talked to a guy named Redd down at the bike shop, a friend of Dave’s. He spoke to him yesterday. I guess Dave was having some bike problems in Colorado, but according to Redd, he got them fixed and is now heading toward the coast.”

  “And you tried his cell number again?”

  “I did. Either the battery’s dead or he’s not answering. I get nothing.”

  “Seriously? How can he not answer?”

  “Don’t blame him for that.”

  Ellen ignored the comment. “Look, just keep trying, and if you hear something, anything at all, let me know.” She turned and headed out of the office, mumbling.

  chapter thirty-seven

  I’ve been working on the report for days—with just five more to go until it needs to be finished. That will be a problem, since I’m currently only a fraction of the way through. It’s not that it’s difficult work. The facts are there; the numbers are there; and, in the name of research, I can plagiarize just about anything. The problem isn’t the information, the problem is the flow. No matter how I try, I can’t get my words to read with any genuine conviction.

  The professor has called twice in the last two days. To say he’s nervous would be an understatement. It is, after all, his reputation that’s on the line. He even invited me over tomorrow for a Fourth of July barbecue—I’m guessing to interrogate me in person about what’s been going on. I’m sure he suspects something is amiss.

  I turned him down. I told him I was working feverishly to finish the report. At last, my response was truthful.

  The worst part is that I still haven’t been able to get in touch with Dave Riley. I call his home number about every two hours, but all I get is his machine. His office won’t give me his cell number, and they even claim they don’t know when he’ll return. I have something of such incredible value for him, and the man doesn’t realize it exists. As I go through the motions, as my mind drifts while I work, the whole situation causes me to question and wonder: Where are you, Dave Riley, and why don’t you call?