The Bridge (11 page)

Barton and his wife, Donna, moved to Franklin in 1982 and opened The Bridge, a bookstore that has become iconic in the downtown area. The flood of 2010 gutted Barton’s store, destroying its contents and sending him into apparent financial struggles. Records show that The Bridge has not reopened and that Barton’s business taxes for the current year remain unpaid.

Ryan felt dizzy with the news. How had he missed this, the fact that The Bridge hadn’t reopened after the flood? Other businesses had struggled to find their way back, but The Bridge? While Ryan was busy on the road, he assumed life in Franklin had figured out a way to recover. That Charlie Barton was selling books and making conversation and giving people the one thing they could find less often these days.

A bookstore to call their own.

Ryan read the article again and his heart pounded
inside his chest. Poor Charlie. The man existed to run The Bridge. He must have been desperate every day since the flood to reopen. Along the way, of course, he’d suffered financial trouble. Ryan doubted the man owned the building, so lease payments had probably piled up. An insurance policy on the store’s contents wouldn’t have been much help. Charlie had invested in the store’s stock for decades. How could anyone put a price tag on that?

Suddenly Ryan knew what he had to do.

Charlie had spent his life helping the people of Franklin. Now it was their turn to do something for him, rally around him and let him know the difference he’d made. He pushed back from the table, grabbed his cell phone, and called Vanderbilt Hospital. “Charlie Barton’s room, please.”

There was a pause as the receptionist looked him up. “He’s in ICU. I’ll ring his nurse.”

“Thank you.” Ryan walked to his kitchen counter, and tapped his fingers on the granite. He needed to know the situation, how serious it was. And whether Charlie would survive or not.

A nurse came on the line. “Sixth floor, neurosurgery ICU. How can I help you?”

Ryan closed his eyes, trying to find the words. If Charlie was in the neurosurgery section, that meant he’d suffered a brain injury. Why hadn’t he stopped in to see the old man since he’d been home? Ryan clenched his fist and blinked his eyes open. “I’m a friend of Charlie Barton’s.” He worked to keep the emotion from his voice. “Can you tell me how he is? If there’s an update on his condition?”

“No, sir. I’m sorry. That information is for immediate family only.”

Ryan wanted to tell her that he was one of Charlie’s favorite customers, and that made him immediate family. Instead he cleared his throat. “Okay, then is Donna there? His wife?”

“She is.” The woman’s voice was kind, but clearly, she wasn’t about to provide him any information. “Who can I tell her is calling?”

“Ryan Kelly.”

She put him on hold, and after thirty seconds Ryan was thinking about hanging up and driving to the hospital, finding his way to Donna on his own. But just then her voice came on the line. “Ryan?”

“Yes.” His words came in a rush. “I read about the accident. Donna, I’m so sorry.” He didn’t want to ask,
but he needed to know before another minute went by. “How is he?”

“Not good.” Tears clouded her voice. “He’s unconscious. Head injuries and . . . internal bleeding.”

Ryan felt the air leave his lungs. “Oh, Donna. I’m sorry.” He ran his hand along the back of his neck and tried to find his next breath. “Can I come see him?”

“Yes.” She sounded small and frail. “Come quickly, Ryan. Please.”

“I will.” He found his keys, threw on a baseball cap and a leather jacket, and hurried for the door. “I’m on my way.”

T
he hospital was only ten minutes from his house, and Ryan was thankful the roads were clear. Along the way, it occurred to him that Donna was probably alone. If he remembered right, the Bartons had no family in Franklin other than the customers. Maybe no family anywhere. What about his injuries? What if he never woke up or the brain trauma was so severe he was never the same again? How would Donna get by without him?

As he parked and jogged toward the hospital’s front entrance, he thought about calling Molly. She would want to know what happened, about the flood and Charlie’s struggles and the accident. Just as quickly, he let the thought pass. He’d thought about contacting her before, but a Facebook search for Molly Allen or Molly Millington hadn’t turned up anything. She must live in San Francisco with her husband, but someone in Molly’s position wouldn’t be found easily. Not in the past seven years and not now.

