Bridge to a Distant Star (38 page)

“Stop it,” she cried, tears stinging her eyes for the second time that day. But as Michal attempted to push him away, she discovered just how strong Stephen actually was.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t wanted this. And God wants—”

Out of nowhere, it seemed, powerful arms reached out to grab Stephen by the shoulders, lifting him up and throwing him out and away from her. Where he tumbled into the bushes at their feet.

Out of breath from the push of adrenaline, exertion, and fury, Allistair spat at Stephen through clenched jaws, “Now get out of here.” Seething with rage, he added, “And if I ever catch you touching her again … if I ever see you near Michal again … I promise you you’ll regret it forever.” His voice was thick with the threat. “Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

Stephen nodded, meekly. Scrambled to his feet and ran off, never looking back at either of them.

Michal, crying still, her legs suddenly weak, nearly crumpled to the ground when Allistair reached out to catch her. He held her around the waist, supporting her, but before he could open the door to the lounge, she stopped. Shook her head vehemently. “Don’t. I can’t go back in there yet. I’m just so ashamed.”

“Michal, I never trusted that guy. I’ve been—truthfully, I’ve been keeping an eye on you because I was afraid he’d pull something like this.” He retrieved a rumpled tissue from his back pocket, handed it to her. “Didn’t your father warn you about creeps like him?”

She blew her nose. Shook her head no.

Allistair looked uncomfortable, glancing away from her wounded look. “When I first got the word that you two were … involved … well, I backed off. The first night back after spring break? I was planning to come see you when I heard about … his kissing you.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I figured you’d made your decision. But I still felt like I needed to watch out for you. To keep an eye on him. Boy, am I ever glad I did.”

Suddenly aware of his arm around her still, Michal backed away from his touch. “I know now I’ve been wrong about everything, Allistair. I failed my roommate. I thought Stephen was a godly person, the man I was supposed to have in my life.” Her voice broke, and she cleared her throat, continuing, “And I thought I was this godly woman … a woman who … who was following the Lord’s call back to Africa. What a joke.” Her voice rose hysterically as she backed farther away from Allistair. As though she had an infectious disease, was intent upon preventing his catching it. “I’m the joke here.”

“Michal, you can’t—”

“I know now I’m not fit for the mission field.”

“Please don’t do this, Michal. Don’t make a decision when you’ve just been through two horrible situations. It’s been an unreal day. Promise me you’ll wait and talk with me about all this tomorrow, okay?”

She wavered. Stared into his eyes and wanted. So much. And then, determining to lie—to get away from him before she weakened—she nodded.

Allistair cradled her arm in his hand, gently and patiently guided her in. “Come on. You need to get a good night’s sleep. I’ll meet you tomorrow? Before chapel?”

“Sure.”
It gets easier to lie once you start,
she thought.

His eyes were so deep, full of concern for her. Once again, she almost gave in. Knew she had to go right away, before she lost the courage to do what she had to.

“Well, good night then, Michal.”

Taking him in, memorizing the wave of his hair, the crystalline blue of his eyes, the strength of the line of his jaw. The question struck her,
What would it feel like if Allistair kissed me?
She dismissed the wistful musing, but tucked every miniscule and cherished impression into her heart, knowing she would never forget how he looked at her that moment.

“Good night, Allistair.” She started to weep again. And so she turned and fled. Not daring to look back, knowing that if she did, she would fly back into his arms.

The next morning, Ruth rapped on Michal’s door. She’d heard no stirrings from the room and, becoming concerned, tried the knob. Discovered it was unlocked, and opened the door a crack to peek in.

Michal’s bed was bare, the mattress particularly ugly now that it was stripped of the lovely star quilt. Panicking, Ruth checked the desks. Beth’s still had textbooks and various items scattered across it. But Michal’s was completely cleaned off, not even a pencil left behind. Jerking open the closet, Ruth noted Michal’s meager assortment of clothes had vanished—and a drawer yanked open proved her dresser was empty also.

“Sam. Jenny, Jess—come here, quick.”

“What?”

“What’s wrong?”

When they entered the doorway, Ruth merely pointed to Michal’s star quilt. It had been folded neatly and placed on Beth’s bed, along with her other washed sheets, blanket, and the raggedy quilt. Attached to it was a note.

I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, Beth. I wasn’t the friend you deserved. Remember me when you wrap yourself in Aunt Sarah’s quilt. I know she would’ve wanted you and your baby to have it. Love from Michal.

They looked mournfully at each other, sharing the ache of yet another loss.

