The Bridge (15 page)

She spotted the for-sale sign in the window, pulled out her cell phone, and snapped a picture.

“I know. I did the same thing,” Ryan’s voice was heavy, a reflection of his heart. “One of these days the sign will be down. I figured I’d get my picture while I could.”

“Exactly.” She checked the photo as she followed him to the front door. It was perfectly clear, easy to read the phone number on the sign. She waited while he found the key in a plant beside the door, and they walked inside. Tears stung her eyes as she looked around. She leaned back against the cold brick wall. “I don’t know what I expected. But this is worse.”

“He lost everything.” Ryan walked around the front counter and opened the drawer. “His scrapbook. The one with all his favorite customers.”

“His family . . . that’s what he called us.” She stood opposite Ryan and ran her fingers over the book.

“I used this to find some of the people through Facebook.” He gave her a wry look. “Not you, obviously. I wasn’t sure what name you were using.”

“I’m not on Facebook.” Again she tiptoed around her reality. “Too busy.”

“Just Twitter, huh?” He smiled at her.

“Mm-hm. Less upkeep.” She couldn’t take looking
into his eyes. With a quick breath, she turned and walked across the front room to the fireplace. Her eyes followed the stairs up to the second floor. “He can’t lose this place.”

“Which reminds me.” Ryan came to her and stopped a few feet away. “What’s your idea?”

“Idea?” She felt her face go blank and she gave him a guilty smile. “I guess I forgot.”

Again his expression told her he wasn’t sure about the way she was acting. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes.” She laughed. “Let’s get back to the Mercantile. We need to get a few more books back to the hospital so Charlie sees them when he wakes up.”

She loved turning the focus back to the book drive, back to something real and tangible they could do for Charlie Barton. Molly believed he would wake up. That had to be why his brain was showing more function. The hope that lay in the next twenty-four hours made her trip to Nashville worthwhile, and it dulled the ache in her heart for the one thing she didn’t want to think about. Not then and not the next morning, when a group of customers gathered at the Mercantile to pray for Charlie.

If Ryan wasn’t married, why hadn’t he called?

C HA P T E R  T E N 

D
onna couldn’t take her eyes off the books. Nine boxes delivered by Molly and Ryan yesterday and another three this morning. She had done a rough count and the number nearly dropped her to her knees. The townspeople of Franklin had collected almost as many books as Charlie had intended to buy. Not only that, but some people had donated cash with notes like the one she’d just read:
You gave me my first book for free, something I never forgot. Back then you told me I could pay for it whenever I had the money. Well, Charlie Barton, I have the money now. Lots of it. So here’s a thousand dollars. Keep your bookstore open. We need it—all of us
.

Good thing Ryan had room in his storage unit for them. He’d arranged a group of people to move them the day after Christmas.

Altogether, nearly two thousand dollars had been collected and tucked into the boxes of donations. All that, and the books were not just any titles. In many cases, they were the books they once purchased at The Bridge, or copies of their favorite fiction and true-life titles. Many of the books held messages—another of Ryan’s ideas. Like the messages in Charlie’s CaringBridge, the inscriptions in the books were enough to get Donna through the day, enough to keep her believing for a miracle.

If people loved Charlie enough to do this, then maybe God wasn’t finished with him. She could only pray she was right. Especially now, late on the morning of Christmas Eve.

Donna moved closer to Charlie’s bedside. “Hello, Charlie.” She smiled, studying the lines on his face, willing his eyes to open. “Merry Christmas.”

He didn’t make a sound. But something in his expression seemed to change. She waited, watching. “You breathed on your own for half an hour this morning.” With all the love she had for the man in the hospital bed, she stood and kissed his forehead, touching her lips gently to his forehead. “I love you,
Charlie. Please, honey, wake up.” She kissed him once more, on the cheek this time. “I need you.”

The sound of voices came from the hallway, and Donna turned around. Carolers, maybe. Charlie’s nurse had told her that sometimes on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, church groups would come through the halls singing. As the voices drew near, Donna was sure that’s what this was. Carolers. The song was “O Holy Night,” and the refrain filled the sixth-floor ICU.

“O holy night . . . the stars are brightly shining . . . this is the night of our dear Savior’s birth.”

Donna looked at her husband’s still form. “Did you hear that, Charlie? This is the night. It’s Christmas Eve, Charlie.”

Suddenly, his right hand moved. Not much and not for long, but Donna was convinced. He had moved his hand! Could that mean he was coming out of the coma? She rang for his nurse.

“Yes?”

“He’s moving. I promise, I saw his hand move!”

“Yes, Mrs. Barton. Someone will be right in.”

Donna turned to watch the door, overwhelmed
and shaking from the possibility. The carolers were getting closer, singing about a thrill of hope and the weary world rejoicing. All Donna could think was there couldn’t be a better song for the backdrop of what might be happening at this very moment.

