Bridge to a Distant Star (40 page)

He'd just reached for the door when Sarah blurted out, “Doctor, wait. Would it be possible for Michal and me to have just a few more minutes alone?”

“Absolutely. Take as much time as you need; they can wait. I'll beat them off with my stethoscope if I have to.”

“Twenty minutes?”

“You've got thirty. Going back to Michal's room, are you? Then I'll meet you all in the lounge in a half hour.”

Bill looked around the room at the small group gathered there. They were strangers—and yet, no longer. Intimates, in a way, but not that either. All touched by tragedy, now forming fledgling relationships for an unknown future—but one they would face with newly discovered hope. “I, um …” he stammered. Finding himself uncharacteristically without a sense of clear direction. Except for one thing. “Before you leave us, Sarah and Michal, is anyone else feeling this … sense of urgency like I am? That we six need to … to be together? To stay together, somehow?”

Vigorous nods and affirmations of “Oh, yes,” from everyone followed. His gaze traveled from one to another, but he allowed it to rest longer on Fran and Aubrey. Aubrey had latched onto Fran's gown again, and Bill looked lovingly from his daughter's hand to the woman Aubrey had miraculously claimed as someone she would determinedly love. And who would in turn love her, Colleen … and
me?
Bill pondered.

Minutes later, Sarah helped Michal with the ungainly IV, tucking her back into bed, even though it would be a brief respite. Sarah took Michal's hands between her own, holding them tightly.

“Aunt Sarah, I … I need to talk to you about something.”

Sarah smiled at her, reassuringly. “About why you were on the bus.”

What she'd left behind came rushing back, and Michal nodded her head, her eyes flooding with tears. “Beth—” Michal could get no further, and abruptly stopped.

“I heard. Amongst the crowd waiting out there is a Miss Hamilton, your RA, I understand?” Michal nodded. “So Beth had a baby in the dorm. And no one knew she was pregnant. I take it … you didn't know either?”

Michal shook her head. “I had no idea, Aunt Sarah. And the night before I left, she had the baby right there in our room.” It was a relief to finally tell it all, to let the truth come tumbling out. “She went through all that without telling me—being pregnant. Labor. Not confiding in me because I wasn't worthy of her trust.”

“You shouldn't blame yourself, Michal. Beth made her own decisions.”

“But that's not all. Something else happened too.” She turned away, felt her face flush crimson.

“You know I'm just going to keep on loving you, no matter what you tell me.”

Michal took a deep breath, still avoiding her aunt's steady gaze. “Stephen tried to … touch me.” Her voice caught, and between sobs she choked out, “He said it was God's will. That I wanted it—that I'd led him on. I tried to push him away. But he was so strong.

“And then suddenly Allistair was there. Pulling Stephen off me. I hate to think what would've happened if he hadn't. But I was so ashamed that Allistair … what he saw. I don't think I can ever face him again.” She turned, her eyes boring into Sarah's now. “So you see why I just had to get away from there. I don't want to ever go back. And please don't send me to Ethiopia either. Could I … could I come live with you? Please, Aunt Sarah?”

Sarah's eyes were soft, but her answer was firm. “No, Michal, you can't.”

The unexpected rejection hit like a punch to Michal's stomach. But before she could utter a word, Sarah reached up to cradle Michal's face in her hands. “The feelings and memories will forever be with you. But hear me, Michal. Hear my heart. Following God means you may have to go where it hurts. Don't waste the pain, Michal. Follow it all the way to the cross with Christ.”

Her voice flat, Michal stated, “You think I have to go back. To face Stephen. And Allistair.” Michal squeezed her eyes shut, attempting to erase the images from her mind. The way Allistair had looked at her. The sympathy in his eyes. “I don't think I'm brave enough to do that.”

“Yes, you are. You've survived boarding school, adapted to a culture on the other side of the earth, and then returned to a foreign home. And now you've survived a collapsed bridge. That's the brave young woman I know—and that's the same one who can face all her fears.”

There was a knock at the door again. The doctor poked his head in, apologizing profusely. “I am so sorry to bother you yet again. But there's someone out here, Miss McHenry, who's insistent on seeing you before the others.”

Sarah raised an eyebrow, and Michal, hastily wiping away tears, reasoned, “I don't know who it could be. I'm just not quite ready to—”

“Well, he's gotten … obnoxious, quite frankly. And that's saying a lot considering he's competing with reporters. Says he's from your school and his name's—” The doctor was abruptly pushed to one side of the doorway, and irritably snapped, “Hey. You can't just—”

Hair uncombed, clothes a rumpled mess, one hand clutching a large chocolate candy bar—he'd pretty much shoved the doctor aside in his impatience—he finally settled eyes overflowing with love on the one woman he'd been seeking.

