chapter six

I accepted the assignment to research the bridge. I’ll begin after I finish my current project—fourteenth-century artists—and then take a two-week vacation. I don’t have anyplace to go, though I should just pick a Caribbean island and buy a ticket—the sunshine would do me good. I just find it awkward and lonely to vacation alone.

My father and I used to go on adventures together when he could get a weekend off. They weren’t to exotic locations, usually just up the coast. There was a little hotel near the beach in Mendocino that was his favorite. We’d ride bikes, go to movies, or just sit on the beach and people-watch. Of course, the only people that he’d ever watch were those wearing bikinis. I’d tease him and we’d both laugh; I miss his laughter.

We actually had a weekend trip planned just before he was killed. But as often happens in life, I was busy with my job at the university, and I asked him to postpone it a month. I wish so badly now that I’d taken the time.

I won’t be using my vacation to head up the coast. I’ve only been back to the hotel in Mendocino once since his death. I cried most of the night and then drove straight home early the next morning. I’m taking two weeks off because I haven’t used any vacation time in almost two and a half years, and if I don’t use at least part of it by summer, I’ll lose it. It’s a ridiculous policy, but then again, I work for a university, a place where too many smart people are confined in too small a space—so odd policies happen.

The professor assures me that even with a couple of weeks off, I’ll still have plenty of time to take on the society’s assignment, the history of the bridge. Their deadline isn’t until late summer. He was ecstatic that I accepted, and that alone makes me nervous. It’s not that I don’t trust him; he’s just so meddlesome. And I’ve learned from sad experience that when the professor meddles, it means there’s a bad date in my future.

I apologize for sounding negative. In truth, I’ve always been a romantic, always wanted to settle down and have a family. Currently, the notion feels so fleeting and distant.

I mentioned that I was single and twenty-six, that I lived with my father until his death. While all of that is true, and I’m still looking for someone to spend my life with, I haven’t always been alone. At twenty-one, with two semesters left before graduation—my first graduation—I met Eric.

Dave turned up the volume. It was one of his favorite CDs—American Fool, with John Cougar Mellencamp singing his heartfelt ballad about Jack and Diane.

He’d hoped that the kids would quiet down and appreciate the music; as usual, they just talked louder to compensate.

The coastal drive was refreshing. Once they dropped the children off at Nancy’s, he would really crank up the tunes. It was frustrating. Couldn’t they see that this was real music—classic rock, feel-it-in-your-soul, sing-about-life, make-a-difference music?

“Hey, guys, listen up,” Dave tried again. “Give John a break, will you?”

“Who’s John?” Angel asked from the backseat. It was just enough to get Dave started.

“Baby, we’ve had this talk before,” he preached. “John Mellencamp, singer of true music—ageless music.”

Megan sat in the passenger’s seat, deep into her novel and oblivious to life around her. In his usual sarcastic form, Brad piped in. “Please, Dad, tell us all about it one more time.” Brittany rolled her eyes.

“I will,” Dave replied, as he began to extol the virtues of classic rock over modern bands. “Listen to the emotion in his words—”

The boulder slammed onto the road so suddenly that Dave just caught a glimpse before it smashed into the front passenger’s side tire. The van jolted to the left as the tire blew and the axle buckled. Brittany screamed as they slid sideways, the van vibrating violently as metal scraped the road. Dave jerked at the steering wheel, straining in vain to regain control. It wouldn’t budge.

The air surrounding Dave felt instantly warm, hard, and impenetrable as life tore into broken pieces. Sound distorted. Time slowed. Megan’s book dropped to the floor as the van rolled onto its side and then slid over the embankment. Her hand caught Dave’s shoulder, grasping desperately for support, before slipping loose. The windshield shattered, bursting into thousands of tiny pieces, filling the van like particles in a kaleidoscope as it turned and bent and twisted. Dave tried to look over his shoulder—where were the kids? Brad should have been buckled in but was thrown against the ceiling, or was it the floor? And where were Brittany and Angel? A warm and dark liquid began to fill in the edges of the scene, blurring his vision. Where, he wondered again, was Angel?

Then everything went black.

I’m fascinated by circumstance—the way insignificant events catapult our lives into strange directions. It’s happened to me.

I had a handful of classes left to graduate: one on European culture, and the rest electives. The required class was offered at two separate times, and, being a bit meticulous, I’d already worked out my schedule based on the Tuesday/Thursday course. When I couldn’t add the class online, the registrar’s office suggested I be at the school early the next morning. That’s when the water pipe broke.

It was a main line—a huge, cavernous thing that runs below the busy streets, hidden from our view, silently carrying water through the city. And like so many things in our lives, no one thinks twice about it until it ruptures.

On the morning I needed to register, I awoke to a street flood in front of the house, with heavy equipment digging up the asphalt and blocking my car from leaving the garage.

Though the city’s mass transit is excellent—and I’m not complaining—I hadn’t planned on the extra time it would take to reach the school. When I arrived, registration was well under way, and the class I needed, the class I’d planned my life around, was completely full. I begged, I pleaded, I whined. They smiled and put me at the bottom of a waiting list thirty students long.

In addition to ending up in the Monday/Friday class, I also lost my part-time job. My boss at the time had already arranged schedules, and when my circumstances changed, he couldn’t accommodate.

I was heartbroken—until I walked into European Culture and met Eric Aldridge. He was friendly and cute and we hit it off immediately. Being a bit shy, I was flattered that he’d taken an interest in me.

We started to date, and by Thanksgiving the relationship had turned serious. He was starting a job in L.A., and our plans were to marry after my graduation in April. We found a cute apartment in Long Beach, and though it wasn’t the ideal situation for an engaged couple, I would come down on weekends after class to spend time with him.

As the end of the semester neared, with wedding plans under way, I was giddy. Soon I’d be married to Eric—a man I loved, a man who lifted me up, a man who helped me forget my doubts and insecurities.

With graduation approaching, I’d planned to skip my weekend visit with Eric to finish my final project at the university. Then an odd thing happened—another water pipe ruptured near the history building, closing that portion of the campus for the weekend. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, but I packed a few things in the car and headed to L.A.

As I reflect back now, I’m amazed how the simple bursting of a water pipe changed my life forever. If not for the flood outside my apartment the day I went to register for class, I wouldn’t have met Eric.

And not just the first water pipe, but the second one as well. For had it not ruptured near the history building, the university would have remained open, I would have stayed to work on my project, and I wouldn’t have surprised Eric in our apartment sleeping with another woman.

Amid my tears and heartache, my father encouraged me to not give up on love, to still keep hope alive in my heart. Since he’s been gone, however, it’s been difficult to believe. Yet during times of stillness, when I sit alone and ponder my life’s direction, I try to remember my father’s wisdom. I try to believe that if it wasn’t Eric, then there still must be someone out there for me. And so I keep looking.

Mostly, though, I find myself watching out for broken water pipes.