The Bridge (20 page)

10. Given that you have written more than fifty novels, do you ever find yourself struggling for inspiration?

Another one that makes me laugh. No. No struggle for inspiration. I’m very right-brained, very emotional. I see tenderness and heartache, triumph and beauty every day, in every situation. I’m constantly soaking in the emotions and moments around me, and the ideas and storylines, characters and conflicts in my heart are like the planes circling O’Hare Airport in Chicago. It’ll never be a matter of stories for me, but a matter of time. I love being a wife and a mother, and along the way as I’ve written those novels, I’ve always put my family first. I was there for the first steps, the first day of Kindergarten, and the first homerun. I attended the dance and voice recitals, front row, and I have thrown more birthday parties than I could begin to count. My struggle will never be inspiration, but in finding time to write, when I’m so absolutely in love with real life
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 C H A P T E R  O N E 

Summer 2002

H
er mom didn’t come home for dinner—third time that week.

That was the first hint Ellie Tucker had that maybe her father was right. Maybe her mother had done something so terrible that this time their family would break in two. And no one and nothing would ever put them back together again.

Ellie was fifteen that hot, humid, Savannah summer, and as the Friday afternoon hours slipped away, as six o’clock came and six-thirty went, she joined her dad in the kitchen and helped him make dinner. Tuna sandwiches with a new jar of warm mayonnaise from the cupboard. He stayed quiet, every minute of her mother’s absence weighing heavy
in the silence. Their refrigerator didn’t have much, but he pulled out a bag of baby carrots and poured them into a bowl. With the food on the table, her dad took his spot at the head and she sat next to him.

The place across from her, the spot where her mother usually sat, remained glaringly empty.

“Let’s pray.” Her father took her hand. He waited for several beats before starting. “Lord, thank you for our food and our blessings.” He hesitated. “You know all things. Reveal the truth, please. In Jesus’s name, amen.”

The truth?
Ellie could barely swallow the dry bites of her sandwich. The truth about what? Her mother? The reason she wasn’t home when the doctor’s office where she worked closed an hour ago?

They said nothing while they ate, though the quiet screamed across the dinner table. When they were finished, her dad looked at her. His eyes were sad. “Ellie, if you would do the dishes, please.” He stood and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be in my room.”

She was finishing up in the kitchen when her mom slipped through the front door. Lately Ellie felt more like the mother, or at least the way a mother was supposed to feel when their kids were teenagers. Ellie looked over her shoulder, and her eyes met her
mom’s. She was still wearing her black pants and white shirt, the clothes she wore for work.

“Where’s your father?” Her eyes were red and swollen, her voice thick.

“In his room.” She wanted to ask her mom where she’d been and why she was late. But she didn’t know how. She turned back to the sink.

Ellie’s mother started in that direction, then she stopped and turned to Ellie again. “I’m sorry.” Her shoulders dropped a little more. “For missing dinner.” She sounded weary. “I’m sorry.”

Before Ellie could say anything, her mom turned and walked down the hall. Ellie checked the clock on the microwave. Seven-thirty. Her friend Nolan had another hour in the gym, another hour shooting baskets. Then Ellie would ride her bike to his house, the way she did most nights. Especially this summer.

Since her parents had been fighting.

She dried her hands, walked to her room, and shut the door behind her. A little music and some time with her journal, and then Nolan would be home. She turned on the radio. Backstreet Boys filled her room, and instantly she dropped the sound a few notches. Her dad said he’d take away her radio if she listened to
worldly music. Ellie figured worldly was a matter of opinion. And her opinion was that the Backstreet Boys was as close to heaven as she was going to get for now.

The first shout rattled her bedroom window.

Ellie killed the sound on the radio and jumped to her feet. As much tension as there had been between her parents lately, neither of them did much shouting. At least not this loud. Her heart pounded. Before she reached her bedroom door, another round of shouts ripped through the air, and this time she could understand what her father was saying, the names he was calling her mom.

Quietly, too afraid to breathe, Ellie crept down the hall and across the living room, closer to her parents’ bedroom door. Another burst of shouts, and now she was near enough that she could hear something else. Her mother’s tears.

“You’ll pack your things and leave.” Her father had never sounded like this before, like he was firing bullets of hatred with every word. “I will not have you pregnant with his child and . . . and living under my roof.” His voice shook the walls. “I will not have it!”

Ellie anchored herself against the wall so she wouldn’t drop to the floor. Her mother was pregnant?
With someone else’s baby? The blood began to leave her face, and her world started to spin. Colors and sounds and reality blurred and she wondered if she would pass out.
Run, Ellie . . . run fast
. She ordered herself to move, but her feet wouldn’t follow the command.