“Michal? Oh God, I was so afraid I'd lost you.”

She smiled through her tears. “Aunt Sarah. I'd like you to meet Allistair Fuller.”

The six walked into the lounge together to raucous cheers, applause, and the flashes of dozens of cameras—three survivors and three family members, though each of the six would have firmly stated they were all present due to miraculous events.

Michal and Fran were in wheelchairs, Michal to the spectators' left. As soon as she entered the lounge area her eyes darted about the room, searching the faces. And when she found that one, her eyes lit up and a hint of a smile appeared as she relaxed back into her chair. Reddening, suddenly embarrassed, she studied the tightly clenched hands in her lap.

Sarah stood between Michal and Fran. She had one hand on each of the women's shoulders, lightly touching one of them. The other shoulder, the slimmer of the two, Sarah held so tightly that the tips of her fingers were white. A fan pushed Sarah's ever-escaping wispy curls across her nose, tickling her. But stubbornly, rather than remove a hand from either of the two women beside her, Sarah merely twitched her nose. She swallowed to keep herself from laughing out loud—appreciating the humor of how it must've looked—all the while keeping her chin high, her jaw firm, and one foot slightly in front of the other.

Fran cuddled Aubrey on her lap so tightly that it was nearly impossible to tell where one body stopped and the other began. Her cheek resting on top of Aubrey's head, those soft curls, she glanced now and then toward Sarah. And then Bill—though he appeared not to notice.

Aubrey still clung to the collar of Fran's robe, and she squeezed her eyes shut at the assault of glaring flashes. But when she peeked up at Fran, she was filled with wonder at the sparkle in Fran's eyes—partly due to the gold flecks, but mostly from the glistening tears.

Colleen had insisted on wheeling Fran's chair herself, and she gripped the handles as though she wouldn't be able to stand without their aid. Cowed by the intensity of the crowd, Colleen glanced up only now and then, keeping her gaze on the top of Fran's and her sister's heads. When Bill reached over to playfully pinch Colleen's side, she pushed his hand away—but smiled and giggled nervously as she did so.

The last in the tableau, Bill had come as the spokesperson for the group. He held a sheaf of papers in his left hand, some notes he'd jotted down concerning Aubrey's interpretation of the miraculous survival and a short testimony to the God of miracles. He cleared his throat as he began introducing himself and the others. And as he did so, he reached back toward Colleen. He touched her lightly and then—was he even aware of the movement?—his hand strayed toward the cold metal of the wheelchair and finally, the warmth of Fran's other shoulder. Where it rested, comfortably.

… a little more …

When a delightful concert comes to an end,

the orchestra might offer an encore.

When a fine meal comes to an end,

it's always nice to savor a bit of dessert.

When a great story comes to an end,

we think you may want to linger.

And so, we offer ...

AfterWords—
just a little something more after you

have finished a David C Cook novel.

We invite you to stay awhile in the story.

Thanks for reading!

Turn the page for ...

• A Conversation with Carolyn Williford

A Conversation with Carolyn Williford

On inspiration

I’m often asked, “Where does your inspiration for a story come from?” and the answer is never a simple one. I can somewhat understand why the Greeks imagined a muse who delivered inspiration, for the creative elements of a story are always a bit indescribable—where core ideas and tangents and characters originate. We can’t attribute that to the Holy Spirit, so does it come from one’s subconscious? Submerged memories? The creative centers of the brain? I honestly have no idea, but I do know this from experience: It feels a tad mystical and wondrous. And it’s tremendously fun and exciting when a muse “visits” me.

For example, when I first finished writing the prologue I had no idea who would survive the tragedy—and who would not. I felt a sense of intense anticipation, actually, as I watched the story take on a life of its own, eventually informing me who the survivors were.

Later my wonderful editor would have a say in that too. Ah, the jolt back to real life!

Source for themes

My themes for writing fiction and nonfiction generally come from my personal devotions. When I was studying the verse in Matthew 16:24—“Then Jesus said to his disciples, ‘If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me,’”—I recall thinking that there were those with such poor self-esteem that they hadn’t ever had a real “self” to deny and offer sacrificially to God. And then I thought of my own struggles—the times I’ve been so ill that I literally couldn’t do
anything
to serve him, and how unworthy I felt as a result. Could I view myself as acceptable when all I could offer my God was a weak woman, in pain, lying on the couch? Clearly my own issues of
being
versus
doing
fueled my desire to explore those themes more in depth through the power of story. The parallel structure of the verse itself led me to think about a novel with three distinct yet intertwining stories.