The possibility that Charlie was waking up.

Instead of passing by the room, the carolers filed in. First two, and then three more, and then an entire stream of carolers. Tears filled Donna’s eyes, and she sat slowly by her husband’s hospital bed, unable to take it all in. They hadn’t come for the hospital wing; they had come for Charlie. Donna figured it out when the last of the singers entered the room.

Molly and Ryan.

Ryan winked at her and kept up the song, filling the room with a message of a new and glorious morn. When they reached the part about falling on their knees, Donna saw Charlie move again. Both hands this time. She remembered stories in the Bible where victory came when the people sang. There had never been a song more beautiful than this.

Donna looked from face to face, and another realization hit her. This wasn’t a church group coming to cheer Charlie up. These were his customers. Her hand
flew to her mouth, tears streaming down her face as she recognized the people who had donated books and money. They had found a way here to sing about the greatest miracle of all.

The miracle of baby Jesus in a manger.

Again Donna saw Charlie move, this time his right foot. This night was as divine as the one Charlie’s customers were singing about. Because only the touch of God could stir life back into Charlie after all these days. The song came to an end, and Ryan stepped forward. “We spent the morning praying for Charlie. That he would wake up.” He put his hand on Charlie’s foot. “A few of us figured he might want a Christmas song to wake up to.”

Donna dabbed at her tears. “You sounded wonderful.” She looked at Charlie again. “He’s . . . been moving. For the last few minutes.”

C
harlie heard the noises, heard them blurring and mixing together. Darkness surrounded him, and he wondered if he were dead, if he were in some stage before he would meet the Lord. His head hurt, and he
felt stuck. Locked in some strange kind of metal suit that made the slightest movement next to impossible.

Dear God, where am I? How did I get here?

Again the sound of the voices grew and for a moment they frightened Charlie. Then the words began to make sense. This wasn’t the hissing of invisible demons. It was singing. Something familiar and wonderful and filled with joy.

The song built and grew and became the song Charlie loved best at Christmastime. “O Holy Night.”
Father, am I with You in heaven? Am I dreaming?

He remembered the van sliding out of control . . . the sounds of breaking glass and wrenching metal and . . . He had been in a terrible accident. That’s what had happened. But then why was everyone around him singing? The answer dawned on him gradually. He had to be in heaven. What other reason could there be?

If he were in heaven, then he hadn’t had the chance to tell Donna good-bye. He wouldn’t see her again—maybe for decades—and despite the joyful singing and the laughter that followed, the thought made Charlie sadder than he’d been in all his life. In all of heaven, he wanted only one thing.

The feel of Donna’s arms around him.

Then the strangest thing happened. Charlie felt a tear slide down his cheek, and suddenly nothing made sense. There was no crying in heaven. The Bible taught him that. If he wasn’t in heaven, he had to be . . .

He had to be alive!

Donna
 . . .
I’m here
.

“Charlie, it’s me, honey. It’s Donna.”

She was standing right beside him. He felt the touch of her fingers against his face.

Like the rising sun, light began to fill his senses. He wasn’t sure how long it took—whether an hour or five minutes passed—but with Donna’s voice encouraging him, he opened his eyes. Just a crack at first. The light was blinding, and someone must have realized it, because the light dimmed again and he could open his eyes a little more.

Things were blurry, his mind fuzzy. He wasn’t dead. That much was clear. A man who looked like a doctor came up beside him and raised the back of his bed. Only a few inches, but the higher position allowed him to see objects, dark blurs, and lighter smeary areas. He blinked again and again.

“Charlie. I’m here.”

Donna! Charlie wasn’t sure how much time was passing. The process felt slow and fast and amazing all at the same time. More blinking, and as if the fog had lifted, he could see. Not just colors and shapes but people.

He shifted his eyes and winced at the pain it caused him, and there she was. His sweet Donna. He blinked once more, and she came clearer into view. He couldn’t talk. The doctor was saying something. He was waking up . . . good signs . . . vitals good. Charlie realized that something was in his throat. Sticking out of his throat. He reached up to grab it but couldn’t lift his hand. Not all the way.

“Hold on there, Charlie.” The doctor leaned over the bed and stared straight at him. “You’re waking up quickly, and that’s a good thing. Give me a minute to see how you’re breathing.”

Charlie forced himself to relax, to look at the faces of the people gathered around him. Why had they all come? How had they known? It hit him exactly who he was looking at. These weren’t just any people. They were customers.

His family.

A
round the room, Donna watched several of Charlie’s friends start to cry. It was one thing to pray for a Christmas miracle, to believe in one. It was something else entirely to see it happen before their eyes. Charlie moved again and again, twitching and shifting beneath the sheets. He was coming back to Donna, but in what condition? Would he know her? Would he remember The Bridge and the people who loved him? Before she could let her fears consume her, she saw something else.