He stepped off the elevator at the sixth floor and checked in at the nursing station. “You can go in.” The nurse was in her thirties, kind with serious eyes. “He’s in room twelve. His wife is expecting you.”

“Thank you.” Ryan slowed his pace, trying to prepare for what he was about to see. When he reached Charlie’s room, he removed his baseball cap and gave a light knock on the door. “Donna?”

“Come in.” She sounded broken.

The entrance was blocked by a curtain. Ryan moved it aside and stepped tentatively into the room. Donna was on her feet and met him near the doorway. “Ryan.” She was small and frail-looking, thinner
than he remembered, and her eyes were swollen from crying.

He took her in his arms, and they hugged for a long time. “I’m sorry.” Only then did he look at the figure in the hospital bed. Never would he have recognized the man as Charlie Barton. Charlie, whose smile never faded, the man who was larger than life. The one whose very presence made The Bridge what it was. His head was heavily bandaged, his face swollen beyond recognition. Half a dozen wires came from his arms and chest, and a tube had been inserted at the center of his throat. He was worse off than Ryan had imagined.
Dear God . . . help him
.

Ryan stroked Donna’s back. “I came as fast as I could.” He stepped back and helped her to the chair near Charlie’s bed. He took the one beside her. “How is he? Really?”

Donna hung her head and for a long time said nothing. When she finally looked up, her eyes were flat. As if she’d cried all the tears she had left to cry. “They say it’s a miracle he lived through the night.” She looked at him, and three decades of love shone in her eyes. Then the shadows returned to her face.

“They don’t know how serious his brain injury is. Even if he lives, he might never wake up.”

Ryan took a sharp breath and stared at the ceiling. He wanted to run from the room and find fresh air, a place where this new reality didn’t exist and he could pretend he’d never opened the newspaper this morning. But Donna needed him. He put his hand on her shoulder. “I didn’t know about the flood . . . your struggles with The Bridge.” He shook his head, frustrated with himself once more for not checking in on Charlie sooner.

“It’s been a while.” There was no accusation in her statement. She found the slightest smile. “Charlie talks about you still. He’s proud of you, Ryan. You play guitar for a country band, is that right?”

“I did. The band broke up.” Ryan didn’t want this to be about him. He looked at Charlie’s still figure beside them and then back at Donna. “The accident . . . what happened?” He hesitated. “Can you talk about it?”

Donna took a shaky breath and nodded. She folded her hands on her lap and, with her eyes on Charlie, she recalled the flood and the way it destroyed the contents of The Bridge. “The books, the furniture, the shelving. All of it.” She lifted her chin, probably finding the
strength not to break down. “Charlie was devastated, of course. But he always knew he’d reopen.”

“Definitely. Franklin needs Charlie and the store.”

“That’s what we thought.” Donna’s eyes grew deeper, her gaze trained on her husband. “The insurance money wasn’t enough.” She turned to Ryan. “Without money, Charlie couldn’t buy books. And without books, there was no store to open.” She shrugged her slight shoulders. “No store meant no income.” Her smile was beyond sad. “Charlie never had a backup plan.”

Ryan hung his head and sighed. When he looked up, Donna’s attention was back on Charlie. “Did things get worse lately?”

“Much.” She steadied herself. “The house payment is behind, and the bank is talking foreclosure. Charlie used our savings to pay the lease on The Bridge, but that ran out over the summer. We applied for several loans, but with no working store and no income, we didn’t qualify.”

“And yesterday?”

“Yesterday was the worst.” Though her voice didn’t crack, tears filled her eyes and fell onto her cheeks. She turned to Ryan. “He had finally agreed it was time
to walk away. Time to admit that there would be no more bookstore, no chance at reopening. It was over.” She wiped her tears with her fingertips and leaned closer to the hospital bed, giving a quick check of the wires and tubes and monitors. “He left the bookstore for home, but he must’ve decided to take a drive. The accident happened five miles out of the way on a winding back road.” She put her hand over Charlie’s. “He must’ve been so upset.”