Before she could figure out which way was up again, her father stepped into the doorway and glared at her, his chest heaving with each breath. “What are you doing?”

The question hung between them, and from behind her father Ellie caught a glimpse of her mom. Sitting in their bedroom chair, her head in her hands.
Get up
, Ellie wanted to scream at her.
Defend yourself! Do something!
But her mother did nothing. She said nothing.

Ellie’s eyes flew to her father again, and she tried to step away, tried to exit the scene as quickly as possible, but she tripped and fell back on her hands. Her wrists hurt but she scrambled further from him, anyway. Like a crab escaping a net.

It took that long for her father’s expression to soften. “Ellie. I’m sorry.” He took a step toward her. “I didn’t mean for . . . you weren’t supposed to hear that.”

And in that moment Ellie knew two things. First, the horrible thing her dad had shouted was true. And second, her life as she knew it now lay splintered around her on the worn, thin hallway carpet in a million pieces. “I . . . I have to go.” The words were barely a whisper.

Her father was saying something about this being more than a girl her age could understand and that she needed to get back to her room and pray. Something like that. But all Ellie could hear was the deafening way her heart slammed around in her chest. She needed air, needed to breathe. In a move that felt desperate, she found her way to her feet and ran for the front door. She needed Nolan, and she needed him now. A minute later she was on her bicycle pedaling through the summer night.

Pedaling as fast as she could.

H
e would still be at the gym, but that was okay. Ellie loved watching Nolan play basketball. Loved it whether the place was packed with kids from Savannah High, or just the two of them and the echo of the
ball hitting the shiny wood floor. With every push of her foot against the pedal Ellie tried to put the reality out of her mind. But the truth smothered her like a wet blanket. Her mother had come home late again—the way she’d been coming home late since early spring. And today . . . today she must have told her father what he had suspected all along.

She was having an affair. Not only that, but she was pregnant.

The truth churned in her stomach, suffocating her until finally she had no choice but to ditch her bike in the closest bush and give way to the nausea consuming her. One revolting wave after another, her insides convulsing until the only thing left inside her was the hurt. A hurt that would stay with her forever.

Exhausted and drained, Ellie sat on the curb, her head in her hands, and let the tears come. Until then, the horror and shock had kept her sadness at bay. But with her stomach and heart empty, she cried until she could barely breathe. Her mom didn’t love her father, which meant she didn’t love Ellie, either. Their family wasn’t enough for her. There was no other way to look at this. A sense of shame added itself to the mix of
sorrow. Nolan’s mom would never have done something like this.

She lifted her face to the darkening sky. Nolan. Ellie wiped her face and breathed in deep. She needed to get to him before it got any later, needed to find him before he left the gym. She forced the pedals to move faster, willed the old bike to make time until finally the gym was in sight. The sound of the ball hitting the floor filled her ears as she leaned her bike against the brick wall at the back of the building, next to his.

Nolan kept the door propped open in case a breeze might come up. Ellie slipped through the entrance and moved quietly to the first row of the bleachers. Nolan caught the ball and stared at her, his eyes dancing, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re early.”

She nodded. She didn’t trust her voice, not when all she wanted to do was run to him and let him wrap his arms around her. Nolan Cook. Her best friend in the whole world.

“Ellie?” A shadow of concern fell over his handsome face. “You okay?”

As much as she wanted to go to him, she couldn’t tell him. Didn’t want him to know why she was upset,
because then . . . well, then for sure it would be true. There would be no turning from the truth once she told Nolan.

He set the ball down and walked to her. Sweat dripped from his forehead, and his tank top and shorts were drenched. “You’ve been crying.” He stopped a foot from her. “What happened?”

“My parents.” She felt her eyes well up, felt her words drown in an ocean of sadness.

“More fighting?”

“Yeah. Bad.”

“Ahh, Ellie.” His breathing was returning to normal. He wiped his forearm across his face. “I’m sorry.”

“Keep playing.” Her voice sounded strained from her heartache. She nodded to the basket. “You have another ten minutes.”

He watched her for a long couple of seconds. “You sure?”

“We can talk later. I just”—a few tears slid down her cheeks—“needed to be here. With you.”

Again he studied her, but eventually he nodded. Slow and not quite sure. “Okay. We can leave whenever you want.”

“When you’re done. Please, Nolan.”

One last look, but then he turned and jogged back to the ball. Once it was in his hands he dribbled to the left and the right, and then took the ball to the hoop. In a move as fluid and graceful as anything Ellie had seen in her seven years of dance lessons, Nolan rose in the air and slammed the ball through the net. He landed lightly on both feet and caught the ball. Dribbled back out, juked a few more imaginary opponents, and repeated the move. Ten straight dunks, and then he jogged to the drinking fountain and drank for half a minute. Next came his three-point shots.