Michal sat on the same bus she’d taken to Fort Myers before, though when she boarded this time, the driver noted Michal not for her joyous buoyancy and gregarious nature. Instead, he took in the red-rimmed eyes, her agitation, and how she ducked her head to avoid his eyes as she handed him her already damp, rumpled ticket. And then, pointedly ignoring anyone already seated, Michal hurriedly made her way to the very back seat. Where she slumped down and sat with her forehead resting against the windowpane, staring out with unfocused gaze.

As the driver watched Michal in the rearview mirror, he thought to himself,
Another down-’n’-outer, for sure, lookin’ pretty desperate. Wonder what she’s running away from? Or if she’s in trouble?
He shook his head and sighed audibly.
And it’s such a nasty morning, too. Bad weather … homeless—or worse passengers. I’m not thinkin’ this day is gonna go well.
But he turned the key in the ignition, bringing the old bus to sputtering life, intent upon driving his daily route.

Michal sniffed loudly and wiped at her nose with the frayed cuff of a worn sweatshirt. At this point, she was numb, her feelings and thoughts so blurred that she hoped—assumed—sleep would rescue her from any blips of coherency. But then the sharp memory of the pungent smell of Beth’s pooled blood came to mind … the feeling of Stephen’s hands crawling all over her … the look of deep compassion on Allistair’s face … and she nearly cried out loud. Instead, she leaned over, jamming the palms of her hands into her eyes hard enough to create vivid splashes of color against her eyelids. Until the pressure and pain made her stop.

She leaned back against the seat again, willing, insisting that sleep come to her. But as the bus rumbled through the city and ever closer to the bridge, the storm’s increasing intensity would not let her body relax. Instead, the thunder and lightning constantly jostled Michal, causing her to jump every time a particularly close strike highlighted the inside of the bus—acting like a spotlight on her and her alone, it seemed.

When a rumble of thunder and simultaneous flash of lightning felt like they actually pushed the lumbering bus sideways, Michal peered out the window, attempting to see … anything. And then her heart leapt into her throat, for she realized they were beginning to fall—
Into the bay?
her mind screamed. Or did she cry it out loud? Suddenly, the entire bus erupted with screams of sheer terror. They were falling … people were falling … men, women, children. All tumbling about the bus as it fell headlong into the black depths below.

Only Michal was not floundering about, for she desperately clutched the back emergency exit handle, fiercely determined to not let go. Once again she was highlighted—by the bright beams of a Mercedes falling right behind the bus. But this time, she didn’t cower from the light; instead, she sought out its glow as if it were a lighthouse. And she were the lost one following the luminous flare to safety.

Endings

A Friday morning in May 2009

Captain Luis and his men stood like dumb statues, their limbs rigid with shock. Their minds refused to believe what was before their eyes, so they merely stared—mouths gaping at the sight of the broken roadway perched precariously above and the spot where the car, van, and bus had simply disappeared into the gulping, angry gulf below. Pleading with God that no others would dive from the precipice.

Another crash of thunder resounded. A flash of light followed, highlighting the surreal terror before them. It was enough to startle the captain into action—paralysis followed by a sudden burst of energy. “I'm going to send out the Mayday,” Luis called out to his men. As he turned to run back to the pilothouse, he frantically shouted the command, “Jaurez! Everyone! I want every light we have pointed in the same direction. Where the vehicles went in—flood the entire area with light.”

Jaurez needed to yell back as the pouring rain was still pounding out a loud, steady drumbeat. “But Cap'n—there's no way any of them—”

“Just do it, Jaurez. Now. I want the area thoroughly searched.”

Jaurez shook his head at the senseless exercise, but who was he to argue with the captain? If Captain Luis was assuaging his conscience, then so be it. He set to work, directing his men to fetch stowed search lights and lanterns, flashlights. Anything they could think of to light the area where the doomed had plunged off the bridge to their certain deaths in the water below.

Meanwhile, Captain Luis ran into the pilothouse and grabbed his radio. In a voice filled with stark terror, he shouted into the mike, “Mayday. Mayday. Coast Guard, we have a Mayday. Coast Guard, we have a Mayday.”

“Vessel calling Mayday. This is the United States Coast Guard, St. Petersburg, Florida.” The operator's calm, measured answer was in juxtaposition to the captain's utter panic. “What is your position and the nature of your distress?”

“This is a Mayday. The Skyway Bridge is down. Get emergency vessels out to the bridge. This is an emergency. Stop the traffic on the Skyway Bridge. The bridge is down. I repeat, the bridge is down!” As Luis spoke the horrendous truth of the accident, his voice broke. “We've got vehicles in the water. We'll have more if the bridge traffic isn't stopped immediately. We're searching the water for survivors, but we're disabled. Send vessels to assist.”