Again Ryan felt like he’d been kicked. Charlie was the town’s eternal optimist, always sure he could help a neighboring store owner or a customer in need. “He didn’t hit another car?”

“No. He hit black ice and lost control.” She ran her fingers lightly over Charlie’s hand. “That’s all we know.”

For a while they sat in silence. Ryan stood and walked around the bed to the other side. “Can he hear us?”

“Probably not. His brain isn’t showing a lot of activity yet.”

Ryan picked up on the hope in Donna’s choice of words. Proof that a lifetime with Charlie Barton had rubbed off on her. “Charlie.” Ryan kept his voice low,
bringing his head close to the older man’s. “It’s Ryan Kelly.” He swallowed, fighting his own tears. “Hey, man, we’re praying for you. It’s almost Christmas, Charlie. You need to get better so we can get that store of yours up and running.”

On the other side of the bed, Donna covered her face with one hand and turned away. Ryan heard her tears, anyway.

“Listen, Charlie, we’re going to pull together here, okay? You just get better. God’s not finished with you yet.” He paused, looking for any reaction, any sign, that somewhere inside his battered head, Charlie could understand.

There was none.

Ryan backed up slowly from the bed and returned to Donna’s side. Once more he hugged her and then asked her to sit back down. “I have an idea.”

Donna dabbed at her tears again. “Sorry . . . I thought I was done crying.”

“It’s okay.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Does Charlie still have the scrapbook? He used to keep it in the top drawer near the register.”

“He does.” She sniffed. “Neither of us could believe it survived.”

A plan began to take shape, and as it did, Ryan’s heart was filled with hope. This was something he could do, something to help repay Charlie for the decades of kindness he’d given to the city of Franklin. “Is the building locked?”

She nodded. “The key’s in the potted plant beside the front door. Charlie left it there so the cleanup crew could come and go after the flood. There’s nothing inside for anyone to take.”

“If it’s okay, I’d like to go through the scrapbook and contact Charlie’s customers. Let them know what happened.” He didn’t want to go into detail. No telling whether people would respond, and the last thing he wanted was to get Donna’s hopes up.

She agreed to his plan, and before he left, he took Donna’s hands in his and prayed for Charlie. For the miracle of healing and for Charlie to know the difference he’d made through his bookstore.

Half an hour later, Ryan was standing in front of The Bridge.

Traffic passed behind him and the occasional bundled-up pedestrian. Ryan barely noticed them. He stared at the sign over the door, the old lettering that might as well have been something from a Charles
Dickens novel.
THE BRIDGE—NEW AND USED BOOKS
. Ryan stared at it, and for a moment it wasn’t the middle of December, and the store on the other side of the door wasn’t gutted. It was seven years ago and springtime and Molly was at his side.

He blinked away the images, found the key, and walked in. The sight made him catch his breath. The place was unrecognizable. Even the single piece of furniture—an old leather sofa—wasn’t the one that had been here. He closed the door and leaned hard against it. No wonder Charlie had been broken. No wonder he couldn’t focus when he left here yesterday.

A quick search, and he found the scrapbook, the treasured collection of notes and thank-you letters and signatures from hundreds of special customers over the years. The cover of the oversize book was water-damaged, but the inside looked intact. Ryan was about to leave when he caught a glimpse of the staircase. The one that led to what had been the upstairs living room, the place where he and Molly had spent two years of afternoons.

He set the book down on the counter and walked gingerly across the wood floor. It creaked more loudly than before, and some areas didn’t feel quite solid.
How hard it must’ve been for Charlie, knowing he couldn’t repair the planks, couldn’t fix the walls and fill the building with the books he loved. Ryan walked up the stairs, and each one seemed to take him further back into the past. The upstairs looked as bad as the main floor, the furniture gone, the place painfully empty. Just like Donna had said.