The classic novel
The Bridge of San Luis Rey
by Thornton Wilder provided the pattern for a plot line, a guide for a modern-day tragedy. Though not often read in classrooms today (Wilder’s better known for the inspiring
Our Town)
, this engaging story of a bridge’s collapse in Peru, the people who perished there, and the parallels in their pasts made a strong impact on me as a teen. If you haven’t read it, you may want to do so to make your own comparisons with
Bridge to a Distant Star.

The true story behind
Bridge to a Distant Star

The last piece of the puzzle—
what modern-day tragedy to use?
—was quickly put into place with my fairly vivid memories of the Sunshine Skyway Bridge and the disaster of 1980. My parents lived in St. Petersburg for a number of years, and before they moved from Ohio, we vacationed on Treasure Island, which is just across the bay from St. Pete. So I had visited the area and traveled across the beautiful Skyway on numerous occasions, and when you’ve actually been to a place that later witnesses some sort of horrific tragedy, it’s suddenly more personal, isn’t it? Add to that the artistic shape of the Skyway itself; its inherent personality and style make it the perfect setting for a dramatic story.

If you Google Tampa Bay Skyway Bridge, you’ll find articles on the day the bridge fell, including fascinating personal eyewitness accounts and pictures. In the real life disaster, sadly, there was only one survivor, and that was because his vehicle fell onto the freighter’s bow before rolling into the water. (In
The Bridge of San Luis Rey,
no one survives the bridge’s collapse. So though you may judge me harshly for having so many characters die, my story does allow for the greatest number of survivors!) Since my characters’ vehicles fall directly into the water below, clearly no natural means would explain how Fran, Michal, and Aubrey survived. Thus my miraculous explanation: Aubrey’s insistence on an angel. Literary license is a wonderful invention!

I also Googled, researched, and studied the physical form of the bridge itself (as a memory refresher, I located pictures of a drive onto and across the bridge), freighters and shipmates’ vocabularies, and the transcript of the actual Mayday conversation between Captain Lerro (the freighter’s pilot) and the Coast Guard. The more I read and viewed online, the more the event vividly replayed in my mind’s eye. And the more I could picture this disaster happening to my cast of characters: Captain Luis; Maureen and Aubrey; Fran, Charles, and Charlie; and Michal.

One last comment on the tragedy and its consequences: I can’t speak for all authors of fiction, but I would think it to be true of most storytellers that our characters become real people to us. After spending so much time with them, getting to know them intimately—what’s in character for them to do and what’s not—thinking as they do, putting myself in their shoes, so to speak, they become living, breathing individuals. To then have a character die is … nearly like losing a friend. I do hope my muse will allow all my beloved characters to live in my next novel.

He can take the villains as he pleases.

More Googling …

I also did extensive research on Ethiopian history, topography, and culture; metastasized osteosarcoma and its diagnosis and treatment; limb salvage surgery versus amputation with prosthetic devices; and soccer rules for youth leagues. For my first historical novel
Jordan’s
Bend,
I spent untold hours at several libraries, even traveling from Ohio to North Carolina to visit a library that had specific books I needed. For this novel I merely remained at my desk, continually going online to enter the endless resources on the Internet. Today’s technology—what a wonderful gift in relation to the difference in time, energy, and available materials!

The idea for using averted vision must’ve come from my reading (I am
always
reading a book, and generally it’s a novel; I can get almost panicky if I’m about to finish a book and don’t have another waiting to begin immediately), but since I read so many books, I can’t recall where I came across that fascinating anomaly. However, I remember feeling exactly that: fascination, and then a determination to weave the scientific phenomenon into all three story lines with a slightly different twist in perspective for each one. Adding the averted vision symbolism was like sprinkling fresh basil into my homemade pasta sauce: It’s not absolutely necessary, but it would be bland without it. And that indefinable “something” would be missing.

Pulling from memories

I am a lifelong lover of beaches, particularly those on the Gulf Coast of Florida. Some of my earliest memories are of family vacations spent on the beautiful white sand beaches of Treasure Island where we collected shells (I still have jars full), body surfed the waves (with the scars to prove it), walked the boardwalk of St. John’s Pass to view the catches of the day (unforgettable pictures of an impressive hammer head shark), and the feel and smell of caressing, salty breezes—which I can conjure up just about anywhere by simply closing my eyes and concentrating. As rich as the Internet is, it hasn’t yet allowed my senses to feel the sun on my face … or taste the saltiness of the Gulf. Those I must pull from my memories—or experience once again.

My next novel, like
Jordan’s Bend,
takes place mostly in the hills of Tennessee. I think I can already smell the honeysuckle … I can feel the just-picked, juicy blackberries I cradle in my hands … I can almost taste the skillet-fried cornbread, fresh from the oven. But I believe I need to experience it all firsthand again, don’t you?

After all, your vicarious experience through my story is at stake.