Overhead, miraculously, traffic had stopped. An alert driver noticed something was wrong, that the traffic ahead of him seemed to disappear. So he'd skidded to a stop on the slick pavement, accidentally—but fortunately—straddling and blocking both lanes of traffic. Managing to bring his large truck to a complete halt just a few feet before the pavement simply ended.

Those directly behind the truck braked quickly enough to keep from crashing into him, but several other vehicles behind them were unable to do so, causing a chain reaction. Though the drivers were angry about the damage to their vehicles and the delay, they had no idea of the tragedy they'd been spared.

Ignorant of this miracle above, Jaurez and his men repeatedly glanced up at the gaping hole. Solemnly crossing themselves, they prayed no more vehicles would plunge into the depths and turned their full attention toward those already in the water. Obediently following Captain Luis's command, despite their conviction of its futility.

Finally, the weather began to calm, nature's tantrum abating. The rain slowed to a drizzle, more annoying than dangerous. Despite the continued heavy cloud cover, the crew was encouraged to see more light in the east. The coming of dawn. Darkness had brought them destruction and death; they breathed a sigh of relief to see it diminish.

Morales, a seasoned member of the crew, leaned forward, straining to see into the water. He gave Jaurez a puzzled look, shaking his head in wonder. “It's not possible …” he mumbled.

“What? What's that?” Jaurez threw back at him, irritated.

“Did you hear—?”

A faint cry, carried on the sea breeze. Heartrending and plaintive.

“Mommy!”

Jaurez jerked forward, extending his body toward the source of the sound. Called out over his shoulder, “Morales, did you hear that?”

A look of amazement moved over Morales's features. His mouth dropped open. “I heard it. It can't be—but it sounds like a child.”

“Stay right where you are, Morales,” Jaurez instructed. He was pumping adrenaline now, every fiber in his being intent on finding survivors. Clicking into emergency drill procedure, he barked out, “Don't move your eyes from that spot—not even for a moment. Everyone—direct all the lights where the cry seems to be coming from. Where Morales is pointing. Anyone—John. Grab the life ring.”

Morales kept his eyes peeled, while John hurriedly brought the ring to Jaurez. The two of them checked the strength of the rope's knot on the ring, tying the other end to a secure post on the
Wilder Wanderer.
“Is there anything—can you actually see anyone out there, Morales?”

“Mommy!” The mournful sound floated to them again, like a ghost gliding across the waves.

“Good Lord above,” Morales whispered, his voice choking with awe. “There. Over there.” Pointing, shouting, and nearly losing his balance in his excitement. “I see two—there's two—no, I'm countin' three heads bobbin' in the water. Gimme the life ring. Gimme the ring!”

Jaurez mechanically handed the ring to him, his gaze focused on the jutting waves. Squinting, he asked, “Where? I can't see a blamed thing out there but water. Morales, there's no way that … God in heaven,” he suddenly muttered, crossing himself again. “If they're not ghosts, then they're angels sent by God. Get that life ring to 'em, Morales. Them poor souls. We gotta get 'em outta there, now.”

Regretfully, he tore his eyes away from the bobbing heads, barking out, “Whatever you do, don't let them outta your sight. I'll be right back—going to tell the captain. Tell him to alert the Coast Guard—we've got survivors.” Before hurrying off, he grabbed Morales's arm, stared intently into his eyes. “God be with your throw, man.”

All the crewmen stood with Morales along the bow, their eyes going back and forth from Morales to the survivors who appeared so small and fragile in the vast waters. Pointing, shouting advice and directives to the man entrusted with the all-important throw. Morales took a deep breath, then tossed the ring. Only to watch the wind catch it, pulling it far right.

“Get it upwind of them, Morales,” a crewman offered, his tone like a reverent prayer. “If they's to have a chance, you've gotta get it just so.”

Hand over hand on the rope, Morales frantically pulled the ring back to him. For a moment, he clutched it in his hands, lifted his eyes to heaven—offering a prayer. He drew back muscled arms and heaved it out over the waves. Only this time, he'd turned the direction of his body, pivoting left. The ring appeared to be in slow motion as they all watched it sail out and away from them. Miraculously, it landed a couple of feet upwind of the three. And they all watched breathlessly as a small hand reached out to grasp the ring, pulling it toward them.

They had it.

On deck, a raucous cheer went up. Jaurez and Captain Luis joined the jubilant crew, Luis shaking his head at the apparent miracle. “The Coast Guard's on her way,” he said.

“Shouldn't we launch the
Wilder'
s dinghy? Try to get to them?” Morales asked. “We can't lose 'em now.” He didn't take his eyes off the survivors, not even to acknowledge his captain's presence.

“There,” Captain Luis shouted, his extended arm pointing through the haze hovering over the water. A reverberating blast of a horn announced the arrival of the Coast Guard vessel, its bow coming into view from the opposite side of the bridge.

