Lisa Schroeder - The Bridge from You to Me

me what I really want, most of all.

Tuesday afternoon, I stop in at Whispering Willow Bookshop again, between work and the second practice.

“Hey, Colby,” Mr. McMann says. “I heard you met Lauren. Kind of funny you ran into her after we talked yesterday.”

“Actually, that’s why I’m here. Some of us are getting together on Saturday. We’re going up to the creek to swim, and I thought I’d see if she wants to come along. Does she have a cell phone?”

He shakes his head. “No, unfortunately she doesn’t. She’ll have to get a job if she wants one. We just can’t afford one for her. You could call her at the house, though. Do you want the number?”

“Sure.”

He grabs a pad of paper, and when he’s finished writing, he tears off the piece of paper and hands it to me.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You bet. Hey, did you give your grandpa the book yet?”

“Oh, yeah. Last night. He liked it a lot. Thanks again.”

He smiles. “My pleasure.”

“See ya later.”

As I walk to my truck, I think about how I probably shouldn’t have lied. Maybe Mr. McMann wouldn’t have thought anything of my weird fascination with bridges. It’s not like I had to tell him how far my fascination goes. Just because I bought a book doesn’t mean he has to know about my list of the top twenty bridges I want to visit in my lifetime.

Last night, after looking at the book for a while in bed, I redid the list. I do that sometimes. Narrowing it down to twenty is about as hard as scoring a touchdown on a kickoff.

The top five stayed the same, though:

A couple of weeks ago, Gram was asking Grandpa if he’d take her out for a picnic at a spot near an old bridge she’d heard about.

“I just love old covered bridges,” she’d said. “There’s something special about them, don’t you think, Colby?”

It was kind of weird she’d asked me. I hadn’t ever said anything to them about my strange fascination. But I agreed with her. And then she said something I’ll never forget: “I’ve always thought a bridge is like a good friend, holding its hand out to help you along on the more difficult parts of your journey.”

In one sentence, she described it so well.

I’m not sure where I’ll be going when I leave here. But wherever I go, one thing’s for sure: There’ll be bridges along the way. Since I don’t plan on playing football next year, they may be the only friends I have for a while.

TUESDAY

“Good to see you again,” Dr. Springer says.

Maybe I’m supposed to say “you too,” but I don’t. What seventeen-year-old is happy to see her therapist?

“Have you been writing in your journal?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Tell me about that.”

I shrug. “What do you want to know?”

“What kinds of things are you writing about?”

“Bugles. My blue bicycle. Owls. A cute boy. Dreams.”

She tilts her head. “You’re not writing about what happened?”

I shake my head and pick at a rough nail on my thumb. “No. I don’t want to write about that.”

“I think it will help,” she says. “That’s the whole point of the journal, right?”

“I’m not really sure.”

“What kind of dreams?” she asks.

Of all the things I mentioned, of course she’d pick that one.

“Bad ones,” I say. “More like nightmares, really.”

“Tell me about them.”

I don’t say anything for a minute, debating about whether I should tell her the truth or make something up. I remember what she said the first time I came here. The only chance at this actually working is if I’m honest with her. I don’t have to say a lot, if I don’t want to, but what I do say should be the truth.

I take a deep breath. “I dream about my brother all the time. He’s crying, and I can’t find him. I look and I look and he’s just . . . nowhere.”

“Sounds like you miss him. Do you?”

I glare at her. “That’s a stupid question.”

Everyone’s moving slower today. Of course we are. Everything hurts after yesterday. Coach is on our asses, yelling at us over and over, “Move, move, MOVE!”

I try to focus on the things I like about football practice.

Being on the field with all my friends.

Knowing I’m getting stronger.

The smell of grass and summertime and sweat.

It isn’t much of a list, but it’ll have to do.

It is a long two and a half hours. And then it gets even longer.

“Time for gassers,” Coach yells.

I’m pretty sure we all want to moan, but we know better. Drills are always done at the end of practice. When we’re all dog-tired and just want to take a cold shower and drink Gatorade, we have to push past the pain and fatigue and do the sprints. They suck, but they also work. They get us in shape like nothing else does.

We line up at the goal line, Coach blows his whistle, and in our pads, we sprint down to the other goal line and back, twice. When we finish, we get a minute to rest before we do it again. Coach tells us our time and that for the next set, we have to do it in ten seconds less, to make sure we aren’t dogging it.

And so it goes. We do the drill over and over again, until guys are puking right and left. Not me, thankfully.

The torture finally over, Coach has us gather round and take a knee. I stare up at him, wondering if we’re going to enjoy hearing what he has to say. He’s a hard guy to read. The way he looks at us, it’s like he loves us and hates us at the same time. And maybe he does. One thing’s for sure, the khaki shorts and polo shirts he likes to wear remind us that Frank Sperry is really nothing more than a regular guy who loves football.

“Good work today,” he says with a slight grin, telling us he really means it. “It’ll get easier. You all know that. This is what it takes. I haven’t done my job if you can walk off this field like you’ve played golf instead of football.”