“This is the captain of the Coast Guard,” a voice called out through a loudspeaker. “We're coming to get you. A crew is on its way now. Hold on.”

The crew quickly lowered the ship's rescue boat and made their way toward the survivors. As they grew closer, they could hear a child's voice, sobbing, nearly hysterical.

Finally pulling up next to them, they looked down to find two women and the child: a girl, her arms in a stranglehold around the neck of a woman with blood streaming from a gash on her forehead, and next to them, a younger woman. All three locked eyes onto the faces of their rescuers, blinking in shock, skin deathly white.

“Are you real?” the young woman asked.

“Ma'am, we're from the Coast Guard. And I can assure you we're quite real.”

The crew reached to pluck the child first, the woman she was clinging to eager to hand the little one up to the rescuers. Then they pulled the two women into the boat, giving special care to the one with the wound, and wrapped them all in heavy blankets.

The child scrambled away from her rescuer, flinging herself back onto the woman's lap, desperate not to be separated from her. A kindly crew member wrapped a third blanket around them both, binding them together.

“What's your name, little one?” he gently probed. “Can you tell us your name?”

Wet hair plastered to her small skull, lips blue and teeth chattering, she whispered, “Aubrey.”

He turned to the woman holding her with the same questioning look. One of the crew had already staunched the flow of blood; a bandage covered her wound. “And you are?”

“I'm Fran. Fran Thomason. My son. My husband. They're still out there somewhere. You've got to—you are looking, aren't you? Because they're still out there, in that awful water. Please, you've got to find them.” She began sobbing, all the while hugging Aubrey to her. Needing to fill her empty arms.
Charlie
…

“Ma'am, I promise you. We will continue to search. And we will find any survivors. But just now we need to take care of you. Are you hurt anywhere else?” To Fran's no he continued, “Are you sure there's nothing else we need to attend to? On you or the child?” She shook her head again and closed her eyes. Grasping the little girl as tightly as the child grabbed onto her. He turned his attention to the other woman. “And you are?”

“Michal. Michal McHenry.”

The crew exchanged looks, a tacit agreement passing among them to wait, allow others to ask more questions later. When the survivors were carried and handed carefully up to others on the deck of the ship—the rescue crewmen shared the little they'd learned—the captain was eager to glean more information. News of the accident was now public, and he knew family and friends would be anxiously awaiting word of any survivors.

But first they needed emergency care, so Fran, Aubrey, and Michal were placed on stretchers—Fran and Aubrey sharing one, since no one cared to attempt separating the two—and carried to the ship's medical quarters. Once they'd been thoroughly examined, the doctor rebandaged Fran's head, the only wound of any significance in comparison to other minor scrapes and bruises. To the doctor's complete astonishment, he found nothing of consequence on Aubrey and only deep bruises on Michal's hands—nothing evidencing the disaster they'd just survived. Lastly, he started intravenous fluids for all three, though not without a pitiful cry from Aubrey at the prick of the needle. The doctor's heart wrenched at the sound.

The ship's personnel had already contended with Aubrey's hysterical demands to not be separated from Fran during the time it took to get them into dry clothes, to complete their examinations, to begin their IVs. Not until she was allowed back on Fran's lap did Aubrey begin to calm down, clutching Fran every bit as frantically as before. Finally, his ministrations to the two women complete and Aubrey's cries reduced to an occasional hiccup, the doctor nodded toward his captain.

Kneeling down on one knee before them, Captain Howard removed his cap, revealing a downy ring of white hair. He had kindly light blue eyes and a friendly smile, both of which he used to great effect when needed. He asked Fran, “Mrs. Thomason, is it? And this is your daughter, Aubrey?”

“No. Actually, she's—” Fran shook her head, and immediately winced at the sudden sharp pain from the gash on her forehead. One pain reminded her of the other, for Fran's eyes filled with tears and she sobbed out, “She's not my daughter. I honestly don't know who she is … and I lost … have you found my husband? My son?” She looked from the captain to the doctor to the others in the room, eyes searching, questioning. “Please? You'll keep looking?”

Softly, the captain answered, “Ma'am, we do have our crew continually on the watch for any other survivors. But we … we were amazed, really, to find you three. For the magnitude of the disaster …” He hung his head.

“So we're the only survivors you've found?” Michal asked, incredulous.

“Yes,” Captain Howard said. “And quite honestly, your survival is nothing less than a miracle.”

Fran continued to weep, and the captain reached out to put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Concerned about Fran's reaction, the doctor intervened, cautioning, “Only a couple more questions at most, sir. I'm concerned she might have a concussion. And rather than do X-rays here, I think it best to wait and have them done ashore. At the